Tag Archives: gross

A whole new level of bad ass

Holy crap, people. Holy crap.

For those of you who have children, you know that there is “the story.” For my mother, there are five of them. With Carrie she was so drugged up she couldn’t point her out in the nursery. Tommy I think is the one where every doctor, nurse, cafeteria worker and janitor in the hospital took a peek before she finally delivered him. Laura — 10 pounds, two sets of forceps, double-episotomy, born arm first with a tooth (that’s a good one). Amy was born during Monday Night Football. Me? Well, I shot out so fast she almost left me right there on the hospital floor. Nice.

My stories are lame. I was totally drugged up and had both my children removed from me — against their will — in a nice, sterile operating suite. Hank refused to come out. George didn’t get the chance to even try.

Everyone can chip in something here. What you or your wife or your girlfriend went through. But no matter how you tell the story, to you, it seems fairly unbelievable. I mean, you DID that. You made that kid. Cool.

But, as far as baby stories go, no one can top the delivery of one Miss Lilah, born to my friend Nancy and her husband Mark (and big sister Cara) this week. In Nancy’s own words:

I delivered my own child. Yes I did.

Lilah Jane was born yesterday morning around 9:10. My contractions were still 6 minutes apart, so I told Mark to take Cara to daycare. I figured I’d get dressed and we’d head for the hospital when he got back. As soon as the van door closed I knew I’d made a bad call. I figured the best thing to do was get up, get dressed, and go sit with next-door-neighbor Jen until Mark got back.

I went and sat on the potty, and my water broke. I yelled out the window for Jen, but she had gone into her basement to work out. I told myself not to push, but my body wasn’t listening to me. At that point I realized the baby was ready to come out. I gave one good push, and most of her was out. One more good push and there she was. No I did not drop her in the toilet (but I think her feet got wet). So now I’m stuck on the in the bathroom with no help and a waxy, blue baby. Fortunately I had read just the night before what to do if you accidentally gave birth at home. I did what I could to clear her airway, wrapped her in a towel draped her cord over my arm since the placenta hadn’t been delivered yet, and walked over to my bed.

After calling 911 I ran over to the window and called Jen again, which still did me no good. I couldn’t call anyone else because 911 wouldn’t let me off the phone. The EMT’s were there pretty fast, but Mark had locked the door (ever safety conscious). Poor Jen – just about to get in the shower and wrapped in a towel -was running around her house looking for my house key.

They didn’t break down the door because they knew I was ok, so they found an open kitchen window and climbed through. They grabbed the baby, cut the cord and sent her on her way to the hospital. Right about this time Mark turned down our street and had a mini cardiac episode when he saw all the emergency vehicles at our house. He came up to see his blood covered wife starting to kind of pass out on the bed, with 6 EMT guys standing around. One of them offered me a sheet to cover myself with. I looked around and asked if anyone really thought my modesty was an issue at that point.

I had a partial placental abruption, so my upstairs looked like a crime scene (which my poor mom cleaned up) – which got even grosser when my placenta delivered. Then they packed me up (tromping around in the blood all the while) and sent me off in my own ambulance. Lilah is fine. She spent the night in the NICU. I feel great and aside from lots of blood loss I ended up in pretty good shape.

Dudes… she delivered her OWN child. Alone. In the bathroom. And not like, I’m at the prom and my mom doesn’t know I’m pregnant so I’ll push it out and leave it in paper towels in the corner then go dance with my boyfriend. More like, I have a bag packed and names picked out and I’ve called the maternity ward ahead of time and I STILL managed to have her on the fine radiant heat tiles! She’s like a genuine case of “I didn’t know I was pregnant” only she TOTALLY KNEW she was pregnant!

Holy. Crap. On. A. Stick. With. Beans.

Nancy is absolutely, 100 percent, the world’s most bad ass mother.

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Embrace the awesome

When you drive into downtown Joliet, there is a sign. It reads, “If it’s fun, it’s in downtown Joliet!”

For real.

Now, not to speak poorly of Joliet. It is, after all, home to the Rialto Square Theatre, where Jim and I were married. And most people say, hey, that’s where Peter Brady was married! No no no no no no no. It’s where JIM AND I were married. Peter Brady and his gameshow wife just had their reception there. Celebrities and wannabe celebrities have a way of ruining my stuff. Peter Brady took over my Rialto. Of course, the day I got married there was the same day that Entertainment Tonight covered the wedding of one Mary Kay Latourneau to her rape victim, Villi. Same exact day. Then Tom Cruise and his wife Joey Potter were rude enough to produce their weird little mini-me on the SAME day I had George. Rude rude rude.

