Survive and Thrive Workshop: Prompt #2

Write about what keeps you up at night.

The things that keep me up at night aren’t the stuff of nightmares.
Instead, they are the memories of days past.
You see, when the world is asleep, it is the perfect time for me to reminisce
on what has been, and what could have been, and what is to come.…
In nights gone by, I HAVE been kept awake by worries,
those devious little monsters that wiggle into a person’s brain,
and scratch, scratch, scratch, with their wicked little claws.
I finally learned they only exist if I let them.
So I figured out a way to starve them out,
and I watched them, one by one,
as their emaciated bodies slunk away into the darkness.
These nights, I am kept awake by delightful things
like raging heartburn and stretching belly aches
due to pregnancy.
As irritating as these are, I suffer them gladly,
because I have waited almost a lifetime for this baby.
It gives me a chance to sit in the dim,
thinking on the things I will teach my boy.
I smile when I consider what a love for books I will impart on him.
Too, in these dark hours, I watch my Love sleeping,
and wonder if my son will have his nose,
and maybe those little smile lines around his mouth someday.
What is there to fear in the darkness?
Without the dark, the light would never look so glorious.

Fury

I hate to be absent for so long, and then post a post like the following will be, but it must be done. The fury can no longer be contained.

So, does anyone else that is helping to raise a child that is not their own ever want to karate-chop said child in the fucking throat at times? To quote Sam Smith, “I know I’m not the only one.”

It may be said that, these days, I lack the infinite patience I once boasted because my inner ribcage is being used as a practice boxing ring for my future UFC son. But I do not think the following is EVER acceptable coming from any twelve-year-old:

“You don’t do ANYTHING except work. You don’t help with the dog; you don’t do the dishes; and you only pay dad $300 in “rent” every month. He basically has to do everything else.”

Perhaps the correct response would have been to not respond at all to this blatantly incorrect statement, and to address the attitude behind it, but you know what? I’M NOT FUCKING DEALING WITH THIS SHIT TODAY.

Instead of voicing the thoughts roiling through my head that went something like this- Listen, you spoiled little preteen cuntbitch, I did the dishes more times than you did this week, I pay $400 for half the house payment, as well as half the utilities and food to feed your shitty big mouth,  and how do you figure working all the time isn’t doing anything, you stupid little cocksucker?!- I did the unmentionable. I  took the laundry I washed yesterday that I supposedly “never do”, and threw everything that was hers at her and said, “Here. Since I don’t ever do anything around here, you can fold your own fucking clothes.”

Trust- it irks me to no end that my Rockstar finds the whole situation amusing. I do not expect him to argue with her incorrect informations, because she is twelve, and too immature to be arguing with in the first place, but I DO expect him to address her shitty hooplehead attitude. Maybe he is the one I need to cunt-punch.

I am perfectly aware this post is nothing but a ridiculous rant of almost-stepmomdom, but since I can’t poke her eyes out with excessive force and scream to the heavens my frustration, I have to just type it out and inwardly whine, “Please just let me diiiiiiiiieeeeeee.” Even thought I have no intentions of expiring anytime soon.

Do I Look Fat With This?

So, I’ve never been one of those girls who would dare ask her significant other, “Do I look fat in this?” Mainly, because I expect an honest answer, and chances are, I probably do look fat in it. Instead, I have waited for the surprising squeeze of the tush, or a comment that remarks on my general fabulousness to lay to rest any self-doubts I may have. It has always seemed to work in my favor.

The difference between those times and now is a little thing, (ok, maybe not so little) called a pregnancy bump. Here’s the thing: I find pregnant women to be adorable. At least the ones you can actually tell are pregnant, and aren’t so overweight you dare not ask them when they’re due. I have also heard from multitudes of men and women that a lot of guys have a thing for pregnant women. (Somewhat creepy, of it’s not their own woman, but who can resist a pair of swollen breasts and a hard belly? Even if it is in the shape of a full-blown balloon?) When I first found out about my Babe, I thought to myself, “Well, I guess we’ll see if my Rockstar has a thing for pregnant women.”

