Hey, Lady…

May 12th, 2012 is a day that will go down in infamy. After 6 months of it always being in the back of my mind, it finally happened. Alexander took a dump in his bathtub tonight.

It was a bath like any other: Giggles on the changing table, raspberries on the tummy, burrito roll in the towel, then submersion in the tub. Only this time, when I lifted him to clean his butt, there was a giant turd on the bottom of the tub. Usually, there is a lot of grunting and deep staring off into the horizon that signifies the action of pooping. This time, I got zilch. I had a babbling baby that was having a good old time in his tub.

So there he was, my sweet little boy, sitting in warm, poop-infested, bathtub water. And there it was, the giant turd that, thank God, was in a semi-solid state thanks to the 3 pureed meals he had today.

“What. Did. You. Do.” I calmly said, while looking into those big, brown eyes.

“A ba ba ba. Pssssssbt. Ma-da.” Alexander replied, with a big grin on his face.

I think it translated to this: “Hey, lady. I just shit in your tub. Boom.”

I got the baby tub, that could’ve now been considered a biohazard zone, out of the bathtub itself and got ready to wipe the residual poop off his butt when I noticed my skirt now had poop on it. We both looked at each other and of course, he gave me a huge smile followed by more babbling and raspberries. I think this series of babbles translated to this: “Hey lady, don’t get all pissed me. That skirt looked dumb on you anyway.”

The series of events afterwards are kind of blurred. I think that’s what happens when your body enters the Fight or Flight mode. Somehow, I ended up with a clean baby and a tub filled with bleach water in the basement.

You always hear about this happening, but you never think it will happen to you. Well, hey lady. It just did. Boom.

Parenthood Chronicles: The Birth-Part I

In response to my husband’s (repeated) requests for more long over due blog posts, I decided to write a series of entries starting from chronicling the birth of our son, Alexander, to the everyday happenings of being a parent.  Here we go, friends.

I was scheduled to be induced on November 13th, 2011 after missing the much wished for due date of 11-11-11.  11-13-11 was a Sunday much like any other Sunday.  I rolled out of bed (literally) with swollen feet and a craving for a peanut butter and strawberry jelly waffle-wich.  I lazed around the house until my family arrived around 1pm.  This of course was lunchtime, so Alex made a Qdoba run for me.  I was told by many people to eat as much as you could before going to the hospital, because once the birth process starts, you get nothing but ice chips and the glimmering hope of a hospital cafeteria grilled cheese sandwich in the distant future.  With this in mind,  I naturally requested a giant burrito filled with melty cheesy goodness.  (Now that I think about it, looking back on this time, my life was centered around food and I was always counting down the minutes to the next time I can shove food down my gullet!)  Once I inhaled the giant burrito and ignored the incredulous looks from my dad, it was time to caravan to St. Vincent’s hospital for the birth induction of long awaited Baby J.

I got settled into my room around 6pm and waited for the doctor to arrive to insert the hormone strip up in my vag to start the induction.  When the doctor arrived, I remembered wondering if he had his driver’s license or still had his learner’s permit.  He seriously looked that young!  So in addition to being swollen and overdue, I felt extremely old.  Dr Howser then put on his gloves and prepared the hormone strip, which would ultimately end up next to my cervix… in my vagina.  So this meant that a male doctor that looked 13 years old was going to put his fingers in my vagina.  This was going to happen all while Alex was standing next to me.  I never had a male OB/Gyn before, so in addition to feeling swollen, overdue and old, I was now extremely and awkwardly uncomfortable.  I’m nothing if not flexible, so I just closed my eyes and waited for it to be over with.  I waited.  Then waited.  Then waited some more.  I finally opened my eyes to see what progress had been made and found Dr. Howser with his fingers all up in my business, looking up towards the ceiling with a look of sheer concentration, furrowed eyebrows included.

“Everything ok down there?”, I asked.

“Yeah….I’m just trying to get this positioned” Doogie responded.

I looked over at Alex expecting him to be as uncomfortable as I was, but I think he was preoccupied with thoughts of shit getting real and coaching me through labor.

“Hmmm…” said Doogie.  “Sorry this is taking so long.  I must just have short fingers”

I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I gave a polite laugh followed by a look towards Alex.  Finally, Alex was sharing the awkwardness with me.  When Doogie Howser was finally done and left the room, I was the first to break the silence.

“Was he digging for gold in there?” I asked Alex.

“His fingers didn’t look all that short to me,” Alex said, trying to logically process what just transpired.

