Me: *lifts bottle of breast milk, looks at liquid level, looks back at Gwen, nods* That’s probably not the nicest thing to say to a newly-breastfeeding, hormone-filled bitch trying to satiate all 10lbs of Paulie the Boob Slayer.

Gwen: But you were up there pumping for like 20 minutes.

Me: 20 minutes [...]]]> Gwen: Is that it?

Me: *lifts bottle of breast milk, looks at liquid level, looks back at Gwen, nods* That’s probably not the nicest thing to say to a newly-breastfeeding, hormone-filled bitch trying to satiate all 10lbs of Paulie the Boob Slayer.

Gwen: But you were up there pumping for like 20 minutes.

Me: 20 minutes AFTER the other excruciating 45 minutes where little Chucky attacked my tits like they were Jennifer Tilly…or whoever Chucky attacked. Did I even watch those movies? What’s my name again?

Gwen: So I guess it’s still hurting?

Me: The movie?

Gwen: The breastfeeding.

Me: Oh. That. If this cracking and bleeding keeps up, Paul will be having a lovely rose for dinner.

Gwen: Huh. Everything I’ve read says it’s supposed to be pleasant, great even. It’s supposed to release endorphins and everything. It’s supposed to be like sex.

Me: Clearly those people are into an entirely different kind of sex.

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“How many weeks are you again?” my friend Gwen asked just the other day.

“I’m pretty sure I’m in the second trimester,” was the most specific answer I could give her.  Thank goodness I signed up for one of those newsletter thingies that reminds me once a week how pregnant I [...]]]> I am the worst pregnant chick ever.

“How many weeks are you again?” my friend Gwen asked just the other day.

“I’m pretty sure I’m in the second trimester,” was the most specific answer I could give her.  Thank goodness I signed up for one of those newsletter thingies that reminds me once a week how pregnant I am.  I already forgot again but allegedly the parasite is the size of an apple.  So now my uterus is a soggy fruit bowl.  Awesome.

It’s a good thing I have friends that are dragging me through this despite my kicking and screaming.  My friend Danielle made me visit the maternity section at Macy’s after I spent the afternoon complaining about how I had a whole second set of boobs spilling over the top of my bra.  (You remember how much I like bra shopping, right?)

But Interwebz?  I let that sales woman feel me up, hand me a bra that looked more like a pair of helmets than clothing, and escort me to a dressing room.  And as soon as I strapped that foam filled tarp to my body, a choir of heavenly angels filled my ears and a ray of light shown down upon my fully contained rack.  It turns out they changed the CD in the sound system and a maintenance guy was replacing a bulb in the tract lighting, but still…it seemed damn special.

I walked out of the dressing room, pulled my shirt collar wide and asked the sales lady to reach on in and cut out the tags.  Sure the new bra had disturbing easy-access panels and only came in “old lady nude knee high brown,” but there was no way in hell I could bring myself to put back on my old bra.  And there was much rejoicing.  And I owe Danielle a margarita.  So do my tits.

Flush with my triumph, I decided maybe to branch into the world of maternity wear.  As I mentioned yesterday, my pant situation is rather dire.  But I just don’t understand maternity wear.  I mean, do you order the size you were before you got pregnant and just assume that because it’s maternity wear they’ve made some sort of adjustment for that?  Or do you guess what size you might be if you were trying to cram yourself into some non-maternity wear?  Or do they have some completely different, secret society sizing that you can’t understand unless you take a sacred oath and spend four weeks in a certification class?  AND WHY DOES EVERYTHING HAVE TO BE MAIL ORDER?!??!

Ahem.

So I went online and did the Old Navy thing because I’m a cheap…er…frugal gal.  I’d originally budgeted $70 for maternity wear over the course of the pregnancy and I’d already blown my entire wad on two bras.  Don’t ask me how I came up with $70 as a good budget.  In hindsight, I can see that’s kinda low.  But really, how much money do you want to blow on clothes you’re going to wear for all of 6 months of your life?  (Obviously the parasite will be wearing flour sacks until it’s fourteen.)  And no one really wants to find themselves saying, “Oh you like this dress?  I bought it when I was 8 months pregnant!  Can you believe it still fits?”