Back to Joliet.

The sign reads that it is where the fun happens. And last week’s Joliet Jackhammers game was no exception.

Example:

Check out the main man in the sweet plaid shorts there behind Hank. He’s making rock star hands — devil fingers — you mess with the bull you get the horns — whatever you call it, he’s doing it. On purpose. In public. But that’s not even the REASON I planted young Hank on this spot to grab this photo. There’s more:

Oh. My. God. That is so AWESOME. I covered his eyes to protect his identity (not that I know him) but also to protect myself from what I can only assume will be a David Lee Roth style butt-kicking if he were to ever find himself on my blog. I envision this guy wrapping himself in “Just a Gigolo” spandex and figuring he might as well jump (JUMP!) on my face for embarrassing him. I think he even has a perm. So so sweet.

Sadly, the Jackhammers were eliminated last night in the playoffs, so we’ll have to wait until next year for the next new round of downtown Joliet fun.

At least Hank caught a grand slam — from our team even!

That is fun! See you next year Jackhammers!

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The Beck stops here

I’m not a fan of GleN Beck.

It’s not just because I am a tree hugging, Dixie Chicks album owning, blue state living, Barack Obama picture hanging on my fridge lefty.

It’s because he is bat shit crazy.

I have some other words I like to use to describe him. Shrill. Hack. Narcissistic. Shock Jock. Opportunist. Vainglorious.

Ok, I looked that last one up.

Those words might seem like insults, but they aren’t really.

Shrill – He screams. He really does. All the live long day. He doesn’t just scream at the people he hates. He screams at his own fans.

Hack – He does an easy job that requires little if any work and is greatly rewarded. Heck, he just stuck his name on a novel that someone else wrote. He just had to come up with an idea. Which is “socialist America.” Then he picks up an additional six-figure paycheck for saying “buy gold.” Way to go there, Hack.

Narcissistic -GleN Beck thinks God talks to him. And not in the loony-tunes, padded room, purple crayon carrying way. But as in, GleN Beck believes that he is chosen. He’s a genuflect away from Tim Tebow territory.

Shock Jock – Self-explanatory.

Opportunist – Overly self-explanatory.

Vainglorious – That’s a pretty word, huh? It means boastful or proud. And GleN sure does love himself. And his message. And his gold. And his ratings. And frankly, he earned them, so he should be proud. Now that’s vainglorious.

But keep in mind that even though I think Beck is bat shit crazy, I mean that in a qualified way. As in, crazy like a fox, and not just the super-flashy-with-the-production-elements Fox that pays him more than I’ll ever see in my life for a single afternoon of shrill, narcissistic, opportunist, vainglorious, shock jock hackery.

Enter Beck’s 8/28 rally. If you haven’t heard of it, I am terribly jealous of you. Beck is hosting a rally at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington DC tomorrow, August 28, the same place and the same date, 47 years later, of the famous “I have a dream” speech by Martin Luther King, Junior. Beck says the rally is to “Restore Honor.” Because we need to restore the honor in this country, because it’s gone, I tell you. ALL GONE.

Of course, when Michelle Obama even suggested that she had not spent her entire life proud and gushing in love with the good old USA, she was berated as being shameful. How DARE someone suggest they haven’t always been proud of a nation while our soldiers are in the midst of fighting for the freedom that we are blessed with. We should all LOVE our country. Here we are, two years later, same country, same boys overseas fighting the same war, but now the country is honorless.

Whatever.

Back to Beck.

Beck, a self-described student of history who wraps himself in the American Flag while scribbling the names of the most important and influential men in the country on his chalkboard had no idea of even a time frame for the most famous speech of the Civil Rights movement?

I’m sure Tim Russert is smiling from heaven that Beck stole his whiteboard idea and passes it off as his own on a chalkboard, by the way.

But here’s the thing. Everyone who is angry about this is furious of Beck’s alleged attempt to hijack MLK, the Civil Rights movement, and apparently, the spirit of MLK’s speech itself. Because we all know Beck is a strong black man, fighting oppression and working for peace and equality.

But me? I think they’ve got it all wrong.

