It was exactly SIX months ago that my husband bravely and voluntarily offered up his nut sack to a doctor he barely even knew to do a little procedure called The Vasectomy.
I’d like to think that he did it out of love for me, out of respect for my tired uterus and my thrice stitched vagina, but deep down I know he did it so that he could “Tap That Ass” as frequently as his little, er, extremely large heart desires, without threats of bodily harm and/or death. (Example: “FINE! But I swear, if you get me pregnant, I WILL KEEL YOU!”)
And what a better way to celebrate the six month anniversary of The Day He Got His Shit Snipped then to get a voice mail from the doctor’s office that said the following words:
Dear Mr.PigHunter, we got the results from your sample and they were negative. You don’t need to bring any more samples, you’ll all done.”
(Yes, it took him SIX months to take a flippin’ sample in. Someone was Proscratinatin’ with the ejaculatin’.)
I had mixed emotions when I heard that message. I felt a bit of sadness because, Wow…I can never make babies with this man ever again and also, WOW…I can never use the term The Weapon of Mass Fertilization&trade ever again.
But mostly? I was happy and excited because OH MY GOD! PIGHUNTER’S STERILE, Y’ALL! Let the spermless humping begin!
It was a typical Sunday night here at (not) our house.
The boys were in the garage jamming with their guitars and drums; Tony was doing some cleaning in there while Gabby danced around listening to her brothers rock out with their instruments. I was in the house sniffing the steak to make sure it hadn’t gone bad.
I went into the garage and asked Tony to come inside so that I could have him sniff the steak (because I am paranoid when it comes to meat and always think it smells bad and must be rotten.) I told the boys “I need your dad for one minute, keep an eye on your sister while she’s in here with you.”
“Ok, Mom, we will.”
Tony followed me inside and the great “The Steak is Bad!! IS NOT!!” debate began.
“It smells fine, it’s not bad.”
“I think it smells funny.”
“Well, you always think meat smells bad. You’re a paranoid freak about meat.”
“Well, better to be safe than end up with food poisoning from bad meat.”
“IT’S NOT BAD.”
“Fine! I’ll cook it for YOU, but I’m not feeding that to my children. I’ll go get them something for dinner.”
I started to season the steak when Tony came up behind me to tell me he didn’t want THAT spice on it but THIS spice.
So, I let him take over steak seasoning duties and I headed over to the TV to turn on Celebrity Fit Club.
About 5, no more than 10 minutes had passed since Tony had come inside and left Gabby with her brothers in the garage. I got this really weird feeling in the pit of my stomach that I needed to make sure she was ok, because as much as the brothers love her, sometimes they forget they’re supposed to be watching her (which is why I never ask them to watch her for more than a few minutes at a time.)
“I’m going to go check on the kids, I need to make sure the boys are paying attention to their sister.”
Tony followed behind me.
The garage door is immediately to your left when you open the front door, so I opened up the screen, looked at Andrew who was holding his electric guitar in his lap and said “Is your sister ok?”
“She’s not here. I thought she went with you guys.”
“Are you kidding? I told you to keep an eye on her while I talked with your dad.”
“I know, but I thought she went inside with you.”
Tony ran out front to see if she was there. I ran inside to see if she had snuck inside. I began to search all of the rooms and didn’t see her.
I ran back outside, where my husband and the boys were frantically searching all over the yard. We were all screaming “GABBY!? GABBY?”
I ran back inside thinking maybe she was hiding in her brothers room or something silly like that. Ethan had ran inside with me and I turned to him and screamed “WHERE IS SHE, ETHAN? OH MY GOD, WHERE IS SHE?”
He started to cry.
“I don’t know, Mom.”
I could hear Tony and Andrew screaming for her outside.
I was trying to stay calm, because I have a history of overreacting (OMG! BEES!) and surely, my little girl wasn’t really missing! So no need to lose my fucking mind!
