Tag Archives: Drinking

Giving Birth and All That


So, yes, it’s very sad that I had to go back to work after giving birth to be able to find time to write again. What the fuck.

I’m not complaining, I promise! After all, for almost four whole weeks I got to hold the cutest baby of all time whenever I wanted. (I know all parents say their kids are the cutest, but besides for mixed-race babies, my kid really is the cutest. And yes, I’m aware of how politically incorrect that sounds, but it’s true, and you all know it.)

Anyhoo, I know it’s a bit overdue, but I am now ready to inform you all of the grisly story that is called childbirth. I am quite certain there are a few (or more) of you that just winced and clicked on your mouse madly to exit my blog at that last sentence- well, fuck you. I had a person come out of my vag, and proper attention must be paid. Those of you still here- I appreciate your iron stomachs. I promise, it won’t be as bad as all that. To be honest, there’ve been episodes of Sons of Anarchy more cringe-worthy.

So a week and a few days before my Babe was due, I hobbled to my weekly doctor appointment. I say hobble, because my feet were so swollen that I had to buy a pair of flip-flops two sizes larger than my normal fabulous footwear, and said flip-flops STILL managed to cause deep impressions on the tops of my feet. Trust me, the pain it caused me to walk into a public venue sans heels nearly rivaled that of childbirth. Anyway, I digress.

While I am not known to be a person of chill and apathetic demeanor, my blood pressure on a normal day is like that of a dead person’s. However, on that day, the sight of my feet and the readings of my blood pressure were enough to get my doctor to schedule me to be induced the following Monday. If my feet would have allowed it, I would have immediately jumped up and futterwackened at her announcement. (If you don’t know how to futterwacken, you don’t know much, do you?)

I spent the weekend occupied at work, and during the night when I was unable to sleep, engrossed in the final chapters of every pregnancy book I had sitting around. When my coworkers asked if I was nervous about having my baby come out of my most private and tight of areas, I replied calmly and coolly that I wasn’t, which was the truth. For some reason, that was never an issue for me. My biggest fear was that I would cave, and ask for an epidural, the thought of which is probably what sent my blood pressure soaring in the first place.

My Rockstar and I arrived hellishly early at the birthing center that Monday, where we met up with my dearest Auntie, who I had asked to distract me from my labor pains when I knew my Rockstar would sit by silently. I was admitted and led to a room, where we met an Angel known as Nurse Nancy, my guide for this tour. She went over all the details I needed to know, none of which I recalled (then or now). I only remember being very adamant that an epidural was not going to be an option, so there. She laughed and said, “Ok, but you can change your mind.”

I was then hooked up to an IV (another thing that makes me recoil in fear) and donned a lovely hospital gown, which caused me almost immediately to “Patch Adams” everyone in the room. At first I was embarrassed, and then I thought, Fuck it. It’s gonna get so much worse before this is all over. It was several hours before I actually felt any contractions, during which time my Rockstar, Auntie, and I conversed amiably about I don’t even know what. It was quite boring really.

When my contractions began to worsen, I asked for the pain meds that were not the epidural. All I know is that Nurse Nancy had described it as feeling like you’ve had one too many drinks. Since it had been a good nine months since my last drink, I said, “Fuck yeah, get me drunk!” What I didn’t realize is that while a person is actually drinking, and may fall down or bonk their head with no immediate anguish, this drug administered did nothing to lessen any internal pain that comes with active labor. All it did was knock me on my ass immediately, so that I was very like a dead person, at least until a contraction hit, at which time I was too “drunk” to stand up and properly deal with that shit. So the last hour or two of excruciating contractions were spent alternately sleeping and writhing in the birthing bed. Good times.

When it was time to push, (this time did not come soon enough to my liking, as many minutes before that I felt as though my ass were going to explode) the only thing I actually remember thinking was that I didn’t want my baby to have a pointy head, so I pushed him out with no thoughts of how painful it might be. (Which actually made me not notice whatever pain there was.) The only mishap of acting so rashly was that my IV got torn out, which sucked balls. During the birth, I had instructed my Rockstar to stay at my shoulder, so as not to damage whatever idolization he may have had of my previously practically perfect pussy. Between pushes, I was pretty much out of it, but aware of his hand being reassuredly placed on my forehead. (Awwww.)

