Tuesday, October 14, 2014

I don't think I can do this right now


I started this blog in 2012 as my own therapy - to get out there and just let it all out. To stop hiding the crazy and share it with whomever felt inclined to read about it. I haven't written anything since 2012 because, basically, I started feeling like myself again. I didn't feel like I needed to share stories anymore because I had accepted who I was - cheesy as that sounds.

But I miss writing and sharing the controlled crazy with everyone, so with that said, I think I am going to pick it back up. It may not be regular, because you know - I got shit going on, but if you want to hear some of the funny stuff…tune in.

As many of you already know, because I spam your Facebook wall, I gave birth to Olive Audrina Lehman this past April. The doctors were worried she was a "little big" (story of my life) and I was past my due date, so they offered an induction. This was my first baby so I didn't know what the hell I was doing, and truthfully I was over it; I was ready to not be pregnant anymore, so when the doctor said, "do you want to be induced,” I was all "Abso-fucking-lutely!."

We went in Thursday morning at 7am, fast forward to sometime around 8pm on Friday night the doctor came back in to "check" me and I was still one centimeter dilated. Ridiculous, I was having contractions for over 24 hours and I was only one centimeter dialed...things were going exactly according to my birth plan - ugh. Add insult to injury, Olive moved one way and apparently my parts went another - there was zero chance baby lady was coming out the 'ole fashion way. The doctor said, "Well, let me finish delivering the baby next door and I will be back to do your c-section." Um, okay….you “finish delivering the baby next door!" What in the actual fuck were you doing in my room if you were in the middle of "delivering the baby next door?!"  Anyway, point is she made the decision this was going to happen for real and it starting to sink in that I was about to have a baby cut out of me. The doctor left the room and old Beth showed up.

At that point my husband came up to console me because tears were streaming down my face, I was convinced I was going to puke, die, shit myself - you know, that old chestnut.  He came over, put his hands on my shoulder, looked me in the eyes and said, "Beth I don't think I can do this right now, I might shit myself in the operating room."

Um....what?

You see, everyone handles nerves differently. Some people puke, some people pass out, and some people shit themselves, but in my house we only ever think we are going to shit ourselves - never happens, but we just know it is going to happen.

Anyway, so the nurse comes in and my husband heads for the bathroom. The bathroom that was attached to my room had the acoustics of a cave; you could literally hear everything. People were coming in and out of the room, meanwhile my husband was blasting gassers in the bathroom for everyone to hear. When I am in panic mode I cannot stop talking (sidebar - I know I have a reputation of talking too much, but when I am nervous it is so much worse). I was nervous, I was mildly embarrassed for my husband, and Megan the nurse just happened to be there:

Beth: So Megan, has anyone who's had a c-section thrown up on the operating table?
Megan: yes, it’s no big deal, you just turn your head to the side and it hits the floor.
Beth: Wow, okay, so that doesn't make me feel better. Has anyone ever shit themselves on   the operating table?
Megan: No, not that I know of (she is still typing away on her computer and my husband is still having an audible back end blowout in the bathroom)
Beth: Has any one's husband ever shit themselves in the operating room...because as you can hear, my husband might be the first.
Megan: no, this would be a first
Beth: so by the sound of it, you think he is going to shit himself in the operating room? You would know right, you are a nurse?
Megan: (just laughs)

My husband comes back out of the bathroom and is feeling a little better, but still isn't sure he can do this. At this point they have brought him his scrubs to put on and he takes this opportunity to head back to the bathroom to "make sure it is all out" and change into his paper clothes. By now, I have calmed down a bit mainly because I have had the opportunity to ask every question imaginable, I drilled the nurse, anesthesiologist, the facilities guy who just happened to be there fixing a drawer on a cabinet...everyone.  My husband rejoins me and has now professed that "while he was in the bathroom he has become alright with this now," and does not believe he will shit himself in the operating room. Wonderful.

We are finally to the point where they wheel me in to the operating room. Megan said, "your husband will be in once you are set up and the doctor comes in." So, off I go, I get all hooked up, laid out like a starfish and up goes the drape. The doctor comes in and hits the music and stands next to me like she is about to start cutting. One problem...my husband isn't there.