At 11:30pm, the aforementioned shit started getting real.  At first I wasn’t sure if I was having contractions or if I had to take the world’s largest dump.  When I say the world’s largest dump, I mean it.  The closest thing I can compare it to is the scene in Slumdog Millionaire when that little kid jumps into the poop lake to escape the locked outhouse so he could get his favorite actor’s autograph.  The quantity of poop in the Slumdog poop lake was the amount of poop it felt like I needed to unleash out of my butt.  If you remember, I did have that giant burrito filled with melty cheesy goodness earlier for lunch (which by the way concerned Alex the whole time because he thought I was going to poop during labor). Then I remembered reading an article on babycenter.com where moms described what contractions felt like for them.  There were a lot of entries describing Slumdog Millionaire-type deuces.  Finally convinced they were contractions, Alex and I started the breathing techniques we had learned during our Childbirth Prep class. So for about three hours, we were breathing in together and blowing our bad breath into each other’s faces. Knowing I’m a huge puss when it comes to pain, I figured I was only 1 centimeter dilated when the nurse came in around 2:30am.

“Your contractions are coming on pretty strong.  Do you want me to call the anesthesiologist?” she kindly asked.

“Well, I don’t think I’m up to 4 centimeters yet.  Don’t I have to wait for that?” I responded.

The nurse slapped on a glove and checked my dilation in about a second as opposed to Doogie’s 3-minute gold dig (nurses should be paid more).  At this point, I had so many fingers up in my business from so many different people, I didn’t feel uncomfortable anymore.

“You’re at 6 centimeters,” she said.

“Really?!” Alex and I both responded.

For some dumb reason after hearing that, I thought I was really tough.  So I turned down the epidural and said that I thought I could make it.  The next 15 minutes of poop contractions changed my mind.  When the nurse told me that I could very well be in labor for another 5 or 6 hours before I was ready to push and that the contractions were just going to get more intense, I had a mini panic attack.  There was no way I can endure another 5 or 6 hours of feeling like I had to unleash 2000 Qdoba burritos all at once out of my butthole.  Needless to say, the anesthesiologist was called.  Until he arrived, Alex and I talked about how weird it was to feel contractions in my butt and not my uterus.  That was a good topic to take my mind off the pain for the next 10 minutes.

By the time my epidural was inserted and working, I was at 7 centimeters, but I felt nothing.  The marvels of modern medicine never ceased to amaze me.  I was in love with the anesthesiologist and was kind of bummed when he had to leave.  After I thanked him for the millionth time, he gathered up his supplies and also gave me some thanks.

“Thank you for being cooperative and slender.  I always get one or the other, but never both,” he said.

“You’re Welcome?” I replied, semi confused at what he was thanking me for.

As he pushed his cart out the door, Alex asked if he really did just thank me for being “slender.”  Not only did he take my poopy, butthole pain away, but he also boosted my self-esteem by calling me slender.  I made a mental note to send him a Christmas card.

Even though I was pain free, the epidural made everything slow down, so shit didn’t get real until 11am that morning. That will be chronicled in part 2.  

Shrek Feet

I will admit it.  I am one of those women that actually enjoy being pregnant.  Even now, with 2 weeks and 5 days until my due date, I’m still loving every minute of this pregnancy and with very good reasons.

1)   I can eat whatever I want, when I want and no one will judge me.  Yesterday, Alex found 2 mayonnaise packets in the front pocket of my purse and his only reaction was a hearty chuckle.  9 months ago, I definitely would have been judged.  Other than while being pregnant, when else can I yearn for a Cinnabon, make enough effort to travel to the ghetto to get one and not feel one ounce of guilt for eating it?  This is the one time in my life where I’ve been able to cave into cravings.  And let me tell you, I’ve definitely enjoyed the Sizzer-esque steak, bologna and cheese sandwich on white bread with extra mayo, chicken fingers and of course, the Cinnabon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2)     I get to park in the expectant and new mom parking spots at various grocery stores and baby retail outlets.  It’s like getting the handicapped-parking sticker, but without having to bribe your doctor.  Whenever I see that little stork sign with an empty parking space in front of it, my heart skips a beat.  It’s not just because my uterus has crammed all my organs into my lungs, but rather from the sheer excitement of the ability to park 3 to 4 spaces closer to the entrance.

3)   People hold doors open for me and ask me if I need help out to my car with the groceries.  I appreciate the door opening, but I haven’t taken advantage of the grocery help.  I’m not completely helpless.

4)   I have a greater appreciation for my baby daddy.  He’s the one that put together all the baby goods, came to all the childbirth prep classes (including Breastfeeding 101 where he almost lost it watching a ‘suck and swallow’ animation), and stood in line with me for over 30 minutes at Babies-R-Us while the mathematically-challenged store associate tried to calculate the 20% coupon for the breast pump.  He even helped me put socks on my kankled feet even though he was scared to look at them, nonetheless touch them.  We were always peas and carrots before, but now I think we’re like spinach and kale.  Super vegetables.