Once my Boy slid out, they plopped him on my chest, and proceeded to torture me mercilessly. It seems that my placenta was stuck, ( something my doctor who had been birthing babies for 25 years had never seen) and the previous Angel known as Nurse Nancy became my tormentor. Previously, I had thought very little of her considerable weight. Just then, I thought very much of it, since she seemed to be placing every extra pound of it on my stomach, the stomach that just went through countless hours of contractions. Up until that point, I had shed no tears, but as stoic as I can be when it comes to pain, there was no way I could stop the tears that leaked out of my eyes. Between having my belly pushed on, and having a hand shoved up me fishing around, and having my new baby on me without me being able to enjoy him, I broke down. They ended up replacing my IV, (which didn’t go in the first three times) just to give me another dose of meds known as the Shit That Puts You to Sleep. In other words, when my friends and family came to greet my Babe, I ended up sleeping, and awaking in a sort of drunken haze that was accompanied by slurred words.

Overall, having a whole person come out of me isn’t nearly as horrific as it sounds, but having a stuck placenta is a thousand times worse than it sounds. But, losing 24 pounds in less than a day and having an adorable Mini-Rockstar made it worth it. That doesn’t mean I’d do it again. I much prefer the making of children over the growing and birthing of them100_2592. After all, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.

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Drink


As I sit here drinking rum

at ten-thirty in the morning,

I begin to wonder if maybe

I might be a pirate by the time the bottle’s gone.

Wouldn’t that be ideal?

There certainly seems to be

a goodly number of drunk men

thinking they are Superman….

I can see the commercial for it now.

No need for higher learning!

Drink what you want to be!

Like, if you long to be a cowboy,

break out the Jim and Jack!

You’ll be whoring and meeting your enemy

at high noon in no time!

You aspire to be a great writer, you say?

Well, what kind of writer do you wish to be?

Do you wish to write brilliant

yet depressingly dull fiction?

Hemingway preferred absinthe.

Mind the green fairy, though.

She may put a shotgun in your hand

and bid you blow your brains out.

You have a journalistic edge?

Wild turkey was Hunter’s poison.

(I do wonder if maybe you might

just turn into a turkey if you drink that though.)

Wouldn’t it be grand?

If instead of just being called an alcoholic,

you could be called Marilyn Monroe?

What if you constantly drink vodka?

Will you turn into a Russian anarchist?

I’m not sure all Russians endorse anarchy,

but there sure seems to be

a hella lotta movies portraying them that way.

The question really is….

if you drink sea water,

are you actually a mermaid?

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Dance, Baby, Dance


And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

Like Romeo, I’ve been making an effort to have my Rockstar forget any other home than ours; sadly, I work completely opposite hours from him, and so see him (if I’m lucky) a total of about eight hours a week. I have feared that leaving him to his own devices so regularly should cause a rift between us that cannot be repaired.

Fortunately, the both of us wish our home to be ripe with bright colors and pleasant comforts, so neither of us has a chance really to become bored and listless. While my days at home with the dog are filled to bursting with painting of walls, and thinkings of painting of murals, his nights are filled with thoughts of luscious fertilized grass without bald spots. Our little time that is spent together is spent these days at Home Depot and Menards, where we have spent unmentionable sums of money.

This past weekend, we hurried to Menards for their Memorial Day sales and spent a goodly part of our morning navigating the aisles for things to make our house a castle. While I had the intention only of buying a few color-changing solar lights to brighten our sidewalk, my Rockstar insisted on buying a little bit of everything. $400 later, we exited the store with a lovely flower rug (which was his choice), 20 solar lights, garden edging, yard soil, and an outdoor swing. Sadly, I had to rush off to work for the day, so I was to enjoy none of our purchases immediately.

After spending a lovely day with my Auntie on Sunday, I arrived home to my Rockstar and his Daughter, who had decided that we must grill steaks on our new adorable grill. He approved of my mixing of alcoholic beverages for the two of us, and while his Daughter ran around with our Pup and her friends, we proceeded to get happily tipsy.

No drunk evening would be complete without a little Rock-N-Roll, which was filtered through our walk-out screen door. R and his Daughter have this little dance they’ve been working on since long before I was around, and I watched from our beautiful swing as they spun and twirled.

“You’re turn! Dance with dad!” His Daughter urged when the song ended.

I arose from my swinging, and it didn’t take long for R to realized that Phil Collins stole his song title I Can’t Dance from me.

“You’re so stiff! Loosen up! Yeah, you’re not graceful.” His responses to my awkward gamboling just made me giggle. Well, that, and his forceful grip on my drunken ass.

