You Will Be Assimilated. Resistance is Futile.

We are not Canadians.  We have to get on our hands and knees and beg re-apply annually to live here.  Someday, they're going to get wise to us and throw our asses out.  Because of this, because we know it's coming eventually, we hold on to our Americanismness with clenched, white knuckles.  We celebrate the FOURTH of July, it's currently 41 degrees outdoors, not 4.  You know, American.

When nameless Canadian friends who live mere minutes from me but fear getting outed as a closet geek *ahemzoeyjane* say things like "You will be assimilated," we just laugh and go right on with our Yank ways until one day, we're on the phone with an American friend and we try to say that we're pr-ah-cessing something and then we stop, stutter, backtrack and say pr-oh-cessing something...."

Oh, fuck, we're totally Canadian, eh.

Since we're now all a bunch of hosers, we've decided to apply for Permanent Residency.  That means we get to live here for 5 whole years before I have to start flashing immigration officers we have to re-apply again.  That means that it doesn't matter where we work, because my husband's job will not be the only reason we're allowed to be here.  That means that I will not have to answer 5,000 questions every time I have to cross the border into or out of America.

That means we're making a commitment for the first time in our adult lives.  And it's scaring the crap out of us.  It's like buying a house, except instead of "house" it's a "whole freaking country."  Which still won't let us vote.  Bygones.

We've been talking about what that entails, becoming permanent residents with capital letters, and aside from the shitty things (re-importing the cars, etc) we have to start thinking about some medical business.

If we're going to try to get 5 unconditional years here, there's a chance they'll say Hell No and then not renew us when we're up next.  This kind of puts the pressure on us to get some things done that are covered under our MSP (the dreaded socialist health care...oooooo) before they get the chance to kick us to the curb.  And by "things", naturally I mean "balls."

We've officially decided that we're not having any more kids.  We've officially decided that The Donor drew the short end of the stick on this one, mainly because now he'll know when we get a dude for a mailman.  We've had several long, drawn out discussions about whether or not we're really really sure we're done, and in the end I said that I was done making babies and he said "Good, because I'm so done with you making babies."

No ladies, he's not available, thanks for asking.

Maybe we'll foster a child someday when we have a bigger house, but daddy's getting the old snip-snip.  Soon.  Before he chickens out soon.

We were talking about it last night and he was saying how he was nervous (naturally), how he didn't think he could make the appointment.  I tried to make it all about me reassure him by reminding him that someone's ass once came out of my vagina and a few minutes on ice was nothing compared to that pain, and of course he countered with "You're not going to make me feel bad about that; you were built for it.  My boys weren't built for razor blades."

And no, he doesn't have any brothers either, girls.  Sorry.

Then he mentioned that he was afraid of something else, too, and I asked what.  He said he was afraid that he would lose the, um, desire, after the procedure.  That he'd be afraid to test out the re-vamped tool kit.  You know, like Peter Griffin did in that Family Guy episode.  I kindly reminded him that I gained 105 pounds carrying the seed of his over-zealous loins, that I incurred the wrath of the Frankenvulva pushing his son's big, beautiful, perfectly round head out, that I was afraid to sit down for two months after our son was born, and that if he wanted to know about losing your will to fuck, I could tell him all about it.

13 years later, I can still take his breath away.   It's a beautiful thing, really.  But he's still getting the damn vasectomy.

Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down

I am all about a little well-placed bondage.

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There's no decent or moral way to segue out of that, so I'll spare you, sufficed to say that I am more than capable of staying absolutely still when necessity dictates it so.  Usually.  Only when it's awesome.

What's not awesome is having some unknown thing totally freaking wrong with you.  I have seen SO MANY doctors trying to figure out what the hell is causing certain parts of my body to wage global-thermo-nuclear-warfare on certain other parts of my body, and none of them have found anything wrong with me.  So I decided to up the ante.  I found A) a good doctor who B) actually asks a question on occasion.  And unlike the 8,327 other doctors who all took enough of my sacred blood out of me with their sharp, pointy needles and their rubber bands to keep all your precious Twilight characters quite youthful and angsty for sequels to come, this one said, "Hey, let's have a look-see at your spine!"

See, my back is NOT awesome.  My back is trying to audition for Cirque De Soliel without the rest of me.  My back wants to be the next Hot Wheels Christmas season racetrack.  My back can bite me.  When I was in 4th grade and they did those spine checks that they do at school, well, they did at MY school, shut up, they threw around words like 'scoliosis' and 'that's not going to be fun later'.  The last time I had x-rays on my spine, 10 years ago, my chiropractor said, "Um, okay.  We'll be seeing a LOT of you for the next rest of your life."  And then I heard the sound of a very distinct "Cha-ching!"  I would have kept seeing him, because god knows he helped, but I never could get over the fact that every time I was within 20 feet of him, all I could think was SERIAL KILLER TOE SUCKING LIVER EATER.  Which is really not cool when he's got your neck in his creepy hands.  Good thing I was 80 pounds overweight in the not-hot way or I know I'd be living in his ice box right now.  I don't like to be cold, yo.  Or dead.