5)   Most importantly, there is a little person that is 50% me, and 50% Alex that will arrive in less than 3 weeks.  Sure the 1^st three months of this pregnancy sucked, but I don’t even remember it now.  What I will remember is the first time we saw and heard the heartbeat, the first time we saw his/her Skeletor face on the ultrasound, the first time the baby moved, and how I could just sit and watch for hours the baby moving around in there.

I feel sorry for all the old timers out there that I’ve talked to that treat motherhood as a sorority and pregnancy as the hazing period.  All I hear is how bad the pregnancy experience was to them.  Its like they’re disappointed when I tell them that I don’t have stretch marks, I don’t feel tired, my back doesn’t ache, I sleep comfortably and I don’t have to pee every five seconds.  I just started to get kankles about 3 days ago.  And I find kankles to be kind of hilarious.  I have ogre feet like Shrek and who doesn’t like Shrek?  I think these pessimistic old timers are missing the point.  Sure, my vag is going to hurt really bad and I’m not going to sleep for months, but there is a little life coming into this world.  A little life that has a mom, dad and grandparents that will love him or her to no end.  That’s the point of it all.

Five Martinis and a Pack of Marlboros

At the beginning of March (March 5^th to be exact), the second line indicating positive popped up on my home pregnancy test.  This wasn’t a panic moment by any means at all.  Alex and I had intentions of having this baby since January.  Luckily, our happy news came really quickly.  Unluckily, since this was my first time ever being pregnant, I had no idea what I was in for with the first trimester.

I woke up one morning about 7 weeks into my pregnancy feeling a bit off.  It didn’t even dawn on me that this could be morning sickness because I actually believed I was badass enough to not get it.  I went to work as normal and everything was fine until 10am.  That’s when it came into full effect:  the nausea, headache, sleepiness, and overall feeling of malaise.  It wasn’t until after the second trip to the bathroom where I projectile vomited like in the Exorcist, did I realize I was one of the 75% of women that experience morning sickness.

This leads me to another point:  If I ever meet the person that coined the term “morning” sickness, I’m going to punch them in their smug little face.  This is what I picture:  a little dude that just graduated from medical school, with beady little eyes, plastic 80s glasses, residual teenage acne, and enough of a weirdo penchant for vaginas that he chose to specialize in them.  This little asshole is listening to his patient describing her symptoms and he comes up with “morning” sickness, thinking that she’ll actually believe it will only happen in the morning.  What he doesn’t know is that there’s a line that stretches two times around the globe of women that want to kick his tiny little balls for belittling this situation.   Let’s just call it The Sickness and be done with it.

Eating was a completely different experience for me during this time, as well.  Anyone that knows me knows I love to eat.  So not only did I have The Sickness, but I couldn’t enjoy my food.  It was a matter of just shoving it down the gullet and keeping enough of it down so I wouldn’t starve to death.  Around the 9 week mark, I was pretty sure this baby was a demon and trying to kill me.  It was around this time I found through trial and error that my work cafeteria’s tater tots, a steady supply of Cheez-Its, and ramen noodles would keep me afloat for the next three weeks.  I couldn’t even handle a communion wafer.  I think Jesus will forgive me for barfing that up in our friend John Sherman’s yard on the way out from church.

When I wasn’t puking/eating tater tots and Cheez-Its, I was either sleeping or thinking about sleeping.  Again, I was naïve enough to think that I wouldn’t be one of those women that got really tired and couldn’t function like a normal human being.  I thought I would be able to keep up with my 25 mile a week running schedule and run the mini marathon like any other year.  When I asked my doctor about running, she gave me a polite smile and told me to listen to my body.  I was kind of insulted she didn’t completely agree with me.  She obviously didn’t know me very well.  Then one day, while I was at work, I went to the bathroom, luckily not to barf.  As I was sitting there on the toilet, I thought it would be a good idea just to close my eyes for a few seconds and take a quick breather.  It wasn’t until I heard a flush did I wake up and realize I literally fell asleep on the toilet.  I panicked and ran out of the bathroom not knowing what time it was.  Was it still day or is everyone gone?  Then I remembered people saying you can get hemorrhoids for sitting on the pot for too long and the panic rose to a point where I forgot all about how tired I was.  So not only did I have The Sickness, lost my appetite, and have narcolepsy, but now I was going to have hemorrhoids?  This demon baby was for sure trying to kill me! Luckily it was still daylight and I had only been asleep for about 5 minutes.  Threat Level Hemorrhoid avoided.