A dancer I may not be, but hey. I cannot be perfect all the time. I do, however, know the steps to the waltz (because I am very cultured) and also the snake-like arm movements of bellydancing, so I coached R and his Daughter on these finer points of dancing. I chose to don a pair of my taller heels to better match R’s height, only to have him say I was better at my own height, because my belly more perfectly bumped up against his man-parts. (This too made me giggle.) When he tired of my unfluid movements, I danced with myself among my many rainbow solar lights, pretending that I was in an enchanted forest.

There comes a time when One has had enough drink, and must retire. When my time came, I crawled into my bed, intent on passing out until the morning, only to be wakened by a hard chomp on my ass. Too, no drunken night is complete without having a long-haired Rockstar whisper in your ear, “I want to hear you come.”

XOXO

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Boozehound


Who doesn’t need a drink

after the Big Boss shows up

at work?

Luckily,

the liquor store is located

across the street.

How many times have I

looked longingly through the finger-smeared windows

during a crapper shift and thought

how much better work would be

if flasks were mandatory?

I sit for seven long minutes

trying to cross the street in my

yellow truck;

Finally,

I’m wandering aimfully

through the wine aisle,

choosing my poison based on

how many proof the label advertises.

I’ve noticed the strongest alcohols

have ugly labels,

so I make a point to buy a

bottle of wine sporting

Norma Jean.

 

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A Pre-Management Meeting Meeting


If you’ve noticed, I haven’t exactly been mentioning alot about my life as a Pizza Slut. This is mainly due to the fact that about a month ago, the shit hit the fan and we are, until further notice, in limbo. But to keep myself from incriminating myself, I plead the fifth on that subject.

One of the joys of having the Scepter of Pizza Power floating precariously without a king (or queen) to weild it is that I now get to partake in a weekly management meeting every Thursday night at the perfectly acceptable non-inconvenient hour of 10:30 P.M.  Before we venture to the Hut in our casual dress attire in the near-dead of night, my co-manager Awesome  and I have now deemed it necessary that we meet aforehand and partake of a Long Island-inspired libation to awaken our Managerial impulses. Last night, we called up our new (but experienced) co-manager Punk (so called because he is a member of a punkish band) to join us. Our pre-management meeting get together went something like this.

Me: Ooh! What do we get this week! My peachy drink last week was amazingly delicious, but we must needs try something new!

Awesome: Yes! We’re going to have to try everything on the drink list!

After having ordered our delicious 22 oz. foo-foo buzz-inducing drinks, the real conversation(s) began.

Awesome: So I made a beautiful ham and garlic mashed potatoes and Ceasar Salad tonight and Midget Poop (her stepdaughter) looks at it and says “I’m not eating that. I don’t like it.” I said, “Your fucking eating it, so shut up.” (She is very firm with her brood of young ‘uns.)

Me: Yes, the Daughter did that before and I said, “Fine! You fucking cook for yourself!” (For the record, I refrained from using the F word when actually proclaiming that she could cook for herself.)

Awesome: Kids are the devil.

Nods were seen all around after that comment, and a few moments spent sipping our deliciously fruity drinks.

Me: Punk is here! Punk! Come sit by meeee!” (I must admit that my liquid refreshment was surprisingly potent.)

Punk: What’s up, guys? I’ve been drinking all day.

Me: Yay!!!! Drinking! Good times! Try my yum yum drink!

Punk sips my drink thoughtfully, then shakes his head.

Punk: Yeah, that’s too fruity for my taste. I’ll have a beer.

Me: (In a gruff, manly voice) He’ll have a beer, because he is big strong man!

Awesome and I giggle incessently.

Awesome: So I decided that my 12 year old is much more informative than I would like. He comes out of the bathroom the other week and says, “Mom, I’ve got ball ‘fro! Wanna see? (At this time, I burst into peels of laughter while Punk’s shoulders shake with uncontrollable guffaws) I said, “No, no. I don’t want to see.” He’s like, “But MOM! It’s ball ‘fro!”

Further conversations were then touched upon concerning the puberty of young men, including something my Rockstar mentioned about orgasms and stuffed Easter rabbits. As the alcohol further kicked in, the subjects of conversation grew more erratic.

Me: Punk! You’re going to have a baby, right? Boy or girl?

Punk: I don’t know yet.

Me: Ooh! So what names have you picked out? Have you picked out any names yet?

