Screaming Tapeworm Demon, Round II

He's baaaaaaaaaack.  Shoot.

Remember that time I was all, "whatev, losers, having a newborn baby is soooooooooo easy!"?  Remember that?  Were those of you who had been there just chuckling to yourself, waiting for the screaming tapeworm demon to rear his ugly (except very cute) head?  Well, you win.  This shit is crazy.

Feed me!

It's like the hardest, most boring, month-long day I've ever experienced.  And I'm such a cliche with my only-taking-pictures-of-my-baby, unshowered, yoga-pant-wearing, slobber-covered self.  I'm grimy even for me.

Little buddy has been in his 6-week growth spurt since Monday, which means that I have done nothing but feed him and then wait ten minutes to feed him again.  Did I mention that my sweet little baby eats for an hour at a time, every time?  Like twenty times a day?  And that my ass is actually sore from sitting on the couch for so many hours?  And that if I don't remember to grab the remote before I sit down to feed him, then I am taken hostage by a marathon of America's Next Top Model or Pregnant at 70?

Feed me!

And I love the crap out of this baby (quite literally), but jeez-oh-pete, kid, don't you know that absence makes the heart grow fonder?*

So I've decided to make a plan.  Here it is.  Baby Charlie will finish his growth spurt tonight, and then will sleep for 10 hours straight and will wake up pleasant and happy and only wanting to be held half of the time that he's awake.  And he will sleep 10 hours a night every night from here on out. And then he will learn to change his own diapers, to fetch me the remote, and to mix up a mean margarita.  And, hell, he'll learn Spanish, too.

Big sneezes.

And I will see my bed again.  And fold the laundry for the first time in a week.  And have a minute to wash off some of this slobber.  It's disgusting.


*Charlie, if you're reading this far, far in the future, know this: if you continue to eat this often I will have to punish you by forcing you to wear a jean jacket.  Again.

Comcast, You Suck.

Yes, Comcast, you suck.  A lot. 

Our internet has been out since Monday night, and Matt and I have been going through withdrawal.  I called Comcast to try to troubleshoot and/or fix the problem, but to no avail.  So the dipshit employee I was speaking with set us up an appointment with a technician--on Friday.  That was Tuesday.  He said that if they could fit us in earlier, then they would call us and let us know so that we could be home for it.  Of course, he didn't call, and someone came out when we were out celebrating our anniversary (and choosing to celebrate at places that had free wifi, passing the laptop back and forth as though it was some kind of drug).  But it's okay, because he set up an appointment for us--at the exact time that I told him we would NOT be available.  Fantastic.  It's cool. 

We pay more money for our cable and internet than we do for electricity, so it's really neat that it's not working and that the incompetence of others will keep us without internet for almost a week.  I'll get to spend lots of time here at Panera, eating mediocre food and listening to little kids scream.  A mom just stood two feet from me and spanked her kid.  He's screaming some more.

Thanks again, Comcast.  Maybe I'll use Panera's internet to find the number of a doctor who will tie my tubes for me.

XOXO

On the Upswing

I've spent the last nine or so hours being a grouch, but that is no more.  I have myself a jug of Simply Grapefruit juice, a new bottle of Sally Hansen's Complete Salon Manicure nail polish, and MTV is playing The Hills from the very beginning! 

And, as though that were not enough. . .I found something pretty amazing today while perusing Amazon for $5.05 more in purchases (ended up buying a toy for Mitch) so that I would qualify for FREE SUPER SAVER SHIPPING. (!) 

But, first, some back story.

Mitch is a dingo.  Dingoes eat babies.  Everyone knows that.

But it's considered poor form to feed actual human babies to your dog (or so I've heard), so I thought it would be fun to get a baby-shaped cookie cutter for his homemade dog treats.

First, I found this one:

I got this one at a kitchen store downtown, but it didn't seem to have the shock factor that a more authentic baby shape would lend.

But tonight I found this one:

Much better, wouldn't you say?  I would really enjoy pulling one of these babies (ha!) out of the treat tin for Sir Mitchell.

