Bottoms Up

orange

I’m seeing orange.

If you have ever college chugged the “orange” flavoured sunny d flat pop crap for your unborn baby, please stand up. If you can. If you’re not keeled over retching just thinking about it. Our sacrifices for our children begin before they are even born. Quite frankly, it’s bullshit, but being neurotic and controlling and a bit of a hypochondriac ensures my inability to NOT do what’s best for this little alien child.

Gestational diabetes, or “G-betes” is not a joke. It can cause a lot of complications for mother and child, including the quick growth of the baby in the womb, and to prevent widespread terror of the va-jay-jay, a c-section is often required. F THAT.

However, the screening for gestational diabetes IS a joke, and one of the few tests the lab techs actually enjoy administering. It legit brightens their day when they get to play bartender (or lemonade stand attendant).

My doctor even felt a sort of satisfaction when he broke the news that the results of my first test were 0.1 above the cut off for not having diabetes. Because they can’t say for sure that I don’t have G-betes, I have to do another test. With a little extra sugar and an extra 2 hours of my time. . .

This is when I was called in for another blood test and BABY BRAIN deemed me useless again; I completely forgot about this post until now.

So, if you’re pregnant and the dark cloud of g-betes testing is upon you, I understand and I empathetize with your bitching and complaining. We torture ourselves for fun around here. Dig it!

Bottoms up, ladies!

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Ohh That’s Sharp Chedda

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Labour Chedda

At the end of January, a human being poked its tiny head out of my vagina and every second since, mine and Jack’s lives have been turned upside down. In a good way. And, although this is NOT a Mommy blog, there were some noteworthy events that occurred prior to Motherhood. Here’s one. . .

If you have ever been in labour you know that once active (fml) labour kicks in, conversations piss you off and any amount of talking is not in the cards. Throughout my pregnancy I was obsessed with food and eating and this warm day in January was no exception. I needed to eat one last time before the great fast ahead of me; my last meal. My sister offered me some cheese which I accepted and gobbled hurriedly between hell pains.

The cheese left a strong, lingering after taste in my mouth and as another contraction came on I exclaimed, “Ohh, that’s sharp cheddar!”
All labour attendees in the room burst out laughing (including el prego). Have you ever laughed while in excruciating pain? It sounds a bit like this:
“HAHA owww, oh God!”
*CLEANSING BREATH*
“HAHA owwie, stop it, stop now!”

With another deep cleansing breath, I was able to let the contraction go, but I couldn’t let the cheese situation simmer, “WHAT kind of cheese was that?!”

In Case of Emergency

 

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Tums: #3 of my top 3 list

Earlier this week, Jack of Most Trades was awakened at 6am by a panicky wife screaming, “something’s on fire!”

Jack ran for the fire extinguisher and rushed through the haze to the basement. I suspected the furnace so we cut the power to it, but the smell of an electrical fire was widespread which made it nearly impossible to pinpoint the problem. We didn’t know if there was a fire in the walls or if we would be required to make a quick escape.

Jack ordered me to start collecting “important shit” just in case evacuation was imminent. (Later, we determined the furnace the culprit and evacuation was not necessary).

Shaking violently, I collected my wits and our material possessions with the most financial and sentimental value. Firstly, and most obviously, I packed our wedding rings. Aside from our house and our vehicles, they are our most expensive possessions. Plus, I like diamonds. I paused to think a moment and decided our passports were important, so I slipped those into my purse along with the rings.
Lastly, in the heat of the moment, I grabbed my Tums antacids from my bedside table. My cheap, completely replaceable, miracle heartburn pills were higher up on my delusional priority list than our computers (full of important business information), my DSLR camera, and my wedding dress. All of these briefly crossed my mind, but my pregnant brain was only capable of processing the most ridiculous one. And yes, Jack had a great laugh at my expense over this one!

To summarize, the top 3 things deemed most valuable to me (during an emergency) are as follows:

1. Wedding Rings
2. Passports
3. A bottle of Tums

On the upside, if Jack and I ever want to renew our vows in Mexico, I’ve got us covered.

The Tree Pee for Ladies

The Basics of Bush Peeing

The Basics of Bush Squatting

(Lady leisure GOES where most people won’t. Giving you the inappropriate and uncomfortable topics you want. And need. Similar to TMZ or Fox News, except she’s not a vulture and people seem to like her.)

Last week, I was “on the road” with Jack, observing his workers and conducting some important safety shit. On the road sounds like either a fun road trip or playing in traffic. These are almost true, but there’s no Taylor Swift tunes, rest stops, or signs warning motorists to “Give Our Kids a Brake“. Naturally, you may conclude that a pregnant woman cannot “hold it” for 13-14 hours straight. Nature MUST call, and she does so approximately every 2 hours. To the single ladies, married ladies, or even “it’s complicated” ones, this one’s for you.

