Tag Archives: red bull

My Not Knocked Up Bucket List

You know that game you play where you come up with the title of your autobiography? Like, for example, a few years ago, mine would have been “Why Yes, I Will Have a Fifth Glass of Wine.” Or maybe “And That’s Why I’m Not Allowed Back Into Delaware.” Or even perhaps “The $8.23 In My Checking Account & Other Numbers That Make Me Sad.”

Ah, but how all that was a lifetime ago. Because currently, the working title of my memoir is:

“So, How’s the Pregnancy Going?”

This question is pretty much my life now. Because when you are pregnant, you as a human person no longer exist. You are simply a fetal cheeseburger delivery system wrapped up in a sweaty muumuu. All anyone cares about now is 1. How is the baby doing? (Answer: Fantastic minus the fact she’s kicking my bladder like it owes her money) and 2. When will the baby get here? (Answer: Hopefully before I get to a size that includes my own personal gravitational pull).

Not that I can blame people for only caring about the baby right now. Creating life is a fascinating process. A fascinating, farty, sausage-fingery process. Think about it. Humans go from an egg and a sperm to a mango-sized tadpole who drinks his own pee to a 7-pound ninja who uses your ribs as substitutes for board breaking. I mean, who cares that I have hopes and dreams and fears and regrets and deep thoughts about how a universal love of melted cheese unites all of humanity. None of that matters. Because you don’t care. Because in your eyes I’m just a loud, messy-haired incubator for an adorable infant.

So, to answer your question, the baby is doing great and I have finally entered my third trimester.

THE THIRD TRIMESTER, PEOPLE!

Which means I’m almost done!

Only 8,712 more days to go.

Give or take.

And now that I can see the tiny, tiny light at the end of the birthing canal, I can officially start daydreaming about what it will be like when I’m finally not pregnant anymore. Coming up with my Not Knocked Up Bucket List, if you will. Because when you are pregnant, you can’t have any fun. In fact, there are panels of doctors whose only job is to just sit around all day thinking up new ways to make sure pregnant women can’t have any fun.

And so, here are all the things I’m going to do when I’m not pregnant:

Sleep on my stomach. Oh, sweet, sweet patron saint of mattresses, I’m going to sleep on my stomach SO HARD.

Enter a hotdog eating contest. I don’t even really like hotdogs. I just want to eat 74 of them because I can’t right now.

Drink coffee until I’m physically vibrating so hard that I defy the laws of physics and can pass through walls. And then I will bathe in a bathtub filled with Red Bull.

Ride a goddamn rollercoaster while eating day-old gas station sushi. Because I can, bitches.

Drink all the alcohol. All of it. And then when I’m done, I’m gonna finish your beer.

Drink all the Diet Coke. All of it. And then when I’m done, I’m gonna add some Captain Morgan to your Diet Coke and drink that.

Finally dye my hair any color other than its current shade of “Awkward Warm Honey Orange-ish With Four Inches Of Dark Brown Roots Showing.”

Throw all those stupid, ineffective Tylenol pills into a ceremonial fire during a Black Mass and fill my medicine cabinet with Nyquil and Claritin and Ibuprofen and Aleve and Pepto and Unisom and Benadryl and all the pretty, pretty over-the-counter drugs available to modern man so we never have to actually feel symptoms of anything.

Eat cold cuts in a hot tub. Which sounds gross. And probably will be gross. But who cares? I’m free!

 

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Grocery Shopping With Your Spouse 101

There are a lot of ways to get to know your significant other better. And let’s face it, no matter how much you think you know, there are always more things you can learn about them. Human beings are vastly complicated creatures. That’s why no one has yet been able to explain why we like sodomizing dead birds with other dead birds in the form of turducken or why we willingly inject poison into our faces so we perpetually look surprised.

For instance, you could stay up all night talking about your hopes and fears, or about that year you experimented with the goth vampire look, or how you voted for Obama but secretly wanted McCain to win so Tina Fey would keep playing Palin for the next four years on SNL. You could take an extended road trip together (as long as neither one of you brings a weapon of any kind along). You could even let each other read the lame poetry you wrote in junior high (shut up, we all know you did).

But nothing, NOTHING, helps you to see into the very core of your partner’s being like grocery shopping together.

 

Few other activities can give as much insight into each of your personalities and values. That whole “you are what you eat” is complete bunk. It’s actually “you are what food you buy.”

Take this past Sunday, for instance. Now, normally, it’s my husband who does the bulk of the grocery shopping and this is because I tend to get irrationally angry and downright close to homicidal when I get stuck in an aisle behind some soccer mom who can’t decide between Rago or Prego because while Prego tastes better, Rago has fewer calories and little Suzie doesn’t like mushrooms but hmm they look cut up small enough for her to not even notice but would the four cheese or tomato and basil taste better with the ziti tonight and oh my god, MOVE, YOU PINK TRACK-SUIT CLAD MORON!!!

And he does a great job at it. He even knows my preferred products for all my monthly lady business.

But every once in awhile on the weekends, I’ll tag along either out of sheer boredom or because I’ve had enough tranquilizers to make me relatively harmless toward my fellow shoppers.

And that’s when I discovered that every aisle is a chance to wonder just who the hell is this alien standing beside me.

For example, this is how most of our discourse went:

Me: “Three packages of cookies? Really?”

Him: “Wait, you need a different face cream for day than you do for night? What’s the difference? Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

Me: “You’re honestly telling me you need three 2-liters of Diet Pepsi? At this point, do you just pee pure sugar?”

Him: “Oh my god, who needs that much sausage?” (Me and him in unison: “That’s what she said”).

Me: “Dude, put back that Valentine’s candy or I will saw off your foot off just to give you a taste of your diabetes-filled future.”

Him: “No. NO! Put back the Red Bull. You act like you’re on meth when you drink that stuff and I will not spend another night talking you down.”

Me: “Cracklin’ Oat Bran? That’s the cereal you picked? You have the combined palette of a 5-year-old and my grandpa.”

Him: “What do you mean the ‘fancy’ bread? What the hell is ‘fancy’ bread? Bread that has a little bow tie on each slice?”

Of course, there are things we accept about each other without question. He knows that me being a woman means I am programmed to buy any and all food and drink that claim to have “anti-oxidants” in them. And I know that he has a deep, deep love affair with peanut butter that I can never hope to tear asunder. And, believe it or not, there are also even a few things we agree on, such as you can never have too much coffee or wine or cheese.

But the good news is, who needs to pay for expensive marital counseling when you can just work out your issues in the canned food aisle?