But then, I heard my husband shout out to the neighbor down the street in a frightened, hysterical voice, “Have you seen a little girl?!?”
And my heart stopped.
And I felt the room spinning
And I felt like I was going to throw up, or pass out, or die.
I ran back outside.
Andrew was crying and saying “Oh my God, Gabby.”
Tony was white as a ghost.
Ethan was crying while riding around on his bike screaming “GABBY.”
“WHERE IS SHE TONY? OH MY GOD WHERE IS SHE?”
“Go call 911” he shouted at me.
I ran inside, head was spinning, heart was pounding out of my chest and all I could think was “this can not be happening. This can NOT BE HAPPENING TO MY FAMILY.”
I was shaking so violently that I could barely pick up the phone.
At the exact moment that I heard the operator answer my call (“What’s your emergency?”) I heard my husband scream “Y! I found her! I found her!”
“I thought our little girl was missing, but we found her, we found her!”
I began to sob as I hit my knees because they were so weak they could no longer support my weight.
Tony ran inside and brought her to me while the 911 operator was asking me a few questions.
I hung up with her and asked him where he found her. “Where was she?”
“She was in my car, playing around in the backseat.”
Apparently, while he was running around outside frantically screaming her name, he heard her little voice, but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. Then, he turned towards his car and saw her little beanie bouncing around in the backseat of his car. (His car was parked on the curb just in front of our house.)
You see, she loves to play inside of the car. Sometimes, I’ll take her outside, we’ll climb in my van and I’ll let her play with the steering wheel while I listen to talk radio. And sometimes Tony will let her play inside of his car while he’s washing it. So, the little princess had walked out of the garage, headed down the driveway, walked over the grass, stood on the curb, opened up the car door, climbed in, shut the door behind her and was having a Party For One in the backseat totally clueless the to fact that her entire family, the people who love her more than anything else in the world, were frantically looking for her thinking she had been snatched by a stranger. (Because that is what we ALL thought.)
The only other time that I have been as scared as a parent is when Ethan almost drowned in our neighbor’s swimming pool.
It felt as though hours had passed by in those moments where we couldn’t find our little girl, but in reality, the entire ordeal lasted less than 10 minutes. And in those 10 minutes, I thought of so many awful things that could have happened to her and I thought of all of the times where I hadn’t paid enough attention to her and all of the times that I had been angry with her for stupid things that don’t really matter.
Tony handed her to me, I started to cry and kiss her all over and tell her how much I loved her and how she should never climb into daddy’s car without telling us first and how I’ll never complain again about how ever since she started wanting to wear make up and “be pretty like mommy” all of my lipsticks look like this.
And then, we all sat down as a family to talk about how important it is to obey your parents if they tell you to “watch your sister” for a few minutes, but more importantly, how we should hug each other more, kiss each other more, tell each other how much we love each other more because life is crazy and life as you know it can change in a split second and you never, ever want to regret how you treated the people who you love the most.
Only 14 days left until we are officially “Homeless.”
No, we have not found a place yet.
Yes, we are looking.
No, I have not got a job yet.
Yes, I am looking.
(Apparently, no one wants to hire a 35 year old whose only experience listed on her resume is “worked with kids for 15 years!” I can’t imagine why not! Seriously.)
No, I am not going to BlogHer.
Yes, I really wanted to go. But, the whole “we’re homeless” thing has kind of ruined those plans. But you have fun without me, ya’hear!?
No, I have not yet had a single glass of the super sized bottle of sangria that PigHunter surprised me with 3 weeks ago because it was on sale for $5.99 and he wanted a blow job.
Yes, that will all change tonight as soon as the kids go to bed. (And by “that” I mean, the bottle will finally be open and consumed, NOT that PigHunter will be getting that blow job he thought he’d get 3 weeks ago because he bought me a cheap bottle of Sangria.)
Are you going to BlogHer?
(Real post coming soon. Stupid Termite Guy ruined my day. But, more about that later. For now, I must know if you plan on going to BlogHer.)
