Talking to Myself

In efforts to try to get this blog off the ground, I started thinking about why I'm blogging. I enjoy writing (most of the time), but I finally realized that I do this because my longest conversations are with an 8 month old baby. That's right, people, I'm a loser with no friends. Not really, but we made the bad decision to stay in the town where we went to college. I realized long ago that this wasn't the best decision for my mental health. All of my college friends eventually moved on to "real" cities that don't see an cornocopia of teens and twentysomethings in flip-flops, sorority t-shirts, cigarettes and backpacks on a daily basis. This town has a very weird dynamic; the population is a mix of upper class doctors, lawyers, professors and the like juxtaposed against some pretty severe poverty. I'm talking about welfare system abusers that live in 30 year old trailers with five children who haven't had baths in two months. Throw the college students in the pot and watch the hilarity ensue.

Yes, I have a husband. Yes, we talk. He also has two, sometimes three jobs to keep us in our stylish Wal-Mart wardrobes and drinking non-generic Kool Aid. I see him about three times a week, two of which he is usually glued to his computer.

The "mommy scene" around here isn't exactly working mom friendly. I went to the public library the other day to see what kind of programs they had for babies in hopes to meet some other moms, and every single baby and pre-school program is during the week. I can't take time off work to lug my kid to the library so he can clap his chubby hands to the sound of a mediocre guitarist in a hippie t-shirt and sandals. I could sit through it on Saturday morning, but apparently working moms are too evil to deserve a Saturday morning lap-sit.

So, for lack of a better solution, I write. It may suck and nobody reads it, but it keeps me from sliding my toes to the edge and looking down.


Sex Muscles

When my friends told me “IT” wasn’t going to be the same after having a baby, I have to admit that I wrote them off. Pshaw! It won’t be that different…everything will bounce back to normal in a couple of months. I tried not to think about the damage that pushing a seven pound child through my lady bits would ultimately inflict, and I definitely didn’t want to entertain the idea that sex would be different, read: not as good. I mean, the vagina is a muscle, right? It can be toned back to original form in no time.

Wrong. It is different. My son is now six months old and I’m still not the same. I have to try a lot harder to reach the finish line, and when I get there, it’s just not as satisfying. It’s kind of like walking in a marathon….it’s nice that you can still finish, but not as satisfying as running and finishing in a blaze of glory. My muscles are lax and the stupid exercises they told me to do don’t work. My vaginal walls feel like they are slowly collapsing and sliding out the hole. Pretty picture, huh?

I know my husband notices a difference, too. We talked about it briefly the first time we had sex post-baby, but he hasn’t mentioned it since then. I think he just accepts the fact that it feels different, but he’s just happy that he still gets to have sex. That’s how his mind works…the “sex is like pizza: even when it’s bad it’s still pretty good” mentality.

Sometimes I’m thankful that he’s not a complicated person.


Ow, That Hurt

I fall down a lot.

It was funny, possibly even endearing, when I was five, but it’s kind of lame and a little sad now. My list of injuries is as long as the number of ace bandages I’ve been given at the emergency room. That’s a lot, bitches. My latest fall-down-go-boom moment was in February, when I fell backwards on a patch of ice in front of my daycare provider’s house and knocked myself out for about five minutes. Waking up with a wet ass and frozen hands, blinking at a double image of the oak tree above my head reminded me that I should have worn the damn snow boots I’d bought the week before. They are still sitting in my closet, natch.

The winter before that, I took a slide down my icy front stairs and won a brace for my wrist and a rainbow of bruises on my hip. I’ve also had plenty of injuries that don’t involve ice. Sidewalks jump up and bite and my hips regularly encounter the dining room table, the kitchen counter and even doorways. Maybe it’s the universe telling me my hips are too big.

In 2005, I dropped my motorcycle on my foot in my front yard and broke all my toes. Why does someone who falls down a lot have a motorcycle? The answer to that is a whole different blog entry.

The other day I was at the ear, nose and throat doctor and he asked me if I ever felt unbalanced or fell down. I burst into a fit of giggles. “My mom’s nickname for me was ‘klutz’,” I said. It turns out that my repeated ear infections might be the source of my nickname. I’ll be damned…I might not be a huge spaz after all! This could be fixable! My best friend might be disappointed….she wouldn’t be able to start each phone conversation with, “So, what did you injure this week?” She loves to tease me about my frequent flyer pass to the emergency room, but I counter by reminding her that she was the drunk dumbass who once fell down while standing at a counter ordering a burrito. Spazzes attract one another, you know.



I’m in my mid thirties and I take old-people medicine. Not the kind that helps Grandpa get it up or Grandma manage the hot flashes, but I’ve always thought of it as medication for old people, nonetheless. When I was nineteen I woke up one morning with a blood clot the size of a hot dog lodged in my left lung, so after that I was doomed to a daily dose of blood thinners. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a conversation with someone in the over 65 set and they have some complaint about taking Coumadin (blood thinner….try to keep up) for their heart condition/heart valve replacement/DVT/stubbed toe, etc. and when I say, “Oh, I know….I’ve taken it since I was nineteen,” they gasp in shock.

Old person: “But you’re so young!”

Me: “I have a hereditary blood clotting disorder, thanks to my dad.”

Old person: “Bless your heart!”


Anyway, taking blood thinners during my prime menstruation years can come with some pretty gross mishaps. Coumadin is a very unstable drug and it can make your blood way too thin before you can say bloody Mary. This has happened to me on a few occasions, the most embarrassing of which involved my period.

One evening, I was walking through Wal-Mart and I felt the floodgates open; I suddenly had blood all the way down to my socks. Luckily, I was wearing dark colored jeans so I managed to avoid looking like a horror movie victim. I rushed home and changed my clothes. Fast forward eight days. There was no end in sight…I just couldn’t get it to stop. I was starting to black out a little when I stood up, so I picked up the phone and called my husband, who is a paramedic.

“Call the paramedics!”, he half yelled.

“You ARE the paramedics”, I whined. I was too embarrassed to call.

“You know I don’t work in that coverage area. HANG UP AND DIAL 911!”

So, I swallowed my pride and dialed the numbers.

Emergency Operator: “911, what are you reporting?”

Me: “Um. My period won’t stop.”

EO: “I’m sorry?”

Me: “Me too. But I’m bleeding all over the place. I take blood thinners and my period won’t stop. “

EO: “I’ll send a squad. Lay down on the floor and put your feet on a pillow.”

Me: “But…my carpet is light beige.”

EO: (laughter in the background) “Don’t worry about that right now, dear.”

While I waited, praying that the medics would be females, I put a towel on the floor before I lay down. I felt like I knew someone was coming to visit me and I had just shit my pants and there was nothing I could do about it.

Thankfully, the paramedics were female and very sympathetic. But as she was sticking me with an IV, one of the medics snickered and said “You’re going to be having your period for another 20 years, honey, so I suggest you invest in some darker carpet.”


This is a Test. A What? A Test.

I have to have something on my blog. It might as well be pointless crap. More pointless crap to come.