Sorry. Puke. Must update. Need help. Enter Allison. Say hi to her. Now. It gives me strength. Must. Vomit. Godspeed.
Dear Friends of Brittany’s Blog-
I’m here today because Brittany has been feeling under the weather. It is most likely due to the start of college football season, which has led to some sort of sick, queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She is probably realizing that Ohio State is going to once again blow its load midway through the season and falter yet again in the postseason.
Speaking of blowing loads…Britt’s pregnant.
Which is the real reason I’m here.
Sure, she’s going to post all sorts of fun “test tube babies”, “my tits are leaking”, “is it weird to pee your pants even if it’s just a tinkle?” blogs, but the reality is that she lives vicariously through me and my obnoxious, childless, unmarried behavior.
I suppose I should admit to the fact that I am engaged. I became engaged this June on my 34th birthday. I’m not going to lie, the idea of marriage, mortgages and mini-me’s scares the shit right out of me. Maybe it’s because of the fact that during sex I find myself staring into the closet wondering why I’m holding on to my fuchsia pink Guess heels from 2005. Or that I desperately need to throw away my Gap jean jacket from 1999. But, honestly, I’m sick of buying jean jackets. Those things come and go. So, I have held onto it in the hopes that when jean jackets come back in 2014 I won’t have to spend $40 to buy a new one. Yes, it’s already three sizes too small, but I’m working on it.
Other things I am currently working on: My addiction to birth control pills, how to lay off the red wine and vodka once I kick the pills habit, and how to convince the fiance that you can’t buy a wedding dress for $200 (well, I suppose you could, but I was trying to avoid the Isaac Mizrahi
line at Target just this once).
Let’s start with the birth control pills (i.e. kids). Where to begin? Here’s my issue. I have four nieces and one nephew. Being an Auntie is the best! However, I have realized through some of my more dip-shit related moves that I might not quite be ready to do it on my own.
1. You can not give a six-month old lettuce. They are not able to chew it, which leads to minor choking. (Hey, I was just encouraging healthy eating).
2. Yes, you are a super fucking cool auntie if you give a two-year old a chocolate-covered Oreo in the middle of a heat wave for the two-hour drive back to mommy’s house. No, it is NOT super cool when you look in the rear view mirror and it looks like a shit-bomb went off all over your leather seats.
3. It’s better to just not get into discussions about why Vanessa Hudgens took photos of her vagina. There’s just no way to ease out of it comfortably.
4. Under no circumstances are you allowed to leave a chocolate-covered (see Oreo dilemma above) two-year old asleep in a car seat while you run into a rest stop to pee. And trust me, the thought crossed my mind. Because frankly, when they sleep, you do not disturb. But, when you gotta go and there’s still 60 miles left in the journey, you are simply fucked all around. I do not like being fucked with when I have to pee. Nor do I enjoy any sort of fucking/peeing combo. Just FYI.
5. If I want to be the sibling that is hung over on Christmas day, that is my right. I am not the one who decided to have kids before the age of 47. So, I would appreciate it if my siblings did not encourage all four nieces to jump on me at 5:45 a.m., a mere two hours after I’ve rested my head. I honestly don’t give a shit that Santa ate the cookies or left a bike without training wheels. I already know what I’m getting and it’s called a $25 gift card to Chevron (approximately 1/4 of a tank, btw). Woo hoo. Let me jump right out of bed kiddies.
The thing about finally letting go of my youth and the birth control pills is that I’m going to have to seriously clean up my act. For at least nine months. However, I’ve heard rumors about things passing through the system and into the milk, so I feel like this could go on for a lot longer than nine months. Also, since I’m rapidly approaching my late 30s, it is likely that I will pop out two little bundles of rehab back-to-back, thus changing the entire course of my being.
And, let’s just address the elephant in the room. I’m blogging because this bitch is too sick to do her own normal day to day shit.
Needless to say, I’m nervous. Right now I’m practicing with a kitten named Sanchez. Which we named after a Dirty Sanchez. Yes, as I said, I need to clean up my act. Anyway, when the kitten awakens me at 5 a.m. because he is hungry, I simply throw him out of the bedroom, shut the door and tend to him when my alarm goes off two hours later. Something tells me that’s not going to fly with babies.
Simply put: I’m starting to realize that I would rather reorganize my closet than have sex, I’m going to be denied my favorite beverages, and I will be sleep-deprived for approximately four years. Bring on marriage, bitches!
Speaking of which. I’ll be sure to send Brittany a photo of me on my wedding day. The fiance has set a budget of no more than $300 for the dress. He’s hoping for closer to $200. I don’t even know what the fuck to write about that. Yes I do. Send donations to Brittany. She can have half for Huggies and I’ll take the other half for my Vera Wang knock off.
Cheers everyone! (Don’t worry, Brittany. I’ll drink yours for you).