Sadly, he does not. Like, not even a little bit. If my belly were a mini-fridge filled with Budweiser, I still don’t think that would be enough to get him to touch it. Sure, there’s been a few times during the night when he’s accidentally thrown an arm or hand over me carelessly. Apparently such an action trips a silent alarm that only he can hear, because even from a dead sleep, the offending appendage is quickly removed from it’s resting spot as though it’s a vat of acid.

Yeah, ok, I get it. “Pregnant chics aren’t a turn on of his.”- I quote his words. I guess it doesn’t matter one iota that it’s me who is the pregnant chic; the chic he used to do two and three times a night sometimes. Too, it seems to not matter that my ass or thighs have not grown to gargantuan proportions; in fact, I’ve gained exactly seventeen pounds in the last six months- and I’m wearing the exact same yoga pants without my butt bursting the seems. I don’t know if I “glow” as They say pregnant women do, but I even had a dude stop me in the mall, trying to get my digits. (After blatantly ogling my pregnant condition.)

I suppose I should be happy my Rockstar is trying to appease me in other ways. He has been quite amiable about my suggestions to go out to eat, (which he hates to do), and stays silent about the fact that I don’t roll outta bed until at least 8 am. But, alas. Such things do not make up for the lack of sex and affection that is the giant, glittery elephant in the room. (And just to be clear, I don’t know what you’ve heard about pregnant women and their libidos, but this pregnant woman’s libido is working overtime. And you thought I was a horny little devil before….)

Talk to him about it, you say? This is how that conversation goes:

Me: So, um, yeah, are you ever gonna want to do me again? ‘Cause I’m horny as fuck.

Him:

Me: Are you weirded out that there’s a baby in there? Because you know he can’t feel anything, right? He wouldn’t even be able to feel a porn-star dick.

Him:

Me: (Trying a different approach) So… it makes me really sad that you don’t find me attractive anymore.

Him:

You get the picture.

What’s the frickin’ point of having a significant other when you’re pregnant if they can’t even be bothered to do you? I know impotence because of my condition is not the issue, because blowjobs have been issued to ensure that wasn’t the problem. So, what? I’m just supposed to accept that I’m living with an inconsiderate asshat?

I object.

New Year, New Me

…As if I really needed to improve on me in the first place.

I did decide that I need to be a little bit more focused, but oooh! Look at the pretty Christmas lights across the street! OK, so being focused is something I might really have to focus on. At least I’ve realized that much. It is hoped that becoming a mother this year may help in that department just a little. I do not wish for my son to see me as a flaky person. (I shall do all in my power to hide the fact that I am from him.)

As far as my blog goes, I know how much of a disappointment I have been in the past year, and I resolve to do better. No more all-day marathons of Glee or The Tudors until after I have written on my blog. And just to test me, Netflix has found it necessary to make ten seasons of Friends available for viewing. Bastards.

Too, I find it necessary to finish writing at least one book this year. It would make sense for said book to be the one I’ve gotten the most work done on; however, I feel that authoring and illustrating a children’s book may be in my nearer future. But, since I have no child-like inspirations that come to mind as of yet, I resolve to work on my already-begun book for now, at least two hours a day. (Two hours is many hours for me to stay focused these  days. Perhaps after the Babe is born, I shall jack it up to four hours a day.)

As most normal people do, I ,too, resolve to lose weight this year. The really awesome thing is that I get to wait until April to work on this one. (The second-best thing about being pregnant.) To ensure that my initial goal to be the hottest mom ever is reached, my Rockstar’s Daughter has hinted that she believes I will forever be fat after the baby is born. (Perhaps only in hopes that she can have my never-worn, too-small little black dress.) After telling her how rude such a sentiment was, I silently thanked her for reinforcing my intentions of amazing hotness.