Trying to describe this general feeling to my friends was hard, until I remembered the summer edition of Girls Night Out, when I drank 5 martinis and puked up pasta carbonara in my back yard.  The horrible hangover I would never wish on anyone is almost how The Sickness feels.  Throw in a pack of Marlboro Reds that you’ve chained smoked the entire night and that hits the nail on the head.

So instead of punching the mousy, smug, little man that came up with “morning” sickness in the balls, I’m going to force him to ingest 5 martinis and a pack of Marlboros so he can tell me if it’s still “morning” sickness.

But like every good story, there is a happy ending.  Around 13-14 weeks, The Sickness disappeared as fast as it came.  Now, at 23 weeks, I’ve never felt better.  I finally have the cute little baby bump and enough energy to bench-press a Mini Cooper.  Feeling the baby (who is no longer a demon, but now appropriately called Baby J) move and be alive every day is totally worth the 6 weeks of virtually downing 5 martinis and a pack of Marlboros.

Blondie the Terrab

I woke up this morning to the news that Osama bin Laden was found and subsequently killed during a JSOC raid in Pakistan.   Reading the numerous Twitter and Facebook updates, it was clear that the whole world was full of different opinions and emotions.  Some were joyful, some were hopeful, and some were fearful.  The opinions and feelings of my mom fell under the fearful category.

I received a call from my sweet mom this evening on the way to Girl’s Night.  I knew when I heard her ringtone that she wanted to talk about the news of the day.

“Linda baby, how you do?” my mom asked when I answered.

After exchanging the opening greetings, my mom dived right in.

“You hear news today?  They kill bin Ladie,” she said.

“Of course I heard, it’s everywhere,” I responded.

“I no know, Linda.  What if it no him and he still live?” she asked, very concerned.

I tried to explain to her the accuracy of DNA testing and that other ID methods were used.  This seemed to comfort her, as she knew from watching news 24 hours a day that you can’t really argue DNA evidence.

Then she started talking about the families that were affected by 9/11 and hoped that this would help them with their grief.  That’s when she started getting really emotional and really riled up in the conversation.  When my mom gets going on a topic she feels strongly about, her already rapid speech speeds up even faster and sometimes even I have a hard time understanding her.  She started talking about useless hate coming from the terrorists and doesn’t understand why Arab nations hate the Western culture so much.  Especially how ‘bin Ladie’ can be so evil.  Soon, she was talking so fast that ‘bin Ladie’ turned into ‘Blondie’ and terrorists from Arab Nations were ‘Terrabs’.

“Blondie was the worst terrab, but I too scared because there more like him out there,” she said terrified.

After some more conversation, she came to the point where she said her piece and started to calm down.

“Ok, babe.  I have to make your brother some food.  You work good tomorrow, ok?” she said before we exchanged I Love You’s and ended our twelve minute and twenty-one second conversation about Blondie the Terrab.

I guess what I took away from today’s events and the conversation with my mom is never take things for granted.  No matter how high gas prices are and how low real estate values are, we still live in a country where people like Donald Trump and Snookie can say and do pretty much anything they please and live to see the next day.  But more importantly, I have a mom that calls me for twelve minute Blondie the Terrab conversations because all she wants is just to talk to me.  That is definitely something I will never take for granted.

An Asian Walks Into a Nail Salon

Being the product of an Asian mom and Hispanic dad is a double-edged sword.  On the plus side, I’m blessed with a year round tan, manageable hair and pretty legit street cred.  On the down side, my maiden name was always mispronounced (although I haven’t exactly escaped that, even now).  Not exactly much to cry about, but there is one disadvantage to which I’ve come to terms:  I will never be able to pay patronage to a nail salon in peace and quiet.

I was a late bloomer when it came to pedicures.  I started getting them regularly during the summer months in 2007.  Once I had those hot stones rubbed on my mannish calves, there was no way I was going back to clumsily applying nail polish to my own toes.  It took awhile to find a nail salon I liked, so I visited a few of them.  Every salon I went to, the conversation was exactly the same:

“So, what kind of nationality are you?” the Vietnamese nail technician would ask.

“Oh, I’m different.” I’d reply with a laugh.  I didn’t want to give my life story to this person, but I didn’t want to be rude either.  They hold tools that could potentially pull my toenails off.

That would hold them off for about 5 minutes until they wanted to know how I was different.  When I would divulge the fact that I was a Mexican/Vietnamese hybrid (like Blade), the whole salon would know in a matter of 30 seconds and all the other technicians would come by to take a look at me and speak in Vietnamese to each other.  I don’t know the language, but luckily I know enough to know they didn’t call me fat or ugly.  Those are two words my mom uses regularly when she feels feisty out in public.  I once again felt like I was in a Seinfeld episode, only I didn’t have Jerry’s dad there to interpret for me.