But wait.  It gets ever better and more disturbing.  Because after I found choice #2, I found this one, the most haunting cookie cutter that has ever existed:

Ummmmm, fetus-shaped cookies?  Gross.  Also, I am buying one.  Like, now.

No. No. No.

Came across this picture this evening, after I became a fan of "Not Being Pregnant" on the Book of Faces. 

Needless to say, I'll be getting my tubes tied tomorrow afternoon. 

Father of the Decade[s]

Storytime!

So, my Grandpa Bill, my mom's dad, is a loser. He was brilliant when he was younger, but too arrogant to do anything with his brains (brains that have now, it seems, completely deteriorated), he was lazy, he was a philanderer, and he was and remains a terrible father. A deadbeat. Grandpa Bill, the deadbeat.

I'm not really a member of the Grandpa Bill Fan Club.

And I would put a picture of him up here, but I haven't seen him since digital cameras were invented, and I don't have a scanner.

The other day, while on Facebook (which is where I find out all information about my family), I learned something new about Grandpa Bill.

While living in Delaware and working at the local Wal-Mart, Grandpa Bill met the newest "love of his life," a woman who is 24 years old. Grandpa Bill will be turning 69 next month. And let's be clear: Grandpa's not got a Paul Newman quality. He's not one of those men who age gracefully or who were ever that handsome to begin with. And he's not charismatic or charming. But apparently he's charming enough to earn the love of his 24-year old lady friend, a woman whose hideaousness I can only imagine.

And as if knowledge of this relationship wasn't disturbing enough, I learned (on Facebook, as did the rest of my family), that Grandpa Bill recently became a daddy again, to Verity Jade, born February 13.

Grandpa now has children who are 47, 45, 42, 34, 33, 26, and one month old. Matt says he's trying to have a child of every generation. I want to puke all over myself. Jordan says it says something about the genes, and he's going to start wearing tighty whities and drinking Mountain Dew.

But, anyway, happy belated birthday to my new aunt, Verity. Poor kid.

Why? Why? Why Would You Do That?

I've not hidden my disdain for babies and/or motherhood here on the ol' blog. I've got my reasons, and they are million-fold. Is million-fold a thing? Well, let's just say that they're much more than threefold. (Ha! Chandler in a box!)

I'm just not wild about the weird little alien-looking humans. They freak me out. (But I will admit that they get cuter with age--to a point.)

I'm also not wild about the new trend of newborn photography, mostly because I think newborn babies are some of the ugliest creatures. And as though newborn photography (Look! My baby curled up in a basket! How adorable!) wasn't annoying enough, within this subset exists something even more bizarre.

This (stolen from STFU, Parents).

Who let the alien hold the diamonds?

Apparently, this newborn-holding-parents-wedding-rings photo op is a new trend (Shortlived, hopefully, like toe socks, or the spaghetti strap dresses with the white tshirt underneath.).

I'll admit that I don't fully comprehend the message. Is it "From this marriage came this creepy wrinkly human"? Is it, "We commit to you, dear freak show baby, as we committed to each other"? Or is it, "The purpose of marriage is to reproduce"? I hope it's not the last one.

Or is it just, "Check out how big my diamond is! It's even bigger than this kid's toe!"?

I really just don't get it. Would someone please explain?

Sorry I touched your baby at Wal-Mart. . .

A gem from STFU Parents.

The thing is, I have to be drunk to be able to handle stepping foot into a Wal-Mart. I also have to be drunk to want to touch a [disgusting, screaming, snot-nosed, disease-carrying] baby.

Here's the aforementioned sign.

ARE YOU F'ING KIDDING ME? (P.S., I maintain that the reason that Matt and I are pretty healthy--with the exception of our being grossly fat--is that we don't use hand sanitizer or go nutty about germs. I've taken this even farther by refusing to shower and by allowing Mitch to wash all of our dishes. I'm sure I'll eat these words soon, and soon you'll be hearing about how we've all come down with The Swine.)

Matt's response: "Hey, and if you're a germaphobe, don't take your baby to the dirtiest place on the planet. . .'Oh, hey, we were at the dump and someone touched my baby!'"