I thought that perhaps I would choose a resolution that would make me a better person- namely, to be kind to those certain individuals that irritate the piss out of me. I then thought better of any such ridiculousness, as I am not so good a person that that objective would ever be met; too, it is just so much easier to ignore such peoples. Luckily, one of these unfortunate souls is no longer employed at my place of business, so any behavior considered rude by my scorning of this person is forgiven already. Yay me.

For my last resolution, I do so intend to be the book whore I so claim to be, with the help of Amazon’s list of 100 Books to Read in a Lifetime. I was a bit saddened that I had read only twenty-nine of these life-changing books, but I intend to make a good-sized dent in the remaining seventy-one. I was, however, excited to find that though I hadn’t read many off the list, I own a surprising number of them. Yay me once again.

As for you, my fine readers, I have found this video to wish you all a wonderful New Year. (My Rockstar has a man crush on Kid Rock, and laughs his ass off at this video.)

….and I’m back.

Other than possessing a belly that is growing at an alarming rate, and deciding this Christmas sucks, I’ve not been up to to much. I know. Sad.

I did spend several days last week seething inwardly as my Rockstar insisted on stopping at every store in sight just to window shop after my monthly checkup and other things. I seemed to have forgotten that I’m living with another woman. One who loves to shop. But never actually buy anything. I don’t know if it’s my raging hormones or my distended stomach, but I find myself having much less patience than normal. As evidenced by my unrestrained bickering Saturday night with my Rockstar’s Daughter. Let us just say, it’s the first time in five years I’ve given in to the urge to act exactly the same age as she.

As far as Christmas sucking, I know it’s not about the presents, (unless you’re a little kid), but I am a bit saddened that I’ve not been able to afford even gifts for my Beloved and his daughter. And honestly, I’m kinda too tired to give a shit. At least,  a lot of shit. Maybe a little poo I give. But I too, have considered forgoing Christmas at my Rockstar’s parents and vegging out in front of Netflix with a delicious box of creamy Kraft macaroni and cheese.

Is it because he got fired from his job a month ago and I need a little alone time? I’m not sure. So many months had gone by without me seeing him hardly at all when he was working because of our opposite schedules, and it’s been nice to see him for a change. But I think I got used to all that alone time. So now I’m just fucked up.

Once again today, we ventured to town to indulge in half-priced burritos at our favorite Mexican restaurant, and our trip turned into an all-day finish-his-Christmas-shopping outing. My Rockstar clearly did not find me to be perturbed enough, for when I mentioned that I did not desire to battle the masses all day, he said, “Well, you’d probably just go home and take a nap anyway.” It wasn’t because it was an untrue statement, but the fact that he was inferring my general laziness that irked me so. I refrained from releasing my pregnant-woman rage on him though, and sucked it up as we spent another hour in Macy’s looking at cookware for his mother.

I went to work tonight, and soooooo did not want to be there, even though the lack of dollars in my wallet should have given me a different perspective. So I convinced a coworker to close for me, and I arrived home to find the house filled with the calming sounds of Motley Crue. My Rockstar has been downstairs banging away on the drums, oblivious to my being home. As much as he irritated me today, I cannot help but smile when I listen to the over-played band. After all, he is still my Rockstar….

Sparkle in Bloggerland

Where am I? All this seems so familiar somehow, as if maybe I dreamed it once. Or twice.

I thought I knew my way around this place, but clearly, I was mistaken, because it took me about ten minutes to figure out how to get to a new post page. Is this what WordPress has come to? Throwing in with the likes of Facebook and changing their format for us poor unfortunates who have been asleep for a hundred years and haven’t made it over here in awhile? Unheard of. Absurd!

Well, it seems my endless days of puking and suffering are finally at an end. In other words, I’ve had enough of these bad pregnancy symptoms and plan to only glow with glorious womanly fertility from this point on. I hope. Although I’m feeling a bit perturbed today, so maybe I’m not as zen yet as I’d hoped. Whatever, fuckers.

