Spaz

I'm a spaz. My father was a spaz before me.  I'm fairly certain I have also passed on the spaz gene, and we are anxious to see which of our brood will be the spazziest of them all. I have my money on Thing1, our eldest.

As a child, I suffered from mild insomnia.  I say this, but I don't actually know what a clinical diagnosis of insomnia involves.  I'm trying to make this sound important.  But basically I had a very vivid imagination, and I would replay terrifying images over and over again in my head once the lights were turned off at night and frighten myself so badly that I wouldn't be able to sleep (ThePrince:"What do you mean 'as a child'? You do this now, all the time."). Whenever this happened, I would find my way to my parents' bedside, watching them sleep, not wanting to wake them but very much wanting their comfort. My dad slept on the side of the bed closest to the door, so I'd usually stand there and stare at him for several minutes before tentatively reaching out a small hand to nudge him awake.

He wakes up like someone is raping him in the ass.

His whole body jerks wildly and he sits up with a slack jaw and wild eyes, shout-screaming into the dark silence.

BabyWailingDuck's Dad: "AAH!!  AAAHH!!!  WHAAAAA!! AAAAAAAAAH!!!"

BabyWailingDuck: "AAAH!!  NOOOO!!!" *sobs*

Other times, if he was watching TV or otherwise absorbed in some task and you needed to talk to him, he'd break out of his reverie with a similar overreaction.

WailingDuck: "Hey Dad?"

WailingDuck's Dad: *silence*

WailingDuck: "Dad!"

WailingDuck's Dad: "HUH! WHAT!! WHAT'S WRONG??"

WailingDuck: "Calm down! It's time to eat dinner!  You spaz."

Now that I'm grown, I'm pretty spazzy myself.  In our wedding video, there's a close-up shot of my face during our wedding vows.  ThePrince is slow.  Not dimwitted, but he does almost nothing at an expedient pace. My attractive impatient temperament ensures that his slowness drives me crazy. My spazziness means that I sometimes to react to his slowness with panic. So there's a close-up shot of my face during our wedding vows, where the officiant tells ThePrince to repeat the phrases.

Officiant: "'I, ThePrince, take you, WailingDuck.'"

ThePrince: *slight pause as he slowly takes his time to savour the moment*

WailinDuck's Face: *CRAZY PANIC EYES DID HE HEAR WHAT THE OFFICIANT SAID HE HAS TO REPEAT THE LINES OH NO HE'S NOT GOING TO MARRY ME*

ThePrince: "'I, ThePrince, take you, WailingDuck.'"

WailingDuck's Face: *Oh okay...but I'm watching you*

I'm pretty sure that my spaz tendencies have increased during pregnancy. I'm certainly more emotional, my temper is quicker, everything is in some kind of hyperdrive.  The other day we stopped in at a baby store so I could pick up a nursing bra I'd had my eye on (third baby coming up here and I have yet to find a decent nursing bra that fits my strange boobilies). I found my size, tried it on, determined it was lovely, and went to buy it.  The salesperson asked if I wanted a bag.  I did not want a bag. So I took my  new bra in its package and put it in my purse where it stuck out the top. Then we decided to walk back through the store and look at something else. I was very aware of my purchase sticking out the top of my purse without a store carrier bag to prove I had paid for it. As we were heading back to the front of the store to exit, a smiling man stopped us.

SalesGuy: "Can I help you with anything?"

WailingDuck: "I DIDN'T STEAL THIS! I PAID FOR IT! DO YOU WANT TO SEE THE RECEIPT?"

SalesGuy: (holding up his hands) "I didn't say you stole it!  I was just asking if you needed any help."

WailingDuck: "I DON'T WANT YOU TO THINK I STOLE THIS BRA! IT'S IN MY PURSE BUT THAT'S JUST BECAUSE I DIDN'T NEED A PLASTIC BAG! DO YOU WANT TO SEE THE RECEIPT?"

SalesGuy: "That's cool! That's cool. I didn't think you'd stolen it. I don't need to see your receipt."

WailingDuck: "I didn't steal it."

SalesGuy: (to ThePrince) "Your wife is kind of sensitive."

ThePrince: "Yes."

Pregnancy Ingrown Hair

I have a small painful lump on my woman parts.

I'm not sure what's going on, my guess would be an ingrown hair or some kind of pimple. The problem is that with this pregnant belly, I can't see it.  I gently caress this lump in the shower, and I've grasped my labia and tried to pull it forward into my line of sight, but it's no good.  I'm pretty sure the lump is getting bigger, and I know it's getting more painful.  Soon I'm going to have to cave and get my husband, ThePrince, to take some digital pictures of it so I can see.