It’s not about Martin Luther King, Junior. It never was. Of course Beck knew August 28 was the anniversary of the “I have a dream” speech. But he didnt’ pick that day to try to cling to the Civil Right movement. GleN looked at August 28 in Washington, DC and saw gold as sure as the overpriced nuggets he hawks on the Fox News Channel. He saw thousands of faces. Faces of color. And he wants in.

GleN Beck is going to count the people who are there to mark the “I have a dream speech” as part of his audience. Let’s say he gets his 300,000 attendees that he’s predicted will come to see him and the mom of the newest Dancing with the Stars early cast-off candidate Sarah Palin. At that very moment, there’s also a civil rights rally, not in the same place, but near by. Very near by. And naturally most of those folks will float to the Lincoln Memorial. Some to honor MLK, some just to see what’s going on, some for both reasons. And as they do, Beck will count them (and their much darker faces) as part of *his* rally. Boom, 1 million people have attended his event. Hoo-yow!

It’s not about him hijacking MLK’s speech, or the Civil Rights movement, or anything like that. It has always been to make the Tea Party look more credible by scheduling it on a day and place where a few hundred thousand people were set to be anyway. It’s like setting a rally for Grant Park during the Taste of Chicago. Maybe it’s just you and a few dozen people for your cause, but you can say, LOOK AT ALL THE PEOPLE. Hell, hand out a few fliers to passers-by, and you’ve “spread the word” even.
 
People have been arguing that his ulterior motive was to hijack the anniversary of MLK’s historic speech. But in reality, it’s about hijacking people who are simply trying to remember a Civil Rights legend. It’s a scam to inflate his numbers and make the Tea Party look like they have more support — and more support from people of color — then they actually have. I feel 100 percent competent that, come Monday, Beck will be showing the overhead video of his crowd, and it will be ENORMOUS, and he will say something along the lines of “look at what has been inspired here! Honor is OURS!” And he won’t qualify that many, heck, maybe most, were there not because they feel America has no honor, but because they want to pay their respects to a man who had more honor in his little finger then GleN Beck will ever have in his entire (former) coke-sniffing race-baiting body.
 
Like I said, though. Crazy like a fox.
 
I leave you with a little nugget of Beck’s fool’s gold. Beck has been advertising that his rally will benefit the Special Operations Warrior Foundation (SOWF), a non-profit that aids the families of fallen and injured soldiers (the ones who are fighting for the country with no honor). So when you get to the rally, make sure to buy your “Restoring Honor” merchandise to benefit these families. Just don’t read the fine print on that merchandise:
The purchase of Restoring Honor Rally merchandise is not a donation to SOWF, but all net proceeds from the sale of Restoring Honor Rally merchandise is being donated to the Special Operations Warrior Foundation. All contributions made to the Special Operations Warrior Foundation (SOWF) will first be applied to the costs of the Restoring Honor Rally taking place on August 28, 2010. All contributions in excess of these costs will then be retained by the SOWF.
Millionaire Beck isn’t paying for this massive rally by himself. No no no. He’s going to get those in attendance to pay for it for him. Then he’s going to play his pipe, and off the cliff they shall jump! GleN’s going to have to sell a LOT of t-shirts and bumper stickers to pay for the fees for security management and clean-up and everything else that comes with his big rally. Hope SOWF isn’t depending too much on that donation.

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Dads, daughters and dookie

It all happened several summers ago.

There we were, enjoying the Happy Place. For those of you unfamiliar with the Happy Place, it looks like this:

This is Lake Jordan from my point of view, former home of the fabulous Clearwater Resort, current home of fun, sun and Karaoke Bob. Those are my feet. If you look closely, there is something on my big toe. If I had to guess, I would say it was food. The Happy Place is also the messy place.

This is what children look like in the Happy Place:

George

Cece

Oh my God how HAPPY is that?? You can see why we call it the Happy Place, eh? Check out how my brother feels about it. Spoiler alert: HE LOVES IT TOO.

In case you were wondering, The Happy Place is in Wisconsin. So all those folks scouring the globe for a place of peace and happiness and parties featuring rude beer and roasted pigs, stop looking in tropical or exotic locations. A little bit southeast of the Wisconsin Dells is all you need to know.