I’d like to take a moment and thank all of you who happened to remember me in my time of trial, as my stats inform me that I’ve received at least 20 visitors a day in my absence. (Yay me!) Considering that I’ve written very little of actual wit or interest in the past months, I see that as a good sign. Or maybe it’s just those bastard SPAM people. I guess we’ll never know.

Well, I dragged my ass to the computer today, which is a huge accomplishment for me these days, and as I really have nothing of inspiration to write, I must leave this once-again familiar place. I just wanted you all to know that I’m not dead (yet) and that my boobs have gotten bigger, so you can all rejoice. XOXO

On Nausea and Still Remaining Myself

Pregnancy is not an excuse.

Yes, ok, I haven’t written on my blog (or anywhere else, for that matter) for a shameful 18 days; my longest hiatus from blogging yet, I believe. I haven’t drunk coffee or whisky or any mind-altering substance for many weeks, (and I do not intend to for many many more weeks). When I go out to eat in a nice restaurant with edible food, I can no longer finish my Rockstar’s meal after snarfing down my own. In fact, I cannot even finish my own meal, and have taken to sharing. I still think of sex more often than the average person, but I also think of sleep more than a two-toed sloth. I remind myself of one thing:

This, too, shall pass.

Whereas in past times not so long ago, any text message I received was almost immediately responded to, I have become a textical hermit. My repeated responses of “Not good. Puking all day. Sleeping when not puking.” I’m sure got old quickly when people asked how I was faring, and quite honestly, that exact response sums up the last eighteen days frighteningly well. It didn’t help that last week when my Rockstar had an entire week off between changing jobs, and instead of indulging in an all-week fuckfest with him, I was forced to hack and cough and blow my nose in between naps when I contracted the Mother of All Colds. The only upside was that the nausea that had continued to haunt me for over a month has finally begun to subside; I am no longer hurling unless I’ve not eaten within two hours. Yay me.

For the entirety of my adult life, I have begun planning my Halloween costume for each year in mid-summer. Not so this year. In fact, yesterday was the first day that I realized Halloween is less than two months away, and I said to myself, “Self! Enough of this bull-shit! You’re fucking dressing up, even if it is as a horse wearing a feed bag in order to catch the vomit!” There will be no alcoholic libations, but at least I have a house this year, so I plan on celebrating by scaring the beJesus out of the neighborhood childlings. The buzz from such doings will certainly suffice.

I realize that when you become a mother, (which I’m not, quite yet, anyway) you change. But I’ll be damned if everyone I know will only engage in conversations with me that pertain to my child, now or later. People without kids have lives, and do things, whether the People With Kids believe it or not. I will never enjoy talking about diaper genies and the latest invention created to make parenthood easier. I will, however, speak of sexually deviant practices with whomever is interested, even when my waistline is 57″.  I am not complaining about where my future is headed in the least, only stating how perturbed I am that having my head in a toilet has kept me from doing the things I wanted in the last weeks.

P.S. The ultrasound specialist assures me that my baby’s lack of legs and arms is a natural thing at this point. I pray he’s not just placating me.

News

Hmm….. what to write about….

 

….Sex always seems to go over well. I could write some smutty smut smut….

Maybe I could write about…. oh! How I told my Rockstar his kid was an asshole a few weeks ago….or maybe about how much of an asshole I felt like after I said it…

Sleep! Oh, how I adore sleep at this moment! It’s as if the soul of the dwarf sleepy has magically taken over my body and told me I am only here to sleep. I feel that I must obey.

Or, I guess I could actually write about how I’m going to have a baby. I guess maybe there might be a little bit of excitement over such news.

Yeah, ok, so I’ll write about that.

If you skimmed the last few sentences and weren’t really paying attention, I’ll say it again- I’m going to have a baby. Me. The chick who has never been pregnant in her life and was thought to be barren. Funny things, those little sperms, eh?

It was only about a month ago I said to myself, “Self, I’s ok with no babies. With no babies, I can sleep as much as I want, and work as much as I want, and generally go about my life like a pathetic blob if I wants. Nevermind that I won’t have anyone to take care of me when I’m old. I’ll probably die on the back of a Harley long before then with no babies, anyway.”