Long story still happening somehow, my Old Navy pants came and they fit just right all the way up to my thighs and then?  Acres of excess fabric.  Apparently I’m not THAT pregnant.

Somehow I thought the fabric would be stretchier or something so that I could wear them now.  But it isn’t.  These pants are built for the FULLY pregnant gal.  And there are no belt loops on the pants.  Because apparently pregnant chicks don’t wear belts.  (Note to self.)  And so these pants have a tendency to fall right down.  In public.  Which is just awesome.

I’ve tried tucking the stretchy belly area up under the band of my swanky new bras.  I’ve tried rolling the fabric down like yoga pants.  I’ve tried binder clips and duct tape and staples and animal sacrifices.  No dice.  I can hardly keep these damn pants on.  Do they make maternity suspenders?

Did I mention that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing?  Worst pregnant chick ever.

Oh speaking of things I space on, I forgot to tell you about the Sprocket stuff this week.  So if you need MORE reading material today, here’s some survival tips to survive being trapped in an elevator and a hard hitting news piece on a mob trial in Brooklyn.

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Until today.

Because if I was truly worthy of the title, I would have found this spa sooner and booked an appointment for the bride-to-be.

Vajazzling [...]]]> Hindsight is a bitch.  I thought I really nailed that bachelorette thing, what with the pole dancing and mechanical bull riding.  I thought I had that “Best Bridesmaid Ever” title on lock down.

Until today.

Because if I was truly worthy of the title, I would have found this spa sooner and booked an appointment for the bride-to-be.

Vajazzling is so 2009.  This fall it’s all about the Vattoo.

Vattooing: An airbrush tattoo applied directly after a completely bare bikini wax, Vattooing lets you live dangerously temporarily.

(Yes Mom, I’m about to insert a picture of a vagina here.  To be fair, it really doesn’t look like a vagina.  Not that I spend a whole lot of time looking at vaginas.  I just talk about them a lot.  Tell Dad “hi” for me!  Oh and p.s., vagina.)

Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Get Vattoed

Because sometimes your uterus gets hot and needs it’s own red and yellow sweatband.

Rocco walked in as I was reading this article about the process.  “Is that Willie Nelson?” he asked.

“Sort of.  If Willie Nelson was a vagina, he would look like this.”

“That’s a vagina?”

“It was a vagina.  Now it’s Willie Nelson.”

“So if that gal gets waxed, Willie will have the deepest cleft chin in the history of mankind.”

“I wonder if they would do Jesus…”

But seriously, how awesome would it be for Matt to whip off Gwen’s nightie on the honeymoon only to find Captain Jack Sparrow winking at him?

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We took a private pole dancing class.  And it was HARD.  (That’s what she said.)

Not only are my arms and legs screaming in agony, but I [...]]]> Last night?  Bachelorette party, baby.  And yes, of course, we ended up at a bar with a mechanical bull.  But I really need to talk about what happened BEFORE the bull.

We took a private pole dancing class.  And it was HARD.  (That’s what she said.)

Not only are my arms and legs screaming in agony, but I seem to have a raging case of pole burn down the middle of my back.  In hindsight, the fact that I was able to fling myself around a pole for an hour without sustaining a major injury was nothing short of a miracle.

It turns out our dear bridezilla Gwen is quite a natural on the pole.  Actually, it turns out that almost everyone in our group took to the pole right away.  ALMOST everyone.

Who has two thumbs, a rather strange obsession with kazoos, and should never ever be allowed back on a stripper pole?  *sigh*

My fellow pole-mates had already seductively scaled their poles, licked the ceiling and were gracefully sliding back down to Earth before I could even figure out how to grip the damn thing between my overly moisturized legs.

Side note: I think I know why strippers rock the body glitter now.  It’s not an aesthetic choice, rather a practical one.  A girl needs a little traction (pronounced the way Mrs. Alicia Bridges says “action” in “I Love the Nightlife“).

Interwebz?  I can’t even writhe on the floor properly.  I thought of all the areas covered during our educational session, that would be the one where I might excel.  I mean, between my constantly falling down and occasionally passing out, I spend half my life on the floor.  But no.  Uh uh.  Not even kinda.

