This afternoon I caught myself watching the Kardashians. For a girl who never watches tv, this is probably surprising to you. I could not believe that while Kourtney was having her baby, her whole family sat across from her on what looked like a bench. Like bleachers. Ok, obviously it wasn’t bleachers. Even her brother? Come on people, this is too much. A big wide open vagina with a baby coming out, in front of your brother? I’m sorry. This takes me beyond my level of comfort and I’m pretty out there. I birthed three babies. Not once did Dave view from that side. I didn’t want him too. Nor did he want to be there. I was too afraid to taint his relationship with my nether regions. Then again, we were together 14 years and I never shat in front of him one single time. Never. I do speak freely about shit, but I am not an open shitter. Nor am I an open birther.
I was very impressed that Kourtney reached down and pulled the baby right from her own va jay jay. It also made me almost throw up though. (Only because I am weird in a “I could never be a nurse” kind of way. I get queasy.) I might have liked to do that with my own babies, and am sorry I didn’t, but how weird must that have felt? It reminded me of watching Animal Planet and seeing a hermit crab nestle into its shell. You think it’s a crab but when you pull it out it has this weird fleshy body and you realize it fit into the shell just so. Blech. Please do not flood me with emails about how I should be an open shitter and condemning me for not having babies while male family members watched in the bleachers. I’m not judging. Actually, I don’t care. I’m just observing. That is all.
Today while in the super freak maid mode I had a bit of a mishap and burned my nipple. I was scurrying around the corner, coffee reheated for the second time in one hand, armful of toys in the other. I’m thinking I’m going to throw the armload of toys into the little kids’ room, then possibly have time to sip my coffee while I apply makeup. But when I pass through the kitchen I see a dirty shirt on the floor. So I try to kick the shirt into the laundry room when I pass by. It was quite the distance. I hesitated and instead of doing a normal ‘toe toss’ I decide I should ‘wind up’ for extra momentum and pull the shirt backwards then thrust forward and release into the laundry room. Why, darn it? It all happened so fast and I made a bad call. I spilled the hot coffee all over my stomach and boobs and also hurt my neck. It was piping hot because of course I had lost track of time during the reheat. Damn the reheat! Wouldn’t have been so bad if I weren’t already dressed. Selecting clothes two times in five minutes is terribly annoying. I was in a hurry, so I stripped right there and wiped the coffee up with my own clothes. No need to dirty another towel, right? I’m so conservative.
Now I have a hurt neck, because of a simple shirt kick, which makes two things wrong with me because I have a hurt knee from blogging. Yes, blogging. I can no longer sit cross legged, like Indian style. No I am not racist against Indians. Please do not email me to say it is called “criss cross applesauce.” I am 43 facking years old and we called it Indian style. I’m not changing it. It’s too late and I’m set in my ways. If I sit Indian style when I get up my knee feels sore. This has been going on for a month and it is really making things uncomfortable for me, the whole not being able to sit how I want thing. Very disturbing.