The point is that my the bones in my cervical spine (neck) curve the wrong way, that the middle of my spine is (or was, last time we checked) spinning around like a drunk ballerina, and 10 years ago, my lumbar vertebrae (lower spine) had condensed themselves down from many to one, just like the borg.  Awesome.

I spend a lot of time being fairly uncomfortable in various places.  Ibuprofen is my BFF.  It gets much worse when it's that time of the month, which has sent me and a mess of doctors on an endometriosis goose-chase, with the end result being a very conclusive Maybe.  But today at 4:30, I get to harness all of my pent up bad girl bondage diggin' aggression on one of these babies:



Yeah, that's not hot.  That's all the "Don't you move a damn muscle" and "bossy people in uniform" without the snuggle and the smoke after.  I am actually completely nervous about the whole thing, which is odd only because I have had 2 full, long, glorious months to get used to the idea (God bless you, Canadian Health Care system.)  That?  Does not look fun.  That looks like less fun than driving through the Holland Tunnel, and the last time I drove through the Holland Tunnel, I spent the whole time throwing up in the paper bag I was supposed to be hyperventilating into.  And I doubt they'll let me take pictures, which means it won't even be fun for you.

Wanna know what totally does rock about it?  That my husband about did a cartwheel when I told him this was happening, not because his wife might finally be able to shut the fuck up already with her whining find out why she hurts all the time, but because he thought for one fleeting moment that they'd make me remove my nosering that I've never taken out, and don't even know how to, before they put me in that big, sci-fi nightmare, living casket thing.

And he was SO wrong.  Haha, sucka.

Afternoon Delights

So, I've been running around my house reading the ingredients on a few things. The Febreeze plug-in air freshener thing? .... Lysol spray?..... The air filter in the furnace?....

Not one of them lists pheromones in the ingredients. Funny, that, because I live in a house with the four horniest people I have ever met.

The middle kid locks the door to the bathroom when he showers, and 30 minutes after he's gone in, when I am praying for having enough hot water left to wash a few dishes, I knock. I tell him to get out already. HE HASN'T EVEN STARTED WASHING HIMSELF. You know and I know and god knows what he was doing.

The toddler can get her legs into this position on the couch, when the mood strikes her, that I have tried in the interests of spicing things up for the mister, only to be laughed at loudly by several of my more important joints, just because she's discovered that her belly ain't the only button she's got.

The oldest one. I can't ever talk about this again. Deals have been struck and I get to remain almost totally blissfully unaware.

I will spare you the content of the nightstand on my husband's side of the bed. I will also spare you the contents of his desk drawer. Let's just say that the children have been threatened under pain of death to never open either. And he has been threatened the same, at least in my presence.

Is there a point here? No. But if I have to suffer through living in a Las Vegas Sex Club, I am totally dragging you all down with me.

Everything you never wanted to know about my boobs

If you want to read about the 27 3/4 months I spent as a hotel, you are more than welcome to go check them out here, here and here. Today, however, I would like to talk about the 25 months I spent as a restaurant.

Kid One: Born big and juicy and fat. Nursed like a rock star from the get go. He was the poster child for the La Leche League. My friend and I had our babies right at the same time, and both breast-fed, and we pumped together during the kids' afternoon nap. Imagine, if you will, two cows at a dining room table. We could fill a table full of little baggies of milk in, like, 20 minutes. It was almost gross, we had so much milk. We made milk bags, milk ice-cubes, milk popsicles, everything.

My plan was to nurse for a year.

I worked, full time, when 1of3 was little. My husband also worked, just at night. We rotated night time feedings, him taking the 2-in-the-morning-ish one, because that's when he got home from work. Our son couldn't care less if he had a bottle or a boobie. They warned me that he'd prefer a bottle if we introduced it; they lied. He was cool with me, he was cool with dad. He was the best baby ever.

When he was about 5 months old, someone started stealing cash out of the basement office I worked in, so the management installed a video camera to try and catch the thief. The video camera went right over the safe, which was conveniently located right next to the only outlet in the whole basement. My choices were this: Pump on camera or stop pumping. Guess which one I chose. 1of3 took to formula right away. I think he preferred it, really. He was one of those babies that couldn't handle dairy or broccoli or beans or eggs or almost anything I ate. Once we busted out some soy formula, his tummy felt much better. After a week or so of working all day, coming home, trying to pump solid, red boulders, and leaking all over my work shirts, I just threw in the towel. He couldn't have cared less.

Kid Two: Born healthy and happy and itty bitty. Didn't latch on quite as well. I mean, he was ok, it just wasn't awesome, you know? And he totally preferred one boob. And he totally couldn't (and still can't) pay attention to anything for more than 32 seconds at a time. He'