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”.

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.


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.

Delicious Culinary Accident

When I was staying at home all day (the first time) two things became my “bread & butter*”: Days of Our Lives and cooking a fabulous supper. I’ve fallen off the housewife wagon again this past week. In fact, I’m watching Days of Our Lives right now. I’m what they call a multi-tasker.  

I have a Degree in Nutrition – yeah I dropped that line – but oddly enough, I didn’t learn to cook in school. I will be the first to admit there have been some disasters along the way. JoMT has never once told me he didn’t enjoy a meal I created. When asked if he likes it he always nods and smiles. I’m not sure if this means he loves my cooking so much he’s speechless, or he uses his full mouth to avoid telling me how much I suck as a housewife. Worst insult ever! I manage to beat him to the first bite of each dish so I know the truth before I ask, and I’m telling you honestly there are some misses.

I have become more risky and experimental, even creating my own recipes. This reminds me, I have to start writing them down! Maybe I’m alone on this one, but there are times where even I am surprised at my skill level.

For instance, the other day I ate leftover pumpkin soup from the freezer. I know I made it from scratch (the pumpkin was grown in my parents’ garden) a few weeks ago, but I have no insight into what I actually threw in there. It was the epitome of a delicious culinary accident and God help me if I can duplicate it in the future. By the way, next Christmas when you’re enjoying a rum and egg nog, throw a little bit of that nutmeg into your dish too. It’s great in squash soups, dipping sauces, and apple pie. Think Swiss Chalet, but better.

In December, I was over visiting my parents and having a relaxed drink and discussion with my dad. My mom tends to talk to herself (more than the average person) and it’s kind of a running joke in our family. It drives my dad absolutely nuts and he has managed to block her out when she’s talking to herself and sometimes when she’s talking to him. Anyway, she was obsessively cleaning her house (no wonder I’m a freak) and she says to herself,

“I smell burning, why? There is nothing in the oven!”

Odd, I know.

“Oh wait, the bread maker!”

Smoke. Pluming black smoke.

My dad is a problem solver. You know that book “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus”? My dad is from Mars. He saw smoke and, while my Mom was panicking, he unplugged the machine creating the smoke. Easy.

“It’s OK, Mom. It looks cooked.”

Nope. Still dough.

She says, “Maybe we can make buns in the oven.” (This is hilarious because my sister is doing this same thing, but with a baby).

My grandma taught me how to make buns about 18 years ago. That was the sole instance I was exposed to such a thing but somehow it came naturally to me. The buns were quite heavy, however, I’m happy with the way they turned out. It was just another delicious culinary accident.

If you have ever made buns or seen buns being made, you know there is kind of an awkward thing you do with your pointer and middle fingers and your other hand and then you pinch off the excess dough. I won’t spell it out for you here because I don’t want this post to come up in any questionable Internet searches, but I had this graphic conversation with my sister (the one with the bun in the oven).

“I made buns today. Pretty proud of myself. Do you remember how?”

“Oh, awesome! Like this, right?”

As she demonstrates the finger thing I laugh to myself, “Well, there is now no question about how that bun got in the oven.”

*If you clicked on the photo because you thought I was pregnant, get outta here Nosy Nancy. Just to be clear, I’m not.