Bush squatting can be a dangerous task.  Although it has been around for centuries, if you don’t pay attention you could just not make it out of the woods alive, or worse – with pee on you. Here are the basics for a successful tree pee:

1. Mentally prepare for your heroic journey.

2. Don’t forget some form of wiping accessory. Tuck it into your pocket or shirt sleeve.

3.  When you think you are out of male eyeshot, walk two metres deeper into the forest.

4. WATCH your step. Wildlife share your el baño.

5. Warm up your quads, or recruit a tree to pull you back out of your squat.

6. Widen your stance and find a mossy area to avoid splash-back or direct hits to your pant leg.

7. Evaluate: celebrate successes, and create an action plan for future journeys.

By the end of our road trip I was going in the steep ditch with no tree cover while Jack looked on with horror. What? Sometimes, you have to scrap the basics and improvise.

Lady Leisure: going where most people won’t.

Outies Ain’t “In”

Jewel encrusted chunk of metal

Jewel encrusted chunk of metal that was once a bunch of shirt lint.

The belly button or tummy button: a part also known as the navel. The latter being a word I only use to describe oranges.

The belly button begins as the umbilical cord- the ultimate lifeline between mother and fetus in the womb through which nutrients and blood are circulated. After birth, the remainder of the cord simply turns black and falls off (gross) and what is left is no longer a functional body part, aside from inadmissible, yet inevitable lint storage.

My 18 month old niece is able to point out her belly button, and if you aren’t careful she will lift your shirt and reveal a not so young and cute, and perhaps slightly furrier version.

When I was a young “skinny b!tch”, my belly button was almost flush with my abdomen rather than indented. My sister once rattled my chains for this and I never understood why having an “innie” or an “outie” had any relevancy. . . until my sister got her belly button pierced. I slowly came to the realization that the belly button had some apparent functional sex appeal. A sexy, colorful jewel encrusted chunk of metal that was once a bunch of shirt lint.

Now that I’m finely aged, I get it. Belly buttons are not at all sexy and they serve no purpose. Additionally, it’s not funny when someone puts their finger in there by accident or by 18-month-old curiosity. It feels weird, like someone is touching your spine from the inside.

My belly is getting HUGE (in a skinny b!tch kind of way). Not only does my tailbone hurt, because I’m sure the baby’s head is the size of the moon, and I can feel my uterus stretching and contracting, but my belly button is dangerously close to becoming an “outie”. This could be the end of the world. The only “outie” I can imagine myself being OK with is of the car variety (Audi).

Simply put: Outies are “out” and innies are “in”.

When Women Get Man Colds

Man Cold

Everyone, including Nyquil commercials jokingly refer to the “Man Cold” and how pitiful even the strongest of men becomes with a scratchy throat and unending mucus reserves. I want to say that I am not a hero when it comes to the jerk-hole symptoms of the Common Cold and Flu (because sometimes we just don’t know which one has us in its death grip). This act of un-heroism was never more evident than this past week when my whining surpassed that of a 2-year-old male toddler who missed his afternoon nap . . . for 3 days in a row. Sometimes you just want to slap them, but you can’t because they are only two, OR they are yourself.

In my defence, I had a rough week of sleeping and watching television, mixed in with ultrasound and blood screen appointments. It was just a nightmare. If the walking germ transporter and source of my illness (my 17mo old niece) wasn’t so darn cute and kissable, I would almost be disappointed in her choice of spray sneezing on my cell phone.

I have channeled any of my remaining energy into compiling these miserable text messages to my beloved.

I really did; it was oatmeal.

I really did; it was oatmeal.

Fever. . . now ultrasound bladder talk.

Fever. . . now ultrasound bladder talk.

Legit complaint: The tech hit a nerve in the first arm and she had to move the needle around like a merry go round to find some damn blood in the second.

Legit complaint: The tech hit a nerve in the first arm and she had to move the needle like a merry-go-round to find a vein in the second. I am either blood-less or she is just another person who isn’t meeting my low expectations of not sucking.

In my honest opinion? I peed myself.

In my honest opinion? It was pee.

Lady Leisure’s ‘Spread the Laugh’ Series

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Share YOUR Story with Lady Leisure


Have a funny story about an unfortunate event that happened to you? Email ladyleisurelaughs@gmail.com and your story could be published on the blog for our following of strangers to read, laugh, point, and share with their buddies. Each week, Lady Leisure will choose a broad topic (or two). If you have a story relating to the topic in some fashion, submit it and it could be posted to the blog.

If your unfortunate tale doesn’t relate to the topic of the week and you’re desperate to share, send it in anyway! We will use your story, first name, and location unless you state you would prefer to remain anonymous. Please be aware Lady Leisure will not post anything TOO inappropriate or offensive, but sometimes the good stories are the inappropriate ones.

Spread the Laugh, encourage your friends to do the same, and we’ll all be slapping our knees for weeks to come!

This week’s topics are: “Labour Day” and “School”.

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.

I’m F@cking Offended That You’re Offended

The offspring of Generation X; the "Spoiled, Offended Generation".

The offspring of Generation X; the “Spoiled, Offended Generation”.

This had to be said by someone at some point, and Lady Leisure seems to be good at offending others, so here it is. I’m laying it all out for you.