“Um, is my husband here? Did he make it in?” No one is paying attention to me. I immediately believe he has shit himself. I thought, he had a full on panic attack and he still thinks he is going to shit himself and he can't bring himself to come into the operating room - is that a divorce-able offense? Totally a divorce-able offense. He is going to miss his daughter’s birth because he was scared about shitting himself!?! But... what if he did shit himself - I totally understand why he couldn't be in here, and I can't divorce him if he really shit himself. Does anyone know if my husband shit himself???

Two seconds later he finally joins us in the room, with clean, shit free scrubs and shouts - "Hey everybody, how can I help!"

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Argue like a Lady



Last week this illiterate, shit-kicking, uneducated backwoods mutant hillbilly took it upon herself to tell me, on Facebook nonetheless, to “go eat something you cow.” I really didn’t have a fucking clue what she was talking about, maybe because she misspelled three of the five words she wrote, but either way I starred at her comment like a monkey doing a math problem until I finally realized this was her feeble attempt at calling me fat. I laughed at first, got pissed, and then realized who I was dealing with and then I of course laughed again. The old me would have turned into the verbal assassin my brothers and I have become. We would never exert that kind of energy to physically fight anyone; I get tired just taking the stairs, but also because jail scares the shit out me. I can't be someone's bitch as a result of losing my cool, but if pushed enough I will shake my finger in your face and call you ungodly names.

Anyway, her comment got me thinking though, good insults should be applauded and celebrated, but instead most girls just call each other a combination of stupid, fat, whore, and bitch, rarely deviating away from these foundational insults. The woman in the example above scored points for creativity though; I have never been called a cow before, but I feel like she could have done better.


So, I have created a chart to help those who become insult impaired when verbally accosting someone. It is a simple formula really; select one word from each column and there you have it, a more creative insult or if you prefer new nicknames for each other! 

fucking
slut
skeevy
whore
skanky
twatwaffle
dirty
pussy
fishy
bimbo
nasty
dick blister
obnoxious
queef bag
repulsive
cunt
greasy
hooker
belligerent
cum Dumpster
hideous
human filth



Got any good names you like to call people; to their face or behind their back? Remember, sticks and stones may break your bones, but lighten up people, these are just words!

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Irrational Fears


I have always been a nervous person, scared of pretty much everything; the dark, snakes, public speaking, flying, teenage girls with sharp objects, you know, typical fears and phobias. When my agoraphobia kicked into full gear however, I added to my list. I was suddenly afraid of things like eating in public, shopping, going to the movies, driving, and anything else that wasn't eating or breathing. After years of therapy I learned to determine if the fears I have are rational or irrational. Of course I still am anxious and I still have fears, but as an exercise I kept a list of some of my favorite irrational fears, so here goes!


I am afraid that...

...I will accidentally refer to my boss as "dad."

...out of habit, I will end a phone conversation with a coworker, customer, or pizza guy by saying "love ya, bye!"

...the person in the bathroom stall next to me will know I am dropping a heater because they heard me unroll another six feet of toilet paper.

...I will remain a fat ass and end up on the TLC show "I Was Pregnant and Didn't Know It."

...anytime I receive a picture via email or text from my brothers and sister, it will be a picture of the shit they just took or a handful of nut sack "brain." Furthermore, it is equally frightening when we are in the same room with each other. God forbid you have to walk past each other in a hallway because you are almost always guaranteed to receive a punch to the gut or crotch. Never leave yourself open and exposed around siblings...never leave yourself open or exposed!

...I will smell someone’s fart and be the first to notice it. I will make that face, like "who shit themselves?" only to have people repeatedly say, "who ever smelt it dealt it", as we did in the third grade. I will have to deny farting over and over again.

...I will send an email without spell checking and it will say, "sorry for the incontinence" rather than "sorry for the inconvenience."

...when the phone rings at 10pm at night, someone is dead, dying, or injured.

...the garage door, despite seeing it go down, is actually going to open right back up again and everything in my garage (although just scrap wood, a garbage can, and a recycling container) will be viewable for everyone in the neighborhood to see and/or help themselves too.

...during my annual exam at the gynecologist, they will lean in for a closer look and say, “eww, what is that?"

