Bottoms Up

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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?!”

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.

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.

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.

©Angel Fluff™

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Hurray, we all rejoice for we have Angel Fluff!

This past weekend, Jack and I invented something over a couple of beers and some espresso vodka shooters. I am certain it is going to make us filthy rich. We will live in a mansion bigger than the one in ‘The Great Gatsby’ and we will affectionately call each other ‘Ol’ Sport’ in normal, everyday conversation. This is absolutely going to happen as long as those reading this post keep their slimy hands off our idea.

This whole story starts with my disgusting, smelly older brother. I explained my brother in detail in the post entitled, “Sh!t, Dog, Sh!t.” If you haven’t read it yet, go ahead and do so now.

I don’t mention him being smelly in the prior post, but fact of the matter is: he stinks. In awkward social situations most people hold in flatulence to avoid embarrassment. In turn, we all end up with a killer stomach ache by the end of the day. The guy stinks, but at least he doesn’t suffer in silence. Might I also mention my brother is kind of a child? He busts a gut when he, well, busts a gut. If I say anything about his problem, he makes it my problem. He will cup, waft, and throw this problem in my face. He has been known to lock truck windows in the closed position with the goal of tormenting me. He always wins. I wanted to win just once.

Stinky was being his regular self and Jack and I started playing around with some solutions to the problem. I thought maybe we could invent some sort of underwear that allows the wearer to let it out with little consequence. Could we really make methane gas smell like carnations? (because roses stink).  I’ve been told this already exists in China where the streets are overpopulated. This has not yet been confirmed. The other issue with this possible solution is my brother doesn’t even wear underwear, which was an overshare on his part and I am deeply disturbed by it.

Jack made a vital comment that changed our project forever, “It has to be a pill. Everyone wants to be able to take a pill these days and have their problems magically disappear.”

I tend to slightly disagree, but it is easier and less ‘diaper-like’.

There are already pills out there to aid in digestion or stop gas in its tracks. This is going to be a pill that allows you to let it rip and instead of invading the noses of others, you will be nurturing them.

Jack wanted to name the invention “Angel Dust”, but I believe that name is already taken by some sort of street horse tranquilizer. That is not the message we would like to convey to the masses. I knew it was our destiny the second the name rolled off my tongue, “Angel. . .Fluff”.

I think we’re on to something here.

The All-Inclusive Jim Shockey Experience

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Jim Shockey, My Boyfriend Thinks You’re a Cool Dude.

 

Jack of Most Trades met his hunting idol on Friday. Before we left for the city, Jack pondered out loud, “What am I going to get autographed?” He looked at me and joked, “You should get your boobs autographed.”

He decided no item we own (including my chest) was good enough for Jim Shockey’s signature.

We arrived at the trade show, wandered around three halls until we discovered the hunting section, and stood in line. As we inched closer to the front of the line, Jack’s face flushed. In his defence, it was hot in there, but perhaps not hot enough to sweat bullets and sport the color fushia on his forehead.

I thought I’d distract him, “Are you disappointed Eva (Jim Shockey’s daughter) isn’t here?”

“Maybe a little.”

I have accepted the fact that I will always be runner up next to Eva. If she is doing her thing on the hunting channel, I will never get a reply anyway, so it’s best if I remain silent. I am not bothered by it because I have Channing Tatum and Ryan Gosling to keep me company.

A young lady came around with photos of Jim Shockey for the autograph. Because we love watching the various History Channel shows, we joked about the photograph being worth millions in about 50 years. I joked, Jack dreamed.

“Is your camera ready?”

“Yes it is. You getting excited?”

“Nah.”

(Liar).

Jack finally reached the front of the line and skipped over to Jim like an excited school girl learning hopscotch for the first time. They shook hands, Mr. Shockey signed his name under an inspiring quote, “Shoot Straight”, and I snapped a few photos for Jack’s scrapbook.

Still excited, we headed over to another booth of interest. Jack has been desperately seeking the Gun Club near our house since we moved in. He always hears them shooting at the gun range and it has been driving him nuts. The gentlemen at the booth were very helpful and thoroughly explained the process of becoming an exclusive member of the club. One member even drew us a map to the range.

Before Jack could comprehend the seriousness of the situation, the man had swiped what he thought was a blank piece of paper from Jack’s hands and started drawing a map on it with pen. A permanent pen. I tried to keep a giggle in as I stole a glance at Jack’s now ‘fire engine red’ face. He too was holding something back: the need to rip that ballpoint pen out of the geographical offender’s hand. The blank piece of paper was actually the back of Jack’s brand new autographed Jim Shockey photo. The silver ink was likely still wet.  

“It’s probably worth more now, don’t be sad. You want to get another one?”

Hiding his disappointment, Jack replied, “No, don’t worry about it. Let’s get out of here.”

Later, we were in the truck reminiscing about our day. Because I have a germ phobia I asked, “Did you wash your hands after shaking Jim Shockey’s hand?”

“I went to the washroom, so yeah.”

“So, you held your ‘you-know-what’ with that hand?”

Jack retorted sarcastically, “Oh my God, it’s like Jim Shockey touched my d.”

“Along with 2000 other men.”

Jack had had the all-inclusive Jim Shockey experience; his life was complete.

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The map that ruined Jack’s life.