Punk: I have a few in mind, but then I keep thinking that I don’t wanna have a kid with a normal white-kid name, so I’m thinking of Asian names like Sue or Betty.

(It seems that his Asia is not the same as my Asia.)

Me: PLEASE please don’t name your kid Madison. (I detest the name Madison, since nearly every little girl I meet is named such. The Daughter’s middle name also happens to be Madison, as is her niece’s first name.)

Awesome: Oh God! I hate that name!

Me: So, Punk, you’re in a band? Do you need like, a singer, or a dancer, or just some cute chic with huge tits to hand out CD’s? Because I could be her!

Punk: We’re actually going to need a bass playe-

Me:Ooh!!!!!! I play bass! Well, I don’t really play it, but I have one that is beautiful and purply and I am learning Run to the Hills on it, but I cannot play it fast.

Awesome: Frickin’ AWESOME song.

Me: I know!!!! So yay, it’s settled then. I shall be your new bass player.

Punk: (shrugging) Aright. I should get some scotch.

Me: Oh yes!!! Get some scotch so that I may smell it!

(At this point, Awesome and Punk both stare at me, bewildered.)

Me: I like to smell stuff, ok?

As the waitress came over, Punk asked about the different varieties of scotch that could be administered to him. I decided for him and ordered the most expensive kind. Soon after, I was sniffing scotch and Awesome and Punk were sipping it.

Punk: I don’t usually tell people this, but my friend and I started a record label.

Awesome: I love records! I have a record player, but the needle is broken.

Punk: Oh, I can get you a new one, easy.

Me: I think that I don’t know any punk.

The conversation then turned to punk music and the fact that Ronald Reagan was greatly hated amongst the Punk rock community. I surmised that this was due to the fact that Nancy Reagan guest starred on The Cosby Show. (For the record, this comment made perfect sense to my co-managers.)

Let us just say that the rest of our conversation was completely random as previously proven, and that once we arrived at the Hut, the focus did not greatly improve, despite the fact that there was a sober manager added to our group. I do believe the question about bush on strippers in the 70’s came up. All told, it was a very successful meeting.

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19,107


I checked my site stats today and noticed that my blog has been viewed precisely 19,107 times. The more I thought about this, the more it floored me. It almost seems as though people like reading about my histrionic thoughts and the reactions people have from them. While there are many bloggers that have far exceeded the 19,107 mark, I must admit that this number far exceeded any expectations I may have had concerning the reading of my writings.  Since 19,107 is a perfectly beautiful un-even number, ( if you recall, I detest even numbers) I have decided to compose today’s post in honor of my growing popularity. Since you all clearly don’t know every intimate detail of me, it is time to feed your curiosity, and talk about my favorite subject- ME!!!!

When I was young, I became bored quite easily, which resulted in my favorite saying being, “I’m huuuungrrrrrryyyyy!” Instead of redirecting my focus on something productive, my parents fed me to shut me up, therefore contributing to the fact that I can now eat more than the inhabitants of a third-world country in one sitting. Before my stomach was sufficiently stretched out to do such, I would eat continuously until it all came back up. The most vivid memory of this happening is the time we went camping when I was 9, and I ate 3 hotdogs and an entire bag of marshmallows that had been sizzled to perfection over the campfire. After laying myself to rest for the night in my camper bed that was above my parents, I proceeded to regurgitate my healthful dinner over the side of my mattress, therefore creating a lovely splatter pattern of upchucked hotdogs and marshmallows in the tiny camper.  The resulting odor was wretched enough that thereafter I refused to sleep in said camper.

I was not always so fashionably inclined. In fact, when I was 15, I had two friends who were sisters who were quite vocal about my choices in granny shoes. This was around 1997, when chunky Spice Girl heels were in style. My two concerned friends brought me to the mall intent in ridding me of my antiquated loafers. They inticed me with a pair of black Mary-Janish chunky heels embroidered with flowers. (It was the flowers that caught my eye- I hated the chunkiness) After forcing my feet into the offending shoes, a sort-of spell came over me, and my feet have never been perfectly happy ever since unless they’ve been sporting a lovely pair of heels.  Sadly, my first pair of heels lasted less than a year because I wore them incessantly.

I may have mentioned in the past that I grew up going to a Baptist school and church. This resulted in every church service, chapel, basketball tournament, and music competition ending with a message imploring the unsaved to step forward and receive Jesus Christ. While I clearly recall my acceptance of God at a very young age, the constant mentioning of going to hell and having doubts about your salvation did, in fact, create doubts in my mind. Therefore, I am proud to annouce that I have accepted and re-accepted Jesus as my Saviour exactly 7 times. Yay me. He’ll probably send me straight to Hell anyway. Or at least give me a stern talking to before I enter the Pearly Gates.