So that is my list! Do you have any that you want to share so I can over think them and add them on to my list?

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Beauty Fucking Hurts!


First I would like to apologize to my father and brothers; if you come across this post, please do not try to visualize the following story. You have been warned!

I have been losing some weight lately and am feeling a little better about myself. Full disclosure though, I am only getting thinner because I have had my band tightened not because I have will power or anything. For those of you who don’t know, I had lap-band surgery about four years ago and failed miserably at it. I think I might be the only person who gained weight from the surgery. Well it is a new year and I am officially a medically-controlled anorexic and bulimic now so the weight is starting to come off. Everyone knows when the weight starts coming off you start feeling a little better about yourself. When you start feeling better about yourself you get a sense of style, start wearing makeup again, and shave more than once a month. I have always been interested in getting waxed because then I wouldn’t have to shave so often and being as smooth as a Barbie doll is what we girls shoot for…I guess?!

Last week I was having a conversation with my girlfriend about shaving and waxing and she mentioned she used to get waxed professionally, but it was like $60 every time she went. She found a wax that the professionals use and decided to give it a shot in the privacy of her own home. She described the process very well and did say that it was messy to use, but that didn’t scare me away. If girls are ripping their pubic hairs out with the assistance of hot wax, a popsicle stick, and a vagina mirror, I want in! I have always wanted to be a girly girl, but all my attempts have gone over like a fucking turd in a punch bowl. This experience my friends, was no different than any of my other attempts.

I followed all the preparation directions.
  1.  Heat wax, check. 
  2. Stir wax, check. 
  3. Smear wax all over hairy area like you are frosting a cupcake, check. The directions did not call for you to act like you were frosting a cupcake, but I am fat girl and I have been drinking my dinner for the past week and thinking about cupcakes made this ok for me.
  4. Let wax dry and cool, check. 
  5. Convince husband to rip off wax and promise you will not beat, stab, or divorce if it doesn’t go well, check.

And there I lay like a goddamn toddler getting ready for bath time. Only a shirt on, no pants and wax caked on my thighs and lady parts. I took a deep breath and gave Mark the go ahead to rip, hopefully in one fell swoop. And here is where the plan falls to shit. It didn't come off in one fell swoop, it came off in what seems like fifty fucking fell swoops and left sticky, gummy little pieces behind. There I was with my crotch looking like it decided to fall asleep with gum in its mouth and now the gum is stuck in its hair. How the FUCK am I going to fix this? “I should stand up to fix this, that’s what I will do; get a better view.” News flash, standing up only makes it all stick together and then you have to convince your fat to release the hostage that is your vagina without bringing tears to your eyes again. I imagine, for men, it is the equivalent of having your balls super glued to your leg.

At this point, honestly, I felt like I was going to pass out. I got in the shower and had to shave it all, everything, just to get the goddamn little pieces of wax off. What was the point of all that, I

still ended up shaving and could have skipped that humiliating, painful attempt at being a girly girl. Fucking beauty…it hurts!

Sunday, January 22, 2012

It has come to my attention...

Plenty of things are brought to my attention daily, some mostly unsolicited and some I am consciously aware of. For example;

1) I say fuck A LOT.

2) Most of my stories feature piss, shit, or puke.

3) I have a barren wasteland of a uterus.

4) I sometimes pee a little when I sneeze (this is new). Thankfully, this was a phenomenon I became aware of on my own, and not awkwardly pointed out to me.

5) My dog does not appreciate when I turn the stove on. Because of prior failed attempts to cook, the clicking sound initiates a Pavlovian response that sends him into a full-blown panic attack. He seeks shelter in the corner, where he shivers and waits for the smoke alarm to go off. Fucker.

6) I am referred to as "the heavy set girl" at work. Nice.

7) I giggle...obnoxiously.