I told you God likes to fuck with people.

I’m not complaining, trust me. Well, except for the constant urge to vomit that I’ve been living with for the past month. But according to What to Expect, that’ll pass soon enough. And then I’ll have a new set of digestional problems. But whatevs. I’m gonna have a baby!

I must admit, my first thought after I peed on that little stick and saw the positive sign was something akin to disbelief and fear at what my Rockstar’s reaction might be. But I did what I do best, and wrote him a letter that I left on the counter for him to read upon his arrival home. Considering how cave-man-like he is when it comes to communication, I was satisfied with the “If you’re happy about it, I don’t mind.” that I got from him. Hey. It was more than I expected.

Anyhoo, a whole flurry of thoughts ran through my head. Like how my three bookshelves of kid’s books will now be read, (by someone other than me), how my boobs are going to get huge, (or huge-r, if you want to look at it that way), how there are a million things I need to teach my baby so it (yes, I call it It, because it has not yet a gender, and in reference to Cousin, not the creepy clown) will be the smartest little bastard that ever lived. (Yes, It is a bastard in the very base definition of the word, so I will not deny it. It’s not my fault It’s dad doesn’t want to get married.) Oh! And how I must quickly learn Spanish, so It will be bilingual and fabulous.

I also had the terrifying thought that if It gets my Rockstar’s hair color with my hair texture, it may very well end up looking like Carrot Top. (Eesh.) Or Annie, minus the orphan part.

What I didn’t realize was that being pregnant is akin to having your life energy sucked out of your ears by an alien mothership. I don’t know if it’s because I’m constantly preparing to hurl whatever healthy thing it was I ate  (yes, it seems that pregnancy has strengthened my willpower to deny myself the finer things in life, like McDonald’s) on the nearest bystander or what, but I literally have done next to nothing other than work for the past week. I may be pregnant, but I kinda feel that there really is no free pass for taking 3-4 naps a day after sleeping in.

Well, anyway, my kid is gonna be the cutest damn kid there ever was, and yes, it IS a little scary that there might be a miniature me running around pretty soon. Are you ready for that, world?

I Hope Your Baby Looks Like Steve Buscemi

Dear former Fuck Buddy of Mine,

Let me be the first thirty-first (according to Facebook) to offer my congratulations on the presence of the conjoined egg-and-sperm in your wife’s belly.

While it is, I suppose, good news that this announcement has made its debut at this time, I find it a bit unlucky for you that the timing is such that YOU are the one chosen to be the recipient of my lonely-and-depressed-barren-woman rant. For this I apologize.

While I cannot deny that we had some “good times” (heh, heh) and I would like to thank you always for making me feel desirable, (as if no one else does), I must admit that my faith in the goodness of the male species has been forever and always jaded because of you. Perhaps it is the fact that your current relationship began as you dating three women at once,or perhaps it is the fact that you’ve never once even tried to be faithful to she who now carries your child. Either way, I shall always look at men I’ve had as Fuck Buddies in a strange and terrible light now.

It’s true, if I were not in my current state of confusion over my Rockstar and life choices in general, I may have been able to offer my congratulations  honestly and without malice; but too bad for you, Dude- you get the full extent of my Sad Girl wrath.

I do not doubt that your wife is feeling great joy and ecstatic happiness at this time at the fact that she carries a little you inside her. (That kinda sounded dirty.) However, I do wonder if your excitement is of the same caliber. You know what babies mean, right? More work and less naked time- something that if I know you as well as I do, you shall not be thrilled about in the least.

Though it is not for me to judge God’s judgement in providing your sperm with extra oomph to impregnate your spouse, I cannot help but wish to raise my fist and scream at the heavens, “What the Hell are You thinking?!?!?!??!” It is clearly obvious He intends to make every single person around me pregnant as if to say, “Yeah, Bitch- take that!”