It wasn’t just Indianapolis nail salons.  I went to two of them in Valpo and got the same treatment.  With one of them, I was there with my Filipino friend, Lorna, but she didn’t get the 20 questions.  Then with the other, I was there with Kristin, who was cute and pregnant, and I still managed to get more questions than she did.  How do you top a fellow Asian and a cute, pregnant woman?

I finally did settle on a nail salon in Broad Ripple.  Of course, I went though the same deal the first time I went there, but the nail technician was nice enough not to announce it to the whole group.  This made me decide to come back.  Last year when my mom came down to visit for Mother’s Day weekend, I took her to the nail salon for a little R and R.  Of course, spending money on anything that isn’t food or shelter is ridiculous to her, so she backed out when we arrived at the salon.  Instead of getting a pedicure, she walked around and talked to all the other nail techs while I was getting my nails polished.  Every time I went after that, I ended up giving everyone a status update of how my mom was doing.

Yesterday, after a long winter of pedi-neglect, I really wanted a hot stone massage on my man calves.  But, I wanted it in silence.  I wanted to be the woman relaxing in the chair, enjoying a back issue of Cosmo magazine, so I decided to go across the street at another nail salon where they didn’t know my mom or me.  I should have known better.  I didn’t know how good I had it across the street.  Instead of saying hi, telling them about how nice my mom’s yard turned out and how Alex was doing, I had to start all over with the awkward exchange with an unfamiliar nail tech.  The good thing is that I learned a few new things.  I now know gang violence between Cambodian and Vietnamese gangs is at an all time high in Arkansas (totally proves having street cred) and chopping red chilies to put in fish sauce makes a great dipping sauce for egg rolls.

I guess when it comes down to it, constantly being in the spotlight at a nail salon really isn’t such a bad thing.  If I had to move to a new country and met an American, I’d be pretty excited and quick to start a conversation with them too.  I think we all just want to feel like there’s someone else out there like us.  Next month, I’m totally going back to BR Nails.  I miss those guys.

Don’t smell my…

Weekend visits with my family are never boring.  It’s usually filled with exasperating looks from my dad, sass talk from my brother, and my mom…Well, anything could happen with her.

A few summers ago, Alex, Lloyd and I went up to pay them a visit.  The day stated out with the normal Hinojosa behaviors:  sleeping in, hanging out, then going to the Broadway Café for some soup and dinner rolls.  During the early dinner at the BC, I noticed my mom was drinking coffee.  She stopped drinking coffee about 5 years prior because of her high blood pressure, so this was a bit odd to me.

“When did you start drinking coffee again?” I asked her.

“I no drink too much.  I just want taste lil’ bit.” she responded.

This was definitely not a just a taste.  Five cups later, we left the restaurant and went home.  I was relaxed and ready to watch 48 Hours when I heard the vacuum cleaner in the kitchen.  My mom was furiously cleaning every nook and cranny of the kitchen.

“Looks like someone can’t handle the caffeine,” I said to my dad.

“This happens every time she just wants a taste of the coffee,” My dad replied, with his trademark exasperated look.

When 48 hours broke for a commercial, I walked into the kitchen for the typical Hinojosa nightcap:  a Little Debbie Zebra Cake.  That’s when I noticed my mom vacuuming Lloyd.

“What are you doing to him?!” I yelled at her.

“He have too much purr!  Why you no comb him?” my mom yelled back.

(purr = fur)

Lloyd was thoroughly enjoying his vacuum massage and was annoyed when it abruptly ended.

After I got my 48 Hours murder mystery and Zebra Cake fix, I went upstairs and fell asleep immediately.  There’s something about being home that makes sleeping extremely easy.

At about 2 am, I was shaken awake by my giggling mom.

“Linda, you come wit me.  I need yo help,” My mom said, as she was pulling my arm to get me out of bed.

I followed her into her walk-in closet where she had been trying on her old clothes for the past hour.

“Some cloes no fit me no more.  If dey fit you, you take home and wear,” she said, handing me a pair of custom made pants for a 12-year-old from Vietnam.

As we were both trying on pants at 2:30 in the morning, I noticed Lloyd standing in the doorway.

“Come here buddy!” I said as I waved him in.

Lloyd, being the curious puppers that he is, began sniffing everything in sight, including my mom.

“No Loy!  Go over there!  No smell my phossy!” my mom yelled as she shooed him away.

