Lady Leisure’s Brush with Death

One of the stickers stuck on me for an experimental Frankenstein procedure.

One of the stickers stuck on me for an experimental Frankenstein procedure.

Approximately three weeks ago, I was slaughtering my 7lb 10oz zucchini with the food processor to subsequently bake some deadly double chocolate zucchini cake, when I suddenly felt hungry. This was the kind of hunger that puts a pregnant woman into a deep desperation. When I say it was sudden onset I mean one second I was whistling, and the next I was “HANGRY”. I switched tasks in order to make myself a sandwich. As my desperation grew, my stomach lurched, and my world began falling apart into dark, fuzzy dots.

I thought to myself, “SHIT, I’m going down.”

I crawled to the toilet to potentially vomit or have a bowel movement (whichever came first; I was not prepared for simultaneous explosions).

 “This is it: the end. People who pass away usually throw up and shit their pants as they die.”

I became increasingly confused and felt as though I was seconds away from passing out, so I called Jack. I can’t remember our conversation other than saying I felt weird and needed help. He was an hour away and could not be my knight in shining armour, so he stressed the necessity that we hang up so he could call an ambulance.

“10-4.”

As quickly as my medical emergency developed, it unfolded and faded into the past. I Googled “fainting what to do” and I slid out to the living room and laid down on my LEFT side. I then got a call from a 9-1-1 dispatcher.

Dispatcher: “Your husband has called you an ambulance; how are you feeling?”

Lady Leisure: “Oh, you can cancel that. I’m feeling fine, thanks.”

Dispatcher: “Ma’am, the ambulance has already been dispatched and I’m told they are on their way.”

Lady Leisure: “Well the thing is, I don’t have insurance and I don’t want to pay for an ambulance.”

Dispatcher: “I don’t know much about that, but you should allow them to at least check you out and you can decide whether they take you for a ride or not.”

Lady Leisure: (Reluctantly) “Fine.”

The dispatcher and I had a grand ol’ time as we awaited the arrival of EMS. I tried to get her off the phone so we could free up the line for a “real emergency”, but she refused my logic.

The paramedic and EMT took my blood pressure, temperature, pricked my finger, and stuck stickers on my arms and legs like I was some sort of pin cushion or first aid manikin experiment.

The verdict? Low blood pressure and sugar. I am anxiously awaiting the invoice for a diagnosis in which a confused, half dead pregnant woman had figured out on her own for free. This baby’s a REAL d!ck.

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A Blow WHAT?!

Blow outs happen sometimes, but we all wish they wouldn't.

Blow outs happen sometimes, but we all wish they wouldn’t.

I’ll bet you didn’t really want to read this because you thought it would be dirty. And mostly, you’re right. But, it may not be the kind of dirty that men live for.

That’s right, today we’re talking blow outs. If you’ve never heard of it, you’re lucky. If you think it’s about chemically straightening your hair, then hunny, you’re going to get an awakening from poo hell when you have a kid and realize there’s a whole other world of blow outs out there. And they’re free.

Let’s get one thing straight. I am one of the lucky ones because I am merely a part time Auntie and do not have to bear witness to this on a nonstop basis. I just want to know whey they call them “blow outs”? Is this a technical term? If so, I propose they be called blow ups. As in, all the way up the back.

I am writing this after, in an act of desperation, placing my bare hand on a poo soaked piece of paper towel (the only barrier between me and a poo soaked baby). This was my first experience with one of the more disgusting things in life and it makes me never ever want to experience it again.

I was concentrating on the color of font I should use for my wedding invitations, the biggest problem in the life of a non-parent, when my sister yelled in horror,
“Oh My God. I need some help over here!”

Considering I am a First Aid Instructor and this is similar to what we teach our students to say during an EMERGENCY, I figured I better respond. Instant remorse. I ran to the  living room and clearly remember staring in relative amusement and thinking, “Ohh hooo, this is not my problem.”

According to my sister, it was everyone’s problem,
“Are you just gonna stand there? Do something!”

“OK, we need to take her to the bathtub.”

This is when the paper towel came into play. This is the type of situation they don’t (but should) play out in the Sponge Towel commercials. Forget the fully grown men dressed in sponge pocket costumes, we need to portray a blow out. 98% of parents would instantly switch from Bounty to Sponge Towels. The other two percent are the Dads that gag every time they go to change their baby’s diaper, and they’ve just given up on the diaper change altogether.

We got the crying child to the bathtub and I glanced over and noticed her looking at me and giving me that toothless grin. It kind of made me laugh because, even though she can’t talk yet, I imagined her saying, “I got you guys GOOD!” Everyone knows if you act first and say, “Just kidding” after, no one can be mad.

Good one. Now, be a doll and don’t EVER do it again.

Baby, I’m in Love With Someone Else

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What? You mean you thought it was another man?

 

I’m in love with someone who isn’t my fiancé.

Before you start judging, let me explain  .   .   .

I bet it’s even happened to you a time or two!

Last weekend, I met my niece for the very first time. She’s got a decent set of lungs on her and a temper that would have Bruce Willis shaking. I have seen babies before, and when they aren’t “yours” (closely related to you), they aren’t very exciting. Let’s be honest here: they look like little sleeping aliens. When their eyes ARE open, you wonder what information they are skimming from your brain to relay to their Mother Ship. My niece is different. She is scrawny and hairy, but the most gorgeous human being EVER. If you don’t agree, I will fight you.

I’m not exactly “Nanny McPhee” so naturally, I was nervous to hold her for the first time. The last thing you want to do is drop a baby. People get mad for some reason. The moment she was placed in my arms, my nerves settled, I melted, and then I cried. I fell in love with that squirmy, jaundiced, adorable little girl. I kissed her over 100 times over the course of a couple of hours. Someone call up Guiness, I’m convinced that’s a world record.

She’s not my fiancé, but she stole Auntie’s heart.

 

Proud Auntie & Mr. T

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Mr. T would be the coolest Uncle EVER.

My sister no longer has a bun in the oven. The bun is now a teeny tiny human.

As of April 29th, I’m an Auntie! That makes me at least 50% more awesome and 100% proud. Other than some photos, I haven’t seen her yet, but judging by the amount the little cutie kicked inside the oven, she’s either going to be a soccer player or a handful.

Spoiler alert: Jack’s real name is not Jack; it’s Tony. He was never fond of the idea of being called “Uncle Tony”, and “Uncle Anthony” is a tongue twister for even an adult. A couple of months ago, I told him maybe he could go by the name “Uncle T”. He hummed and hawed until I decided to drop the subject altogether. Since then, I’ve put my thinking cap on.

Tony is not black. He is also not part of a team of war veterans framed for a crime they didn’t commit, running from the law whilst helping the innocent. And he most certainly doesn’t say “Pity the Foo”, but “Mr. T” is a pretty bad ass name. Imagine a child looking up to you to say, “Hey Mr. T, you’re the best!” It is impossible to not be the cool Uncle.

Of course, Mr. T will have to live up to his name. I assume he will do this by cutting prominent horizontal lines in the hair on his temples, and giving the kid whatever she wants: candy, piggy back rides, a brand new car when she turns 16, you name it.

I’m an Auntie and Jack’s Mr. T! I don’t know which one of us is more pumped for our new identities.