I watched our tiny and ridiculously toned instructor roll onto her stomach, stick her right leg up into the air, then pull her knees up and under her body so her pert little spandex-clad ass reached for the ceiling before she somehow gracefully undulated her body until she sat kneeling with her knees thrust wide.  Yeah, I can’t do that.  What I can do is grunt, one leg flailing wildly while somehow getting my shoe caught on the pole, then make disgusting squeaking noises with my sweaty palms, and flop about the floor until I find myself sweating and whimpering in something resembling indian style.  (Crap, I forget what we’re calling that again.  Cross-legged?  Oh just go with the visual people.  I’m 1/16 Cherokee so I’m pretty sure I can call it indian style.)

Come to think of it, that’s how I ended damn near every one of the segments we learned.  My personal favorite?  Somehow our instructor was able to fling out her left leg, then hook it around the pole as she skillfully whirled her five foot frame around the pole, slowly descending into a provocative, wide-legged squat.  From that position, she thrust her purple metallic bubble of an ass towards our faces, then diligently humped the pole until she resumed the standing position.  She flipped her giant mane of tousled, dark hair over her shoulder and said, “Easy right?”

It’s like we were twins separated at birth.

I managed to somehow knock my front teeth into my pole while launching into my interpretation of a spin.  Lord only knows how, but I was able to hook my ankle around the pole mid spin.  Then my fight-or-flight instincts took over and I clung to that bad boy like it was Sting in a crowd of Insane Clown Posse fans.  My spin instantly stopped with a horrific, skin-burning screech.  Slowly, as my death grip loosened, I descended in uneven, squeaky bursts until my ass hit the wooden floor.  I suppose if you’d consumed a fifth of gin and the light was really dim, it’s feasible my soon to be patented “Red Thighed, Pole Filled, Indian Style Slide” could be considered a sexy move.

Really.  I’m like grace personified over here.

So in addition to the raging case of pole burn I have searing down the middle of my back, I also have a little crotch inflammation happening as well.  I thought it was the bride that was supposed to get broken at these things.

*limps off in search of Tiger Balm*

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Just in case the mechanical bull doesn’t [...]]]> Holy crap it’s August!  That means the wedding of the century is almost here.  I guess I should check in with that Etsy vendor to make sure the bridal saddle will be ready in time.  I’ve still only seen the preliminary sketches so you’ll understand why I’m a bit concerned.

Just in case the mechanical bull doesn’t work out (Gwen still vehemently insists it will NOT work out), my fellow bridesmaid…er bridesman and I have been discussing other entertainment options.  I like to think of the ceremony itself as more of an “opening act” with the headliner reserved for later in the evening.

So far, nothing is working out.  Turns out loading in an aquatic show is cost prohibitive.  The vineyard has a pretty strict policies against flamethrowers.  We don’t have enough time to replicate Superman’s fortress of solitude out of rock candy and tongue depressors.  Both the bride and the groom refuse to wear harnesses under their wedding attire.  I swear, we can’t catch a break!

So then we discussed some simpler options.  But the bride insists that inflatable jumping castles are “not tasteful.”  Lady, I’m not suggesting the turrets replace the crab cakes.  Wait, I don’t like crab cakes.  Maybe that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.

So now bridesman and I are thinking face painting is the answer.  How hard can that be?  Granted, the last time I accidentally ate a palette of face paint the flavors seemed to be “toe fungus” and “hot urine-soaked asphalt” but that was many years ago.  At least three.  I’m sure huge strides have been made in the field of face paint flavors since then.  Face paint = tasteful.

Now everyone knows the trickiest part of any social activity is getting people started in participating.  How many times have you seen the sad, unpopulated craft table at a kid’s birthday party while the little hellions hover around the periphery waiting for anyone to go first?  Tragic!  But bridesman and I have a solution.  We’ll go first.  The entire bridal party.

Let’s see, there’s four of us supporting Bridezilla.  Well, that’s almost too easy.

Imagine One of These "Maids" Doesn't Have Boobs

To really sell it though, I think Matt and Gwen absolutely have to participate as well.

Insane Gwat Posse

I’m getting misty-eyed already.  I’ve said it once.  I’ll say it five bazillion more times before this shit is over.  I’m the best old married hag of honor, EVAH!

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