(phossy = pussy.  My mom has a dirty mouth.  But it doesn’t sound as bad when you say it like that.)

I didn’t really think much of this encounter between Lloyd and my mom, because this was really a typical exchange of conversation.

After we’d had enough of trying on pants and Lloyd smelling lady parts, I decided it was time to go back to bed.  But first, I had to take Lloyd out again.  It was a bad decision to do that wearing shorts in the middle of July.  When I came back inside, I had approximately 589,000 mosquito bites on my legs.  At this point, Alex was up and sitting at the kitchen table.

“What happen to you leg!”  my mom yelled in a panic.

“Oh God, are those mosquito bites?” Alex asked.

My mom went into a panic and started rooting though all the drawers trying to find mosquito bite remedies.  Instead, she came back wearing a bee-keepers hat with no After Bite in sight.

“Next time you go outside, you wear this one.  I never got bite when I have dis.” my mom said.

“But I got bit on the legs, not my face,” I said to her.

“That hat is awesome!” Alex said.  “Can I have it?”

“You see?  Alex smart.  He want wear hat,” She said.

When I finally did get some After Bite, Alex, Lloyd and I went back to bed.

“Why does your mom have a bee keepers hat?” Alex asked.

“For the mosquitoes, duh.  Why else would she have that bee hat?  It might help keep dogs from smelling her phossy too,” I said.

After I explained the impromptu fashion show and Lloyd being fresh with her, Alex pet Lloyd behind his ears, called him a pervert, and told him to stop smelling other people’s phossies.  We’ve come to terms with the fact that our dog is down with OPP.  Falling asleep this second time around was even easier, because not only was I home, but also because I knew I might possibly have the funniest mom on the planet.

Jackson Pollock

It’s time for another drunk story about myself.  Those always end very badly, which results in absolute hilarity after the fact.

Our good friends Quin (aka, Quim) and Melyssa got married the summer of 2005.  Wherever there’s a wedding, especially when really good friends are involved, you can be sure Alex and I aren’t far behind fully equipped with vodka cranberries and crazy dance moves.

At this particular wedding, the drink menu consisted of beer and wine only.  Not one to let hurdles such as no vodka get in my way, I proceeded to drink at least 6 glasses of White Zinfandel before dinner was even served.  Needless to say, by the time dancing started, I was bff with the blush wine.

My memory of this evening is a little fuzzy due to the compounding effect of 6 years elapsed time and 2 ½ bottles of White Zin, although White Sin is probably a better description.   Here is what I do remember:

1)   Talking to a complete stranger, burping in his face, then laughing hysterically about it.

2)   Walking into the wrong reception room and joining a different wedding party’s conga line.

3)   Screaming like I just saw Joey McIntyre when Pussy Control came on the PA, then telling someone’s grandmother I loved that song.

4)   The beginnings of pukey pukes.

As we walked to the car, I remember telling Alex he needed to drive fast because I was ready to summon a Brontosaurus.  As we pulled into his apartment complex, I ran up his stairs with my hand over my mouth and projectile vomited everywhere in the dark.  A few minutes later, Alex walked into the bathroom and turned on the light.

“Oh God! Oh God!  It’s everywhere!” Alex yelled, covering his mouth as well.

“I’m so sorry” I managed to say between hurls.

“You need to go to bed.  You have to go to work in 4 hours.  I’ll clean this up.” Alex reminded me.

As I was laying on the bed trying to control my headspins, I remember opening my eyes and seeing Alex with yellow latex gloves, mopping the blush colored mess I made.  Apparently, he found more pink splashes on the shower door, on the bathroom door, 3 of the walls and behind the toilet.

I was still working at the Micro Food Lab on Saturday’s in 2005, where I usually had to be there around 5:30-6 am.  Miraculously, I woke up on time and arrived at the lab on time.

“So you had a good time at Quin’s wedding last night?” my friend Melanie asked, tongue in cheek.

I started to remember more of the night.  “Oh no… Did I call you?” I asked.

“You called twice.  It was hilarious.” Melanie replied.  Thankfully, I’ve matured these past 6 years and reduced the number of drunk dials by 90%.

After work, I returned back to Alex’s apartment around 11am and found that he was still sleeping.  I crawled into bed and didn’t notice when he woke up a half hour later.  It wasn’t until I heard him running the water and making a ruckus when I finally got up.

“I want to ask you something.”  Alex said seriously.

This made me nervous.  Did I burp in someone else’s face that he knew?

“I want to know how you got your puke on the ceiling” Alex said as he pointed upwards.

I followed his finger and saw splashes of pink on the ceiling.  I somehow managed to Jackson Pollock his bathroom ceiling with my White Sin projectile vomit.