I don't really want to take digital pictures of my woman parts.  Last pregnancy, when I got the hemorrhoids, the only way for me to get a gander at my thrombosed 'roid lump was for ThePrince to take close-range photos using the macro setting on our point-and-shoot camera while I held my buttcheeks apart with my hands.  The result was a collection of about 20 hi-res photos of my anus horribly disfigured by a nasty 'roid that I still can't bring myself to delete.  And then, because I had the photos, I had to offer to show them to friends. Several took me up on my offer, and now more people know what my asshole looks like than would ever be necessary for the average person.  Also?  I discovered that my anus is aging at a much faster rate than the rest of me.  To my endless horror, I found that it looked old and shrivelled and...kind of grey.  I was 29 at the time, not exactly old, and my anus looked nothing like what I recalled porn stars' anuses looking like. ThePeach, who agreed to see the pictures when I suggested them over dinner, revealed that porn stars don't have normal anuses, that they're kept beautiful by anal bleaching.  That was the first time I'd heard of this practice.  And now I live in daily shame over my 75-year-old unbleached anus, and the knowledge that many of my friends have seen it. I'm not prepared to face these kinds of harsh realities with my vagina.

ThePrince examined it for me a few nights ago, and concluded it was an ingrown hair.  He suggested I scratch at the surface of it gently to try to unearth it, so I've been doing that for several days.  Now, with layers of skin peeling off of it, it looks like a really large open blister from a distance in the mirror (if you're wondering why I don't just get a handheld mirror and look at it that way, it's because I'm having trouble with depth perception and every time I try to do this I get motion-sickness.  My pregnancy brain is unable to compute how to scratch at the lump in the mirror, and what I see and what my brain expects to see crashes together and makes me woozy).

Last night I decided I needed to trim up the foliage.  I haven't bothered waxing my yoohoo in years.  It takes too long, and I was trying to avoid this whole ingrown hair business.  Nowadays, I get out my handy dandy lady-parts trimmer and mow down the area to an eighth of an inch, then tweeze the ones that try to escape my underwear.

So like I was saying, last night I compulsively decided it was time to mow the lawn.  ThePrince suggested that this might not be the best time for it, but I jumped in the shower anyway and started buzzing away blind.  Recall, I can't see anything under my pregnant belly.  There I was, shoving the trimmer this way and that, guiding it roughly around my peeling engorged ingrown hair blister when, shockingly, blood appeared on my fingertips.  Something was bleeding!  I tried to see under my belly to determine the source of the blood but it was no use.  I got the idea that if I LAY DOWN, I might be able to see it.  So I hopped out of the shower, grabbed a few squares of toilet paper for blotting, and hoisted myself into the bed. ThePrince was confused.

ThePrince: "If you know you're bleeding, what makes you think it's a good idea to get into our bed?  With the cream-coloured sheets?"

WailingDuck: "Shhhh!!  It'll be fine!"

I then proceeded to try to arch myself in a sideways-down motion to see my crotch.  Of course, the further I leaned, the more my lower body pivoted around, so the net result was a naked pregnant woman spinning around in a bed like a dog chasing its tail.

I did end up catching a glimpse of my peeling lump and it was, indeed, bleeding.  I'm not sure how it's doing today.  I got the kids off to school, ate breakfast, and wrote this post, so I guess I'll go and see what it's up to.  Wish me luck!

A New Year, a New Blog

Here's the thing.

I used to have a blog.  I started it to kill time when I worked in the unionized IT department of a public school board and was asked to chill out and not program quite so quickly.  It was a typical masturbatory affair wherein I narcissistically wrote about myself in the self-stroking assumption that people would care.  Nobody really did, but my friends were kind enough to humour my efforts - I suspect they were also bored at work. My blog content gradually spiralled down a path of full and uncensored disclosure, often detailing my married sexcapades with my mortified husband, unfortunate sexcapades of various friends, anything out of the ordinary that happened on my body, and poo.

Since that blog was started in my mid-twenties, I didn't bother with discretionary precautions such as pseudonyms.  But the first rumblings of discontent started a few years later when friends started getting doctorate degrees, and people started creating their own businesses.  Suddenly people weren't so keen to have their professional reputations associated with stories of their ex-boyfriend's smelly dickcheese problem that kept giving them urinary tract infections.

Soon after, I quit my job and got pregnant.  With the arrival of our first baby boy, blogging our inappropriate stories was pushed to the back burner.  With the arrival of our second baby boy, blogging was removed from the stove completely and relegated to a trivet on the counter to grow mould.  With the current pregnancy of our third child (a girl, finally!), blogging was about to be scraped out into the green bin.  But the truth is, I love talking about myself, like, a lot.

So here's the decision.  A new year, a new blog.  One that doesn't have the spotty track record and real names of the previous blog.  This blog will use pseudonyms to protect the reputations of people who think that anyone important might actually read this rag.  This blog will strive for regular updates.  This blog will not let you down!  At least for the first couple of months.  Then this baby is coming out, and who knows what will happen then.