This morning my daughter climbed onto the toilet so that she could reach into the cabinet that hangs above it. The cabinet that contains things that she’s not allowed to play with—like deodorant, hair gel and one bottle of pink nail polish that I bought 2 years ago and have used maybe twice.
As I was about to swoop her in my arms to rescue her from all of the things that could possibly result in a phone call to poison control, she made sure to grab the bottle of nail polish.
“I need polish, mom.”
Not “I WANT polish, mom.” Or “I sure would LIKE some polish, mom.”
I NEED polish.
Her nails needed to be clipped, so I told her I’d paint her nails, but only after I clipped her nails. She agreed because she nee-eee-eeeeeeded pink polish.
As we walked over to the kitchen table, I stopped and ran back to (not) my bedroom to grab the camera. I had to capture this moment for all eternity. She had on a white tutu, with pink pj pants underneath and a pink shirt with little puppies on the front. She was wearing her purple “tap tap” shoes, her face covered with pink eye shadow and silver eyeliner. (Yes, I own silver eyeliner.)
Sadly, the batteries were dead and I wasn’t able to take a picture. Man, I would have loved for you to see her in all her Girlie Glory.
As I was clipping her tiny little nails, I wondered where she’d learned such girly behavior. She certainly did not learn it from me. I used to be, back “in the day”, but 3 kids and unemployment has turned me into THAT mom. You know, the one who stays in her pj’s until noon and has gone to the grocery store wearing yesterday’s clothes because she didn’t feel like “taking a shower and getting ready because Oh! The energy that requires!” I rarely paint my nails: In fact, I think I’ve painted them twice in the past 2 year, once for a wedding, once for BlogHer. (And I’m not even sure that I painted them for BlogHer. But I’m pretty sure I did, because I remember thinking I would go get a manicure, but then I called Amalah and was all “are you going to get yer nails did?” and she was all “Um, no.” And so I decided to just “do them ma’self.” Just checked Flickr and sadly, yes, I did paint my nails myself and um, well, I don’t think that I should ever do that again.)
As I begin to paint her nails, I almost started to cry because Oh My God, I have a daughter who loves for me to paint her nails with pink nail polish.
She looked at my finger nails and said “Mom, you need to paint a’yer nails too!”
“No, sweetie, mommy doesn’t like to paint her nails.”
That really freaked her out. Her voice got all high pitched and desperate sounding.
“Yes, Mom, you need to paint a’yer nails! PLEASE MOM! PAINT THEM!”
You know, I think she’s right. I do need to start painting my nails and while I’m at it, I need to start getting pedicures because I’m pretty sure cracked heels and in grown toe nails aren’t ever going to be “in style” and you know what else? Maybe I should start getting my eyebrows threaded again, and taking care of my skin again and while I’m at it maybe I’ll get ma’ pachina Brazilian Waxed, y’all!
(No I won’t, I will NEVER get a brazilian wax because DID YOU KNOW YOU HAVE TO GET ON ALL FOURS? I have a hard enough time doing that for PigHunter these days and he’s seen all of THAT for going on 18 years now. No thank you, no amount of smoothness in the world would ever make me Do The Dog for a stranger.)
I know it sounds silly, but my daughter pointing out that I neeeeeeeded to paint my nails has made me realize that I really do need to start taking better care of myself and pampering myself a little the way that I used to do.
I felt so much better about myself when I would take the time to go get a manicure, or spend a few extra minutes in the bathroom after a shower to lather myself in some sweet smelling body butter while wearing a mud mask on my face.
Now, I feel like I’m splurging if I wash my face with a bar of Dial soap before I go to bed.
I’ll never be that kind of girl who wears toe rings around her beautifully painted toe nails, or who has perfectly manicured nails at all times, but I wouldn’t mind being that girl who takes a few extra minutes out of each day to take care of her skin and pamper herself with a manicure and perfectly shaped threaded eyebrows from time to time.
