Entirely not appropriate

Today, I would like to share a post with you that I wrote just about a year ago today. Melissa as Such Simple Pleasures invites bloggers to re-post an old story from their archives on Saturdays. Here's my post from one year ago yesterday:

Today is the day one of my 157th* period. That number should be a lot higher, but I got to take of a lot of months off due to some fantastically awesome birth control, and a lot more months due to some fantastically failed birth control. Nursing took a chunk out of that number. So, in almost 19 years, I have pulled off only having to do this shit 157 times.

And after 19 long years of reproductivity, of mature womanhood, I have but one thing to say:

This shit still motherfucking sucks. I have a goddamn inner-tube of pain. Grrrr.

But, being National Compliment Day, I will be cheery and nice while I eat a whole carton of Bon Bons and chase it with a bag of the saltiest chips money can buy.

Ready?

Wow, you are totally awesome. You are so funny and witty and nice. Did I mention cute? Dude, you are way smoking. The pants make you ass look fantastic! Did you do something different with your hair? New pomade? Are those highlights going on in there? Whatever it is, keep doing it for sure. You don't look a day over 28, seriously! And that thing you said the other day? Sheer poetry. You simply blow my mind. How did I ever get so lucky as to have you for a friend?

*Yes, I actually busted out a calculator for this post. Sad, isn't it? Any hobby suggestions?

Good to know that not much has changed in a year, huh?

Valentine's applications are still rolling in!

Should be filed under "Inner Monologe"

Things I have lost:

• My keys (over and over again)
• Other people's keys
• My wallet
• My purse
• Scrabble
• My mind (that was fun)
• My children (recovered shortly thereafter under clothing rack at Old Navy)
• My wedding ring (intentionally)
• Risk
• My shit
• Every watch I've ever owned
• Every race I've ever run
• A job
• Battleship
• Pole Position
• My cell phone

And there is one more thing I've lost, and I lost it 14 short years ago today, and there is no way to further this conversation without crossing my imaginary line I have drawn.

But, well, you know. You really know.

Hey, you asked for it

I can't believe I'm actually doing this. I have been putting off this post for years. But I had to go and add the stupid category into the stupid poll and now I have to write this stupid post.

Sex. We're going to talk about sex. I'm totally fine talking about sex normally; I've had THE TALK with both boys, my doctor and I have no secrets, and if I'm in a room with a little too much football talk, I have no problem in the world saying "Vagina", not too but almost too loud for comfort. That word hushes a crowd, let me tell you.

See? There? Totally dodging the subject.

Have your kids ever walked in on you? If they haven't, they're gonna. Soon, probably. I walked in on my dad once, when I was 18. So. Not. Cool.

Grrr, I'm off topic again.

Ok, I'm just going to come out and say it. One day, 1of3 walked in on mommy and daddy at a rather inconvenient time for walking in on mommy and daddy. He wasn't older than 1 year; he was still 1of1 at the time. So, he walked in, and god knows how long he stood there before he said, "Momma? Daddy? Momma! DADDY!!!" And then he ran over, and then he started punching his daddy.

Good for him, taking care of his mom like that.

While dad was trying to stop the beating, 1of3 kept saying, "Daddy, what doing MOMMA?" Daddy's reply, and this is where it pays to think on your feet, was, "Daddy's bouncing on momma! Do YOU want to bounce on momma, too?"

Hell yes he did. Bouncin's what 1of3's do best. And so began the happiest fun time ever, Operation Permission to Jump on Momma. Momma almost ended up with a collapsed lung and a broken nose, but momma has one un-scarred-for-life baby boy.

So when they walk in on you, and they will, I certainly hope you remember this little parenting tip. And otherwise, I seriously hope that you forget that I discussed my sex life in any small way with you.

One Line Means NO

It doesn't matter at all that I already knew the answer was no; it makes no difference whatsoever that I have a full military installment complete with camouflage suits and nonoxynol-9 laced grenades and barbed-wire fences and little interest at all in the Geneva Convention stationed at my cervix. It's guerrilla warfare they're waging, keeping my borders safe. No sir-ee; you watch me sit for over a week with chemotherapy nausea, and you will watch me totally convince myself that I am pregnant.

I have a routine for this sort of thing:

• Suspect that I am pregnant


• Sit for a few weeks in complete denial (while throwing up and watching my boobs apply for their own time zones)


• Get a test at closest market in the middle of the night


• Take test in closest bathroom (I took 1of3's in the bathroom of a Ruby Tuesday's; home was just too far {a whole MILE away} to wait)


• Confirm suspicions


• Smoke a pack of cigarettes right then and there


• Quit smoking, but pretend to keep smoking to remove any suspicions from home


• Freak the fuck out for several days/weeks/months


• Tell Josh right about the time I'm starting to show

This time I thought I'd do it a little differently. I told Josh I was worried, to which he said, "Hmmm", and I made him go buy me a test. That's more fun than sending them off for tampons, I tell ya. And, of course, I'm not.

And I'm out $15 bucks.

And, of course, I am totally convinced that I have a tapeworm or something. Seriously, I never get nauseous.

And surprisingly enough, even though I know it would be the single dumbest thing I may ever have done in my life, I am slightly disappointed. Why, I will never know. I just am.