I’m annoyed with people who are offended by humor. I’m fed up with individuals who cover their child’s ears when someone innocently lets a swear slip. To put it bluntly, I’m sick of society’s shit; and here’s why:

Our generation (Generation X) was the first one not to get physically abused by our teachers in school. We had it good. We rode our bikes without helmets and played in our yards and neighborhoods without fear. As girls, we played games like kick the can and hopscotch, wrote in our diaries, started babysitter clubs, and gossiped until the cows came home. When we got a bit older, we experimented with alcohol in our parents’ basements and read magazine articles about sex. When we didn’t hand in our homework, we effectively received a big fat “zero” on the assignment. If we didn’t study for an exam or pay attention in class, our grades reflected that behaviour. And you know what? We learned from our mistakes and tried harder next time. We realized these tough lessons in grade school so we could be functioning members of society as we grew into adulthood.

Although bullying has sadly always been around, not one of us was “offended” by the fair and just repercussions of our actions, and life was kosher. The world was a better place before social media, internet networking/marketing, and technology ruled the world.

So here we are approximately 15-20 years later, and life is EASY for most of the offspring of Generation X (too easy, if you ask me). We became adults and somehow forgot what it was like to be a kid growing up in the 80’s and 90’s and how fun and discipline played equal roles in our childrearing. We owe the discipline we received from all the adults in our lives for our current successes. But, we no longer understand balance. Some of us will let our children do anything they want, including the allowance to disrespect authority, because we feel our parents were too hard on us. Others will not allow our children to do or try anything, for fear of them getting hurt, offended, or WORSE.

I am not yet a parent and I will not tell you how to raise your child. What I will do, is give my opinion on what will stop the current generation from being referred to in the future as the “spoiled, offended generation”. Give your kids a break and start acting like a parent. Discipline them when they portray unacceptable behaviour. Let them watch a movie with crude language and nudity under your supervision.  Take away their tablet and kick them outside for fresh air and a bike ride. In true Lady Leisure form, teach them how to tell a mean “Knock Knock “ joke and how to display wit with ease. Don’t try to be there to catch them BEFORE they fall; just ensure you’re present to dust them off AFTER and say, “Great try, let’s continue practicing/studying/working hard to make next time even better.”

10 Rules For Not Appearing Like a Complete D!ck

The "dead fish" handshake is out.

The “dead fish” handshake is out.

I sit here impatiently waiting for another deadbeat not to show up for his interview. By now, 25 minutes have passed since the time set (in stone) for our face-to-face meeting, and even though the little jerk has my phone number, I have yet to receive a call saying, “I’m lost”, “I got another job”, “Go f*ck yourself”, or otherwise.

I have to be honest, one time when it was still legal to talk on your cell phone while driving, I was 10 minutes late for an interview. In my defence, I had to work another job that day which happened to be 2 hours away from the meeting point, and I called the interview organizer 30 minutes in advance to notify her of my impending tardiness. I got the job.

Here are 10 Written and Unwritten (until now) Rules For Not Appearing Like a Complete Dick to a potential employer:

1.) Shower & Groom Yourself
– Self-explanatory; I don’t want to smell your odours.

2.) Show Up On Time & Prepared
– Have a phone number or email address handy to contact me if something happens.
– Prepare some excuses ahead of time too. (See “My Dog Ate My Homework and Other Excuses”)

3.) Look Me In the Eye and Shake My Hand Like You Mean It
– I may be a woman, but I don’t appreciate the dead fish/wet noodle.
– You’re here proving to me that you can lift 50lbs on site and that I can trust you, not that you’re sensitive to my fragility.

4.) Don’t Be a Dumb Ass (Socially)
– Tell me your skills, relevant experience, and why you’re a good fit for our company.
– Don’t talk my ear off about your dog, wife, and how I remind you of someone you once knew.

5.) Don’t Be a Dumb Ass (Intellectually)
– You are an adult. Act like an adult.
– Show me you are capable of solving your own problems.

6.) Answer My Questions Like a Champ
– Be forthcoming and complete with your answers.
– “YEAH” is a song by Joe Nichols, and although it’s a good one, it’s not doing you any favours.

7.) Ask me Questions
– This will make you seem smart and will prevent unpleasant surprises once you start work.

8.) Don’t Ask For More Than What You’re Worth to Us
– The economy is slow which means the employer has the upper hand. We are searching for unskilled labourers to get shit done. I refuse to pay you $30 an hour because you’re an EMT; this is irrelevant to our line of business.
– I have a mother-f’ing degree and I get paid an administrative assistant hourly rate.
– And I’m sleeping with the boss.

9.) Thank Me For My Time
– I took the time to review your resume, call you and give you the opportunity to sell yourself to our company – give me some props here.

10.) Don’t Waste my Time
– If you’re not interested, tell me right away.
– I’m not your date and I won’t get offended that you don’t want to see me anymore, so don’t evade my calls for shit sake!

Show up for your first day of work and keep showing up. It’s long hours and hard work, but your pay cheque is going to reflect this apparent hell.

Now, get out there and make Lady Leisure proud!