Sometimes, when I am having a very serious conversation with my mother in law, I wonder if she is thinking about the she saw me shit on the table while giving birth to her grandson.
I know that I’ve never been able to get past the fact that she saw me make The Birth Poopie.
It was already awkward for me to have anyone but my husband in the room with me, just because, well, I don’t like anyone but him seeing my bare ass and That Precious Thing between my legs where all of The Magic happens, SO the fact that she was RIGHT THERE watching when I crapped on the nurses hand is horrifying to me.
I have never found my mother in law so annoying as I did the day that I was in labor. Don’t get me wrong. She really was wonderful and helpful, but then, she busted out the “beautifully scented massage oils” and decided that what I needed was a “sweet, gentle foot rub.”
Oh hells naw.
I know she had really good intentions, she saw me lying there in pain, and wanted desperately to do something to make me feel better, but, and I really can’t explain it, her soft touches on my body were not helpful at all because when you’re in unimaginable pain, someone rubbing your feet gently with oil “feel good” as much as it makes you “want to kick people in the teeth.”
I remember how she would squeeze a little bit of the oils into her soft, little hands and how she would rub my feet so gently while telling me to “just breathe” in a sweet little voice. And I remember thinking “Oh my God! I’M GOING TO KICK HER IN THE FACE!” I wanted to scream at her to stop! “STOP TOUCHING ME!” But, I knew she was just trying to help and didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
Had I known that a few hours later, I’d be shitting in front of her while the nurse lied and said “No! You’re not pooping! Keep pushing!” whilst wiping my ass, I just may have kicked her in the head to have spared her from ever seeing such a horrific thing.
Honestly, I don’t understand how she’s never once used that against me. We’ve had several huge fights in which lots of yelling and screaming took place and not once did she throw “CHILD BIRTH SHITTER!!!” in my face.
She must really love me.
When PigHunter and I were first married, I would get up with him every morning to make him a wonderfully nutritious lunch and a big, fat egg burrito.
I didn’t mind getting up at 3 in the morning, because I could go straight back to bed after he was gone. Ah, the joys of not having to go into work until 1:30 in the afternoon.
Some of my friends thought that I was crazy for getting up that early, but I really didn’t mind. In fact, I enjoyed it. I was young, happy, crazy in love and having The Legal and Jesus Approved Sex at least 3 times a day. I was happier than I had ever been in my 19 years of life on this planet and I woke up excited every morning to express my happiness by making a big, cheesy burrito and a lunch box filled with good food for my man.
A few months into the marriage, the Joy of Scrambling Eggs at 3 in the morning started to wear off and I would dread the sound of the alarm. But still, I’d get up, make him a burrito and a lunch, kiss him goodbye and go right back to sleep.
Then, one morning, I didn’t feel like getting up.
“I’m so tired, babe.”
“It’s ok, you stay in bed my love, I can make my own lunch.”
I can make my own lunch.
Those 5 little words changed everything.
I did get up to make him lunch still, but only a few days a week instead of every single day.
And then a few days turned into one or two days.
Then I just stopped completely.
Every once in a while, I’ll wake up early and surprise him by packing him a lunch and making him breakfast while he’s in the shower, but 16 years and 3 kids later, I really value my sleep, so when I say “every once in a while” I mean, like, 2 times every year.
There are some mornings when Tony will come in here to kiss me goodbye while I’m sleeping, (and sometimes, he’ll left my shirt up and play with My Bobs, and then next thing I know, he’s on top of me and we’re having a 5 am quickie.) but most mornings, he rushes out the door without saying goodbye.
Ever since we received the news that we had to vacate this house, Tony has been coming into the bedroom every morning and kissing me gently while telling me how much he loves me, how much he’s going to miss me and how he can’t wait to come home from work and see me again.
You see, since we were faced with this “life crisis”, we’ve been doing a lot of talking. We’ve been talking about things we normally don’t talk about, like our feelings.