Anyway, back to my story. It all happened several summers ago. There we were, enjoying the Happy Place. Now, it’s important to know that over its history as a vacation destination, the Happy Place once hosted two resorts and one campground. The campground remains, but the resorts have all given way to more upscale lakeside homes (which may or may not always come with more upscale residents). But on any given weekend in summer, the lake is crawling with boats, jet skis, swimmers, fishermen and other water babies. On any given weekend in winter, the lake is packed full of ice houses and fisherman who, for some demented reason, think that it is fun to drill a hole in the ice and sit there until a fish grabs hold. Clearwater Resort is gone, in its place (but at the top of the hill instead of lakeside) is the tacky and lovable Boondock’s Bar (home of the aforementioned Karaoke Bob. Don’t put in too many songs, he won’t call you).

It is safe to say that upon the thousands and thousands of bodies that have taken to the water over the years, sooner or later, someone is going to have a little dookie. You know what I mean. Number two. Pinch one off. Doodie in the pool. A dump, if you will. In the water. In its history, an Illinois politician who shall remain nameless may have been one of those who took the Browns to the Superbowl at the back of the lake, only, you know, the Browns were a poop and the Superbowl is Lake Jordan. You probably didn’t need me to explain that.

Anyway, as we enjoyed the back of the lake that hot summer afternoon, I heard a familiar voice call for my attention.

“Hey Kid!”

It was my father.

My parents have five children. Carrie, Tommy, Laura, Amy and Marney. And in his lifetime, my father has actually used those names only a handful of times. We are all called, affectionately, Kid, Stosh, Gertrude or Ike. In trouble? Thy name is Clown. In super trouble and about to get hit? You’re called Pal, and you better duck. Call out any of those monikers while we are together, and all of us will turn. But, I was being called Kid, so clearly, I was not in trouble.

“Hey Kid!”

I turn.

“Catch.”

*toss*

In slow motion, I saw it. Being hurdled at me. Brown. Stiff. Log-like.

*smack*

It hits me.

“Dad just threw dookie at Marney!!!!!!!!” Laura shouts.

There was the evidence, floating in the water. My father, upon spotting dookie in the water, thought, “Hmmmmm, what should I do with this? Oh look, there’s my youngest child, I better throw it at her.”

And so it was.

Thus began the family legend of how my father threw dookie at me. Now, to this day, he SWEARS it was just a stick, and I suppose that is possible. Water-logged branchery submerged in Lake Jordan is plentiful, and certainly takes on a dookie-like appearance. And of course, after being doused with dung, I screamed like a little girl and swatted it away, so I certainly didn’t inspect it a la Bill Murray.

Still, I prefer to say that my father, when listing his life achievements, can put “I threw dookie at my kid” somewhere near the top. Or, perhaps, the bottom (bah-dum-dum).

My father turned 71 years old this week. Brought into this world on August 17, 1939, he’s still as sassy as ever — dookie throwing abilities and all. So when you see him, wish him a Happy Birthday.  But be careful at the Happy Place. He’ll throw dookie at you, too.

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Dude… for real

Actual conversation this evening between myself and Mr. Wonderful:

Marney, at sink, washing dishes: “I’m having issues with you, dude.”

Jim: “What?”

Marney, holding up turkey baster, when there has been no turkey or other assorted meat in need of basting cooked in this house in months: “This. What the hell did you do with this?”

Jim: “Oh. Did you clean it good?”

Marney: “Did you use this on the toilet?”

Jim, furiously rinsing the baster under the running water: “I used it on the toilet.”

Marney: “THROW IT AWAY.”

Jim: “It wasn’t the pee water.”

Marney: *blink*

Jim, tossing baster in garbage can: “You need to get a new baster.”

Sweet mercy.

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Product placement – literally!

So those of us who tend toward the thrifty side are well acquainted with the “store brand.” Back in the day, these would have just been referred to as “generics.” I remember the Franks Grocery Store — the very one where my older than Dirt sister and her even older husband met back when the 80’s were a brand new decade and feathered hair was a sign of masculinity — had an actual “generic” aisle, where you could buy boxes of goods that were stamped with the product name prominently in black and white: Crackers. Spaghetti. Cereal. Corn Beef Hash.

Loading up your cart with the black and white generics was rather embarrassing, as if you might as well have written across your forehead, “WE ARE SUPER POOR!!!!” Of course, that was until people realized that generics were basically exactly the same as name brand stuff. Then, in an apparent effort to lure in a  kindler, gentler generation of cheapskates, “they” devised an evil genius plan: store brands.