Here is the back story. Mark and I went to Disney world in December. We had been before, but I really didn't get on many rides because of my agoraphobia. On this last trip I was going to take on some of the ones I refused to go on previously because I said "fuck you" to agoraphobia, and mainly because Mark said, "if that five year old can do it, you can too." I got on the Tea Cups, for my first time. I know, I know, it is a pussy ride, but because of the spinning and my belief I would throw up, I usually just skipped it. I admit, I had a blast on that ride; Mark even mentioned that I was definitely having more fun on the Tea Cups than anyone else. What the hell did he mean by that? He then pointed out that I was giggling and laughing obnoxiously. I adamantly denied the fact that I giggled; you know, it is kind of like when someone tells you that you snore and you swear you don't snore and then they catch you on video trying to swallow your own face. Well, the same thing happened here on our second round on the Tea Cups, but with giggling. Can't explain it, I giggle...obnoxiously
.

video

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Christmas cards

I love getting Christmas cards, I just suck at sending them out. I really try every year to go out and find the perfect card that captures the spirit of the season and represents my family well. Well this year I decided I would try to design one of my very own. My original thought was to gather up all the dogs, my husband, and of course myself but I couldn't get the fur bastards to stay in one place long enough and I just felt like every picture I took would make the recipients of my card say, "Jesus Christ she got fat!." So....I went with this instead. What do you think? Hallmark would be proud right? Happy Holidays!


Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Dick The Halls



I went to a craft store last week to look around and see if they had any Halloween decorations left. It is, of course, only October, but in perfect “stuff the holidays down your throat” fashion, the Christmas shit was already out and taking over the store. There was a woman in the ribbon aisle trying to pick out the perfect Christmas ribbon with her two annoyed kids in tow. They had absolutely no interest in their mother’s dilemma and I don’t blame them. She was really in turmoil about what “theme” their tree was going to be this year. All I could do was think back on how we prepared for and celebrated Christmas in my house when I was their age. You were more likely to hear “Rob, put your dick back in your pants,” before you would have ever heard a discussion on the “theme’ of our Christmas decorations. Relax; my family is not a bunch of perverts! I will explain that comment a little later. So as we're forced to prepare for Christmas before we've even celebrated Halloween and Thanksgiving, here are a few snippets from my own childhood.

My dad loves Christmas! He just doesn’t love putting the tree up, hanging lights outside, wrapping presents, or really anything else that involved creating the Christmas spirit; but I promise you he loves it! Growing up, he would much rather have watched from his lazy-boy while the TV was on, directing us from a far. Like so many other families, the day after Thanksgiving was the day we got the green light to throw up the tree, put the stockings up, and hang lights outside. We always had an artificial tree, mainly because chopping down a tree, watering it, and picking up the dead needles involved a lot of effort. Keep in mind that we were an overweight family and that was definitely not going to happen in my house. We also didn’t normally hang lights outside; again, because that involved exerting energy and in the typical households, adult supervision. If you know anything about me, you already know “typical” is not a way I describe my family. So of course my dad thought it was no big deal for 11 and 12 year old kids to proceed with hanging lights outside. With stapler gun and feet upon feet of mismatched lights my brother and I ventured out determined to string the lights across every bush, tree, and anything else that a light could be stapled to. We plugged them in to make sure they worked. We laid them out along the wooden landscape edging and began to staple them in place. On one occasion, Christmas spirit wasn’t the only thing coursing through my brother's body; he stapled right through the live wire (it was still plugged in of course) and was filled with volts of electricity. The only adult response we got to being electrocuted on the front porch was my father yelling, “what in the shit are you doing!?”

Christmas morning was the big reveal; my step-mother loved video-taping the entire event and my father loved ruining the family tapes with his inappropriate commentary. She so very much wanted those Norman Rockwell holiday moments, but unfortunately she rarely got them. On Christmas Eve we got to open one present and they were always pajamas; fucking, matching pajamas that we had to put on and wear to bed so we all looked camera-ready for the morning. We had to wear them even if they fit a little tight, and because we were fat asses, they almost always were too tight.Keep in mind that most male pajama pants have a slit in the front that becomes increasingly open as the pants get tighter. In the morning we would fix our hair and walk down the hall where dad would be waiting ready to capture those amazing family moments on video. Unfortunately for my step-mother, the video camera captured this phenomenon and one particularly interesting bit of commentary from my father to my brother. My brother’s pajama bottoms happened to open slightly in the front as he sat down to open his presents. Neither he, nor anyone else noticed…except my dad. In typical dad fashion, he shouted (while the camera was rolling) “Rob, put your dick back in your pants!”