PigHunter has feelings! Who knew!
We’ve had some pretty intense conversations. Some of them have been positive and uplifting and ended up in some Pretty Sweet Boinking. Some of them have been painful and brutal (“I’m SO done with you!” “Oh yeah? I’ve BEEN done with YOU!”). But with each conversation we have, one thing is always evident.
We love each other deeply and we want to keep our family together.
I love my husband more today that I ever have and apparently, he feels the exact same way.
That is why he doesn’t want to leave the house without kissing me and telling me how much he loves me. (He told me this while we were waiting for our burgers and fries in the Wendy’s drive-thru!)
That he has decided he needs to take a few minutes out of his morning to say goodbye to me and tell me how much he’ll miss me while lavishing my sleepy head with kisses is the most precious thing in my life right now.
(I will wait while you go rinse the vomit from your mouth because I know that made you sick.)
It makes me so happy that I almost want to get up early, scramble him some eggs, pack him a lunch and maybe give him a little loving in the form of a, what do the kids call it? A BJ?
Today the gravity of it all hit me like a Mack Truck and I had my first panic attack in 4 years.
We shouldn’t be in this position.
Sure, our landlords were cold hearted jerks for doing what they did in the way that they did it, but ultimately, this is our fault.
Entirely our fault.
That’s not to say I’m not angry with them for the lies that they told us.
“Don’t worry, we’re not going to kick you out, we’re going to give you plenty of time to find a new place.”
Two days later: Hi, you have 30 days to get the hell out of here.
As I take the pictures of my children down off of the walls, I break down into tears and sob.
I love them more than I could ever express in words, and yet, I’ve failed them in so many ways.
Andrew just wants to graduate from 8th grade with his friends, I can’t promise him he’s going to be able to do that.
That hurts me to the core of my being.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry”.
That’s all I can say to them, but it doesn’t make any of this easier.
I don’t want this to turn into the “we got kicked out of our rental house and OMG! What are we going to do?!?” blog, and yet, “we got kicked out of our rental house! OMG! What are we going to do?!?”
Sadly, my AMAZING AND TOTALLY AWESOME plan to get picked to be on Deal or No Deal bombed in the biggest way, so all of my plans to win a sick amount of money by picking the lucky case got flushed down the toilet, along with all of the money we’ve wasted on rent over all of these years.
What? I didn’t tell you that I was going to go to an open casting call for Deal or No Deal? Whoops, must have slipped my mind! Because I totally didn’t keep it from you on purpose because I was worried about being mocked and called a loser! (Or about someone driving there just to stalk me!)
Not quite in the mood to write about it just yet, but because I am a giver and because this makes me laugh when all I want to do is cry, I’ll leave you with the email that Lena sent me the day after we spent 6 damn hours standing in line.
Things You Shouldn’t Think About Today
Vi pop-locking in line.
Lena going toe-to-toe with ladies with strollers.
Y’s kidneys failure.
The old man going after the big black booty in his crotch.
The cows from the group home.
What the guy in front of us looked like when he took his shirt off.
Y worrying about The Farting Worm.
Y convinced that the Staff Member with the Bullhorn was “just trying to get us to leave”.
What the bathroom smelled like.
My big ass blisters.
The big band version of “Hollaback Girl”.
Lena shouting out “Deal or No Deal” before hours later deeming them “users”.
Vi crying that “I’m not interesting!”.
Y getting pissy that “they want us to sell ourselves” and then writing 8 paragraphs.
Lena yelling at people to “go home” and getting all angry when they wouldn’t.
And the #1 thing you shouldn’t think about:
That we all got up in the middle of the night.
(Seriously, if I ever email you and say “Hey! Let’s go audition for a game show because, like, we are totally what they’re looking for and it will be so much fun because OMIGOD! We’ll get to spend time together being our wild and cerraaazy selves!!! Tell me to go SCREW MYSELF! I bet you Lena wishes she would have.)