Tag Archives: zombies

If Schrodinger’s cat was trying to get pregnant

You guys remember learning about Schrodinger’s cat?

Yeah, me either. I mean, I vaguely recall something about a dead cat in a box but as for the rest…well, college is a hell of a time, kids.

Luckily, college is pointless now that we have Google and as it turns out, a quick search unearthed that Schrodinger’s cat is indeed a dead cat in box that is also simultaneously alive. Due to something, something, blah, blah, blah, a bunch of smart science junk. But the point is, the cat is both dead and alive until someone opens the box to find out.

cat1

I bring this up because it is the perfect metaphor for when you are trying to get pregnant. See, now that our toddler son has gained some independence and is sleeping like a dead cat in a box through the night, my husband and I decided we want to ruin our peaceful lives by starting over with a new needy nipple-shredding newborn. And so every month, we shed our Snuggies and have really giggly sitcom sex. And then for a few weeks every month, I’m both possibly pregnant and possibly not pregnant, with no way of knowing until someone (preferably a doctor but I’m not picky) checks inside the box.

(Get it? Cause “box” is slang for “vagina”? How have I not won a Pulitzer yet?).

Yes, for those few weeks, all possibilities are possible. And it’s the worst. As much as I want another baby, I can officially say that this is no way to live your life. It’s like being permanently in limbo and all my time is now spent debating and justifying every choice I make based on highly limited knowledge.

“Hmm…maybe I shouldn’t drink two pots of coffee this morning. In case I’m pregnant. Then again, I might not be pregnant and drinking all this coffee increases the chances I won’t murder someone today.”

“A glass of wine probably won’t hurt even if I am pregnant. Right?”

“I may not be pregnant yet so I can’t justify eating this ENTIRE bag of Doritos. Can I?”

“Two glasses of wine probably won’t hurt. I mean, these are small wine glasses. Smaller than normal. So technically, it’d be just like having one glass of wine.”

“Protein is good for growing fetuses so I should definitely order two cheeseburgers. Just in case.”

“If I mix this third glass of wine with coffee, they cancel each other out, right?”

It’s like you know the jailer is probably coming soon but maybe he got lost on the way and won’t arrive until next month. Then again, she could already have snuck past you and is living in your uterus. So LIVE IT UP before your freedom is taken away! But not really cause you may already be imprisoned!

It’s exhausting. Especially when you already have a kid and know exactly what to expect when you’re expecting. I fooled myself the first time with dumb, naïve platitudes like “I can survive anything for nine months!” and “It’ll all be worth it when they’re born!”

But the thing is…

  1. You’re not pregnant for nine months. You’re pregnant two weeks past FOREVER.
  2. It’s worth it six months after they’re born. The first six months you are just a feral animal surviving on stale Triscuits and instinct.

As unromantic as it sounds, I also want to be pregnant and out of limbo just to get the whole thing over with. I know I only want two kids, so once I safely pop out another gigantic Viking baby, I can shut down the whole damn factory and forget I even have inside lady parts. (That is, of course, until menopause kicks in and takes an entire decade to slowly strangle everything down there to death).

Of course, I shouldn’t complain too much. I mean, I’m just trying to get pregnant. It could be much worse.

I could be a zombie cat stuck living in a box.

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World War Z, Part Two: The Crawling Dead

Guys, GUYS, I don’t want to alarm anyone, but it appears the zombie apocalypse is finally upon us. And not to alarm you even more, but it seems that no one, not even babies, are safe from these undead fiends. These undead fiends who are technically illegal immigrants. Oh yeah, I said it. Since they’re legally considered dead, that renders their social security card invalid, which means they are in this country illegally. Eating the brains of tax-paying citizens and taking victims away from hard-working American serial killers.

Where is the outrage about that, Congress?

Oh, proof? You want proof, eh? Well, how’s this for proof:

My baby is a zombie.

zombie 1

I mean, how much more proof could you need?

I started noticing the signs a few months ago. At first I thought he was just your standard, run of the mill cannibal. Because obviously, as a mom, that is the first place your mind goes when your innocent baby starts sprouting teeth and biting anything that moves. And I admit it. I blamed myself. Oh sure, there is some debate within the scientific community about whether or not there is a cannibal gene or if the people-eating lifestyle is a choice. And while I fully believe that cannibals are born that way, I did once eat some mystery meat from an unlicensed food truck while I was pregnant, so who knows what damage that did. And I’m sure my son being inundated with news stories about all those face-eating bath salt junkies didn’t help.

(But that’s what you get when the mainstream media obviously has a pro-cannibal agenda).

Luckily, I soon realized how silly I was being. Of course my child wasn’t a cannibal. He loved pureed carrots, for crying out loud. It was much more likely he was in the beginning stages of werewolf-ism. He definitely howled like one. And by the claw marks on my arms, he definitely scratched like one. Naturally I was very saddened by this, considering we live in a world where vampires dominate pop culture; almost all of them unaware but still benefitting from vampire privilege. I mean, how many books have you read or how many movies have you seen where the werewolf plays any part other than the bad guy or a lowly side character?

But just when I was about to resign myself to a life of keeping my child in a steel cage three days every month when the moon was full, my son bit me. Hard. And soon after, I started noticing symptoms of my own. I was tired all the time, sleepwalking my way through most of the day. I hungered for red meat, as opposed to vegetables. I really, REALLY wanted to bash the brains in of people who blocked the grocery store aisle as they stood there for 20 minutes trying to decide between the two-for-one Cheerio sale or the buy-two-get-one-half-off Lucky Charms deal.

And sure, yeah, I was that way before he bit me too. But I was also that way AFTER he bit me. So…you do the math. One plus one obviously equals zombie, people.

While I’m not sure exactly when my baby was bit by a zombie, thus effectively ruining our lives, I am sure of at least one thing: I will always love him. Even when he is biting me. Or crying because I won’t let him bite me. Or crying even louder because I won’t let him bite the dog. Or screaming because his sharp set of zombie teeth are coming in. Or not sleeping because his zombie teeth are coming in.

And that quack doctor who told me his behavior is all perfectly normal for a healthy teething baby of six months can go to hell.

 

 

 

Update on the Zombie Spider Apocalypse…

Just wanted to let those of you who read my last blog post know that after killing the zombie spider that had taken up residence in my home THREE times on THREE separate occasions, there have been no other further sightings.

And, as to any question whether or not it was actually three spiders I was dealing with or if it was indeed the same spider, I can now officially say it WAS, in fact, a zombie spider. After the last time I killed it, I’d double-check that his corpse was still in the same spot every 15 minutes for the next six hours (don’t you judge me) until my husband came home and got rid of the body.

Apparently while human zombies can only be defeated by chopping or blasting off their heads, spider zombies cannot re-animate after being flushed down the toilet.

So, suck it, zombie spider. I hope you rot in zombie spider HELL.