There have been only two occassions when a stranger has bought me a drink. The first, I was at a hole-in-the-wall bar with my ex-husband (my boyfriend at the time) and his friend. Suddenly, a beautifully free drink was placed in front of me, compliments of the creepy dude who was ogling my cleavage at the end of the bar. What possessed him to buy me a drink when I obviously had my boyfriend in tow is beyond me, but I must say that you have to admire his balls. (Not literally)

The second time I was gifted with alcohol was at another hole-in-the-wall bar I used to frequent with my friend for karaoke night. It happened to be fishing opener weekend, and we were the only two gals in the joint. I went up to procure us libations, only to end up commenting on a rather plastered individual’s t-shirt. The tipsy man introduced himself as Ebner (which I exclaimed was an excellent name) and proceeded to buy me and my friend a drink. While Ebner was a surprisingly nice sir, the conversation was short-lived, since he was drunk and we wanted to sing. I will always be grateful that a man named Ebner saved me $3.50.

I suppose at some point you will be expecting a sex story. I would be expecting a sex story from me too. I shall try not to disappoint.

Hmmm, I’m thinking.

OK, I got it.

The first attempt I made at having the sex was on a 100 degree night when I didn’t have air-conditioning. While my partner was 7 years older than I, he had no more experience than I did. While no actual sex took place, a near-fisting did occur. That’s all I have to say about that.

Thank you for making my blog 19,107 views popular. I loves you all and hope you don’t get sick of me anytime soon. XOXO

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Overheard


I was going to write this post a few days ago, but then Drunk Monday happened.

I live in an apartment building. I live in an apartment building with very thin walls. This results in my ear being up against the wall quite frequently trying to hear what the neighbors are fighting about, because I’m a nosy little bitch.

That is, until the other day, when I began to wonder what our life sounds like to those people on the other side of the wall.

Do they roll their eyes and laugh when they hear my Rockstar’s Daughter saying, “I’m the queen, and you have to do what I say.”

Do they wiggle their hips when they repeatedly hear the musical non-talents of Motley Crue, which my Rockstar insists on listening to?

Do they wonder at the silence that permeates throughout our apartment when I’m here by myself? And then are they relieved or disgusted when they hear the opening “Da dum dumdumdumdum DUM” of Law and Order SVU and realize that I am, in fact,  not dead and am masturbating to Chris Meloni’s lovely face?

This led me to wonder…

Can they hear when my Rockstar and I are engaging in Naked Fun Time? Do they wish they could listen more often or are they thinking in their mind, “Fuckin’ A, give it a rest already.”

Do they ever wonder (as I do) why farting makes the Daughter break out in peels of uncontrollable laughter?

Do they ever wonder if my Rockstar is ever going to actually admit that he loves me, or is he going to continue to stoically remain silent when I tell him,  “Love me, dammit!”

Now about Drunk Monday.

I wonder if the neighbors were as surprised as I was when Evan Williams made my Rockstar completely paranoid and had him calling me a “lying cheating cunt”?

Did they cheer when they heard his face make contact with the stove fan he was standing in front of when I smashed my hand into the back of his head when he called me a cunt?

Could they hear my intake of breath when I wondered if I had damaged his perfect nose afterward?

Did they consider calling the popo and reporting a domestic disturbance when he yelled, “Bring it on, Bitch!”

Did the neighbors want to come give her a hug when they heard Sparklebumps sobbing while insisting she wasn’t cheating?

Did they hear how a drunk Sparklebumps got on her own side of the bed after falling asleep on the opposite side? (Because I certainly don’t know how that happened.)

Could they hear the gears in my head working all day yesterday wondering why the hell my Rockstar thought I was cheating on him, and what I could do to prove otherwise?

Did they hear the text message tones of two sober people trying to figure out their future last night?

Were they as relieved as I to hear the bed creak when Rockstar sat down to hold me this morning before he went to work?

( I think I’ll skip the Evan Williams the next time I visit the liquor store.)

P.S. No Sparklebumps was harmed in the making of this post. She has proven to her Rockstar that he was being a drunken dumbshit. His sore face is proof of the corporal punishment he has justly received for calling his girlfriend the “C” word.

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