Now, not only has the stigma been lifted from buying the generic brand, but it’s pretty much encouraged. What used to be embarrassing black and white labels are now chic “private labels.” Nice. And you know them by heart. WalMart has “Equate” and “Sam’s Choice” and “Great Value.”  You can pick up products labeled “Equaline” and “Farmstand” and “Shoppers Value” and “O Organics.” And nothing makes me happier than loading up my cart with these cheaper versions of the exact same name-brand items and watching the savings add up.

That said, I’m not real sure that everyone was paying close attention when someone suggested “Up & Up” as a name for a generic brand. Something tells me that when Target picked up this brand for some products sold in their pharmacy, maybe, just maybe, they didn’t really pay attention to what they were actually peddling:

Kind of creates a whole new meaning for the phrase, “product placement,” don’t you think? I’m just sayin’.

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Dear Creepy Gymnast Girl at LA Fitness,

Hello there. Do you remember me? My name is Marney, and I am the older, fatter girl who was in the trainer room last night. You remember me, right? See, I was on the mat, alternating my reverse crunches with my swissball jackknives. Yeah, I know, it’s funny to watch that. But yes, that was me.

I don’t quite know HOW you could have missed me. There I was, getting ready to do my jackknives, which are hard as hell and yes, I occasionally fall off the ball and make quite the thundering sound when my flab smacks the mat. But I always laugh and get back on. Yet for some reason, and despite the fact that you are no bigger than 4-feet tall, you felt the need to come to that same mat, spread your legs in a T-split, and begin to bounce. ALL THE LIVE LONG DAY. You literally put your foot directly in front of me, even though my ginormous mass was only taking the spot of ONE person. Yet you were taking the place of 4 people.

Remember what I did? How I almost rolled right over your foot. That was fun for me. You kind of got the picture — you moved to the other mat, but continued to do your bizarre bouncy splits routine. Side splits. Front splits. Side splits. Front splits. Over and over. You know what? While I was back doing reverse crunches, and my butt was pointed at you, I ALMOST squeaked out a fart to get you to go away. But I didn’t. I should have, then maybe you would have stopped what I can only describe as acrobatic pornography. At one point, you began to thrust.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I too know how much fun it can be to grab the attention of the male species at the gym. I have, from time to time, realized that a young handsome meathead was staring at my vast chest, and purposely dipped just a little further over during my deadlifts. Seriously, especially when he is like, 22. Sure, maybe he has a Mommy complex, but still, it’s fun to be ogled, even though the feminist hiding in the back of my head is shouting STOP IT! I read Cosmo. I get it.

Remember when I left the mats? I went upstairs to run on the treadmill. I ran for 30 minutes. And when I was done, and I came back down the stairs, there you were, still on the mats, still in the splits. You know what? We get it. You are super flexible. You can jump from standing into a T-split. You know what? Dudes don’t dig that. Do you think they want you to stand over them and do that? You will snap their junk right off, sister! Stop it already.

Then I went into the sauna. I admit, I have no idea what the sauna is supposed to do. I just like the feeling of a good warm sweat. Also, I was the only one in there, which meant that I could sing along with the array of songs stacked on my MP3 player — Miley Cyrus, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Trisha Yearwood, all mashed together. Though I really belted it out to “Walking in Memphis,” the Marc Cohn version, not that crappy country release. I emerged 15 minutes later, and there you were. In the locker room. With one leg up on the counter in a display of flexibility. You were talking on your phone. Apparently, the person you were talking with really, really wanted to hear you sing the dance-mix version of Taylor Swift’s “You Belong With Me,” which was playing over the gym’s speakers. Because you sure did sing it loud. Into your phone. While doing the splits on the makeup counter.

I noticed at this point that you caught my eye. I’m sorry, you were right. I was staring at you. More specifically, I was trying to will you to shut the hell up and leave. It didn’t work.

Well, creepy gymnast girl at LA Fitness, I hope you are feeling good and limber this morning, I don’t really know how you could feel anything else. You sure are stretchy. But I do hope that I don’t have to deal with your flexing and thrusting again anytime soon. My husband was not there with me, but he would have told you to move your skinny ass out of his space. For some reason, he’s not shy at the gym. I just hope I get skinny and awesomely buff soon, because I’m not sure I can take that shit ever again.

Thanks for your time,

Marney

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