And so, to end this harsh and hateful letter, I can do only one thing- Curse you and offer my hope that your baby looks like Steve Buscemi. I realize that this will never happen, as you are a beautiful Puerto Rican, and your wife has an amazing smile. So boo on you.

No Love,

Sparklebumps

Funny Thing

…is that’s it’s not funny it at all. But we put on a happy face and make a joke so as not to burst into tears. or some bullshit like that, right?

I got a text from my Ex-hubby the other day. I hadn’t heard from him since a few months ago right after he got married, but I knew exactly what it was he wasn’t telling me.

So when is she due? I text him after his initial blahseh greeting.

If I was going to have a baby, would you want to know about it? Was his response.

Not really, but I’d find out eventually, so we might as well get this over with. I steeled myself for the next text.

I just know how upset you got when people told you they were having babies. Always thinking of other people. Polite bastard.

So? Putting it off wasn’t helping anything.

June 29th.

You wouldn’t think one tiny little text with a date would make my whole world feel like it was ending. Well, you would be wrong. Surprisingly, it began with internal bleeding; you would never have known the news of someone having the baby that was supposed to be mine was eating through my insides like the ebola virus.

I guess I’m supposed to say congratulations or something. That was civil, right?

My sister is pregnant too.

The ebola virus had worked it’s way to the outside and I felt my body begin to melt into a hideous liquid mess of tears.

How are you doing, now that I told you? The “funny thing” is, he was asking because he knew exactly what was happening.

Not so good. I guess I didn’t really want to know you were having a baby. (Or that my internal organs would liquefy and my soul would die when I found out.) I only thought that last part.

Yeah, my eyes teared up as soon as I sent the text. I’m sorry.

So why is my Ex-Hubby sorry he’s having a baby and had to tell me? I’m sure you’re completely confused. After all, he should totally hate my guts because I cheated on him and then left him because I wasn’t in love with him anymore. I may have forgotten to mention- I also left because we tried for three years to have a baby, and when one didn’t appear, I realized I didn’t want to be with this man if there were no children. So I thought I had better find someone I actually wanted to be with if I was to be barren.

I’m sure you’re all thinking I’ve destabilized because it’s my ex that’s having a baby. That doesn’t help, no; because there was a time when I wanted to have 5 little boys who looked exactly like him. But you see from earlier in my post that I didn’t start crying until I found out his sister was having one too. It’s the fact that EVERYONE ELSE is having babies except for me. I’ve found out in the last two weeks that my cousin (who didn’t want a kid the last time I checked) and his wife are pregnant, the first girl I ever fell in love with and her hubby are, my ex and his new wife, and my ex-sister-in-law and her hubby (who also stated he wanted no children). So it’s safe to say that half the people in the world who are procreating are doing it because their spouses want them to. So all those half-wanted babies will be loved with only half as much love as they deserve, while my non-existant baby is loved with every fiber of my being.

“So why don’t you have a baby, already?” People keep asking me. It’s not that simple.

I have found a man who I want to be with. Unfortunately, he has a ten year old and is perfectly happy with only her. Because he has not yet spent 12 years with me, he doesn’t have the understanding of me that my Ex did, and so does not realize that telling me to hold someone else’s baby is like asking me to cut my own throat with a sharpened toothbrush. He does not understand that for the last two days, it has taken all of my will power to keep a constant stream of tears from falling. When I told him my Ex was having a baby, his only response was, “How do you know it’s even his kid?”

My Rockstar has agreed to have a baby with me when we have more money. The “funny thing” is, there will never be enough money. There will always be more bills, or other things to spend money on.

I can’t think about this anymore for right now, because I already can’t see, but this is to all of you who have kids who have ever even for a moment wished you didn’t, and all you parents with children with health issues, and all you pregnant women who are pissed off because you can’t sleep or have morning sickness, and all you individuals who “accidentally” had kids when you had “real” lives you wanted to have- you better fucking thank God or Shiva or whatever other deity it is you worship every fucking day for your babies, because if you didn’t have them, you could be just like me right now. And trust me. This doesn’t feel good.