“I mean, your mouth is 4 feet away from the ceiling.  How did it get up there?  What did you do?” he asked, now smiling.

“It’s like the Exorcist, but with blush wine.” I said.

Alex used deductive reasoning and physics equations to conclude that I must have entered the bathroom and puked in an ellipses motion, with my hand over my mouth giving the puke extra force to travel.

Now that I’m older and wiser, I not only stay away from White Sin, but I have a strategy for drinking wine.  I always alternate each glass of wine with a glass of water.  But if I ever want to enter a contest for abstract art, I know I can revert to blush colored wines.

Pull Down Your Pants

Every year, Alex and I spend 4^th of July in New Buffalo, MI with our good friends Frank and Kristin.  This holiday is literally the pinnacle of my year because it’s filled with sun, beach-time, booze and a million laughs.  4th of July weekend 2008 is a great example of these characteristics.

After a day of sun and boats, Kristin and I wisely decided to wind down by watching the Olympic swimming events.  Alex and Frank, however, chose to get wasted on the balcony.  I was particularly excited to watch Dara Torres with her comeback swim and was hoping to get some motivation via her 6 pack abs.  NBC broke away from the swimming events briefly to show a vignette of how Dara Torres prepared for this Olympics.  Instead of being motivated, I felt like a huge slob just sitting there on the couch, earnestly eating Lays Potato Chips and guzzling Coke Zeros.

Kristin and I then turned our attention to the balcony where the shitshow staring Alex and Frank was taking place.  They were both uncontrollably laughing until Alex came inside giggling like a Catholic school girl; all the while wearing fluorescent zubaz pants, a sweatshirt with the graphic of a sailboat (circa 1986), and an old pair of bifocal glasses that once belonged to Frank’s dad.

“Listen to this [hee hee hee]” Alex said, while Frank was still laughing uncontrollably outside.

“We were watching the Dara Torres thing and I said to Frank that her body was so awesome, it’s like a work of art” Alex explain further.

So far, I was not impressed with this story, so I grabbed another handful of chips.

“So Frank says to me:  ‘Pull down your pants, I’ll show you a work of art.’

“Wait, he wanted you to pull down your pants?” Kristin and I both asked.

“I know!!  That’s why it’s so funny!” Alex managed to blurt out.  “At first I laughed when he said that, then I realized he was referring to me.”

“Well, those zubaz do make your junk look pretty impressive.” I added.

The rest of the weekend and following months were full of Pull Down Your Pants statements.  For example, I saw a Honda Element and made a statement that it was shaped just like a box.  Kristin replied, “Pull down your pants, I’ll show you a box”

That was a completely accurate statement and a perfect usage of Pull Down Your Pants.

Other gems include:

“Pull down your pants, I’ll show you a stuffed pepper.”  (Referring to an item on the menu at a Mexican Resturant in Chicago.)

“Pull down your pants, I’ll show you something wet.”  (Referring to the boat seats while on the Chicago Architectural Tour on the river.)

“Pull down your pants, I’ll show you a mushroom” (Referring to pizza toppings.)

Pull Down Your Pants was the response to everything for at least 3 months.  It doesn’t make much of appearance now, but every now and then, when the opportunity presents itself, we always pull it back out for a laugh.

Hilly Fat Guy

For the past few years, I’ve been riding the Hilly Hundred with Alex.  For those of you who don’t know, the Hilly Hundred is a two-day bicycle ride with each day consisting of an approximate 50 mile course for a total of 100 miles.  This takes place in Southern Indiana, where the hills are much more abundant than those in Central Indiana.  For those that like riding, this ends up being a perfect weekend.  But for those that don’t like riding, like myself, it’s the worst 2 days of your life.  The only thing that makes this ride tolerable is the promise of fried chicken for lunch and a pig out session at the Taco Bell in Martinsville on the Sunday ride home to Indy.  The Hilly Hundred 2010 was my last Hilly Hundred, or should I say Hilly 50.

The day started out promising enough.

I managed to ride around without falling off the bike.  Since I’ve never adapted to being clipped in, I usually fall off at least once during a long ride.   For example, one time I saw a huge penis spray painted on the Monon Trail and tried to make a right turn.  I always turn left and can only unclip with the same foot.  I dismounted with the foot I never use and fell.  The skinned ankle was worth a 2nd look at the lopsided graffiti penis.  But on this day, I rode 15 miles to the first rest stop without incident.  Around mile 20, I was done…forever.  I realized again what I realized in 2009:  the only reason I ride is to share a common interest with my husband.  At that point, the best I could do was focus on lunch.  I couldn’t wait to finish the remaining 5 miles and get my hands on a fried chicken thigh and multiple chocolate chip cookies.   I was NOT pleased when I finally reached the lunch stop, especially after being greeted by Alex, who basically ordered me to ride faster.  As I walked up to the tent, I saw 1 box of fried chicken left which contained one tiny chicken wing.  “They must be getting more from the trucks,” I thought to myself.  When the volunteers announced they were out of chicken, I could have sworn I blacked out for at least 30 seconds.  I snapped out of it when Alex grabbed my arm and led me to a peanut butter sandwich.

“Unless you can turn this jar of Jif into a bucket of fried chicken, I’m going to murder someone.”  I calmly warned Alex.

“Well, I’m not happy about this either.” Alex replied.  He started talking about event planning, food budgeting and other things that didn’t sound like a Hogwarts spell that would turn that peanut butter jar into a mound of fried chicken thighs.   I begrudgingly ate the peanut butter sandwich and hopped back on my bike.  I figured the next rest stop wouldn’t be that far ahead, since in the years past, that last stop creeps up on you unexpectedly.  I rode and rode and rode.  I passed 2 ambulances racing to get injured riders and a person in a ditch.  After the ditch person assured me the SAG vehicle was coming for her, my life flashed before my eyes.  I was going to fall off my bike and crash into something horrible.  If I had that chicken thigh, I think I would have been at peace with everything.  But if I died, it would have been like executing an innocent person without giving them their last meal, consisting of a fried chicken thigh and 2 chocolate chip cookies.  It was completely unjust.

After riding what seemed like forever, I finally got to that last stop.  I got off my bike and parked next to this older couple.  I snuck a peek at the computers on their bikes and saw this was mile 45.

Is this even right?  There is no way there’s only 5 or 6 miles left.  I saw the long line at the water truck and figured I’d better refill before finishing up the day.  If I had waited another 2 minutes, I wouldn’t have been able to refill because they ran out of water.  Seriously?  I paid $50 for this thing to run out of chicken AND water?  This $50 doesn’t even include a T-shirt.  These things, combined with a really sore butt from being on that seat all day caused me to black out again.  I sent a quick text to my friend Cheryl:

“I swear on everything that is good, I am NEVER fucking do this ever fucking again”

I’m almost positive I sent at least 3 other texts like this to her within a 15 minute time span, mostly because I was postponing getting back on the bike, but also because I was still bitter about the chicken.

I finally hopped back on the bike and proceeded to climb a hill, but I was both mentally and physically exhausted.  I went 45 miles without walking, but this was the end for me.  As I was pushing my bike up the hill, I heard a man talking in the background.

“Hey you, this is a climb, not a walk,” the man said.

I turned around and saw a man dressed in spandex.  This man was also at least 500 pounds.  I was thinking of physics formulas about mass and force and wondering how his road bike could possibly support that weight as he repeated his statement, this time making distinct eye contact with me.

“Did you hear me?  I said this was a climb, not a walk,” the fat guy repeated.

Oh no you just didn’t.  He did not just call me out for walking up this hill.  The thought crossed my mind that he was the one that ate all the fried chicken.  At that point, I think I responded to him, but I blacked out again, so I can’t confirm that.

By this time, the Hilly Fat Guy was ahead of me, so picking up my bike and throwing it at him was not an option.  I was so angry at this point, I got back on bike and powered up the hill like there was a bucket of fried chicken at the top.  Looking forward, I saw Hilly Fat Guy pushing his bike up the rest of the hill.  Seeing this as a perfect opportunity, I crept past him.

“Hey!  I though this was climb, not a walk!” I said in an angry Chicago accent.

Hilly Fat Guy was clearly embarrassed and I thought I won, but seconds after I yelled at him, a group of women rode past and heard what I said to him.

“Oh my God!  Did you just hear what she said to that guy?  That was so mean!”

I panicked and blurted out, “No, no, no! Wait!  You don’t understand!  That’s not how it is!  He started it!”

I tried to catch up to them to explain that I was minding my own business and he was the one that called me out first.  It was like  living out a Ben Stiller movie, a la Meet the Parents.  I’m nice, dammit!  I don’t make fun of fat people wearing spandex out in public (to their face).  There was nothing else I could do besides finish the ride and remember not to sign up again next year.

At mile number 60, Alex met me at the finish line with an ice cream cone.  It was no fried chicken, but the thought was nice.  Needless to say, I did not ride on Sunday.  That Monday, Alex put my bike up for sale on Craigslist.  The only riding I’ll be doing is on a Schwinn Cruiser (that Alex is rebuilding) to meet friends for beers.