And now, a note.
I have a giant, giant puppy named Luna. Bub the hub and I are one of those obnoxious couples who will do our very best to convince you to rescue an animal that needs rescuing as opposed to purchasing a designer dog. Our two dogs and our obese grumpy cat - all of whom are monochromatic and I'm not sure what that says about me - are rescues. (Although at some point in my life I would like to have a Great Pyranese as they look like a ginormous, white snuffalupagus).
Anyhoo. Luna is the newest, and we've had her for 9 months - we have put together that she wasn't abused in any way but probably just sort of stuck in someone's backyard and never really paid attention to. She was unfamiliar with the usual human-dog interactions, namely snuggling and affection.
At first when we tried to snuggle with her, she would give us that look usually reserved for women who have accidentally found themselves boinking some guy that believes that jackhammering is the end all, be all of sexual divinity. You know the one - "I hope you're getting something out of this because I sure as shit am not".
Then slowly but surely, she started to get into it a little bit but still didn't quite get it. She would lay somewhere within the proximity of one of us, put her giant paw in one of our faces and give us a hopeful look like "Is this a thing? Cause I feel like this should be a thing".
And now, finally, after months of practicing, she will calmly lay down next to one of us and let us snuggle her for quite a bit before going about her usual business of eating all of Bub's socks or re-arranging the living room furniture through the lost art of hopping.
My point is - much like Luna I am a little rough around the edges, I realize, but I am quite nice if given the chance, I promise. I shall be loyal and kind and only really show my teeth if someone messes with you. And will only eat a sock if left alone too long. I will like you. (I have multiple in-real-life friends who have told me they were nervous to befriend me because they didn't think I would like them. Is that a thing? Cause I don't think that should be a thing.)
And now that I've proclaimed myself to be nice, I promise, I'm going to unleash a torrent of nasty bitterness on you because where the mother eff else can I? I'm going to let it out because otherwise I will be emotionally constipated and I already have enough of that to worry about this holiday season.
Do you ever have something that you would really, really like to like but just can't? Like sushi. Or jazz. Or Anne Hathaway.
Such is my relationship with positive thinking as of late. I would really like to be a positive thinker, and aside from my snarky sense of humor (it's my style, people) I like to think I usually am. Recently, however, even when I try the previously fail-safe method of cheering myself up via the magic of Christmas, it ends up coming out more like this:
Now when it comes to baby-making I am actually doing better, emotionally, this holiday season than I was last.
This year it's more of a Clark Griswold, slightly-crazy-but-mostly-numb twinge of bitterness, whereas last year it was a sadness as if everyday from sun up to sun down I was forced to watch the slaughter of puppies dressed as reindeer. I'll take Clark bitterness over puppy-snuff sadness any day of the week.
It's all the lurking, creepy babies. Babies, babies, everywhere there are babies and they're out to get me. (This is not a conspiracy theory I tell you! One day it will be a Dateline story and you will believe, oh yes you will, about the Christmas when babies came out of the woodwork to assure Jenny's committal to the nuthouse).
Tis the season, evidently, of facebook pregnancy announcements. Here's a picture of my toddler holding up an ultrasound photo. Here's an ultrasound with a joke underneath it about the consequences of alcohol (womp womp). Here's an ultrasound with a little message about Santa bringing something a little extra in his sleigh this year! (barf).
Now, on the one hand should I get pregnant I don't want to totally deny myself all the things those fucking fertiles get, like making facebook announcements. On the other hand, being an infertile, I know that everytime someone announces a pregnancy on Facebook an angel in heaven loses it's wings, plummets to the earth and is crushed/disemboweled by pavement in front of school children.
So I'm really not sure I would do a facebook announcement, but if I caved and did it it would go something like this - "Bub and I are making humans. Absorb this information. For peeks into my womb buy me dinner first."
Another point - and forgive me for saying this if forgiveness is needed - I don't give a flying fuck about Kate Middleton.
I didn't give a shit about her when she was getting married. I didn't give a shit about her when they tried to turn her into a Hallmark channel movie. While the rest of the world was up watching a wedding I was asleep. I definitely don't give a shit about the 10 page articles dedicated exclusively to her hats and I sure as shit don't need to hear about her being knocked up.
I will though... Oh but we all will. We're in for 6 months of royal baby watch. It is inescapable. And unless it emerges from her vagina already wearing an over-the-top hat, I am not interested.
Mind you - I understand that when a celebrity gets pregnant there is crazy coverage and I have enough problems with that. (Gawd help Jennifer Aniston if/when she gets knocked up). But usually they at least give you a couple of issues of People magazine between updates.
I love you, UK. You have produced the loveliest people, music, books, and you are by far a much more sane and logical country than the US. I have many-a-time thought about running away from here and into your arms.
But fuck me... why, at the end of the revolutionary war, did our forefathers not make the UK sign something that said we do not have to deal with royalty in the tabloids on a daily basis? Why did they not foresee (they were forefathers after all) my wanting to open a people magazine without half of it being dedicated to the womb of royalty? You dropped the ball, forefathers, you dropped the ball. If I had a time machine I would deal with that first before I went on to anything silly like the constitution.
Also, seeing as I've been home nursing a kidney stone I have been watching some terrible daytime TV. Note to residents of the US of A: If you find yourself wanting to call the Maury Povich show to see if your husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/wife is cheating, they are. If you are unsure of who the father of your baby is and think to yourself "obviously the best way to handle this is to go on a daytime talk show" then at least ask yourself in this day and age if there is any possible way that this video isn't going to resurface when your child is older.
I'm thinking if I was 12, and my friends & I were fiddling around with this magical invention called youtube and up pops a video of my mother testing 5 different men, and then hurling her ginormous body onto the floor sobbing when none of them is my father... that would be a rough day.
Also, if you're in the grocery store maybe try to keep an eye on where your kids are. I completely get losing them - something I would totally do, believe me - I don't understand how long it has to take before you realize they're gone. As I was avoiding eye contact with all the Kate Middletons peering at me from their covers in line this morning, I had a child wrap themselves around my leg, hacking and sneezing the black death onto my jeans. It was a good 6-7 minutes before their Mom rescued me and proclaimed "omg I didn't even realize she was missing!". Awesome. I guarantee you I will notice in a few days when my ability to breathe without coughing is missing.
End of Rant.
I'm nice, I promise. I am just incapable of bullshit (and poop in general this time o year) and this is how I'm feeling.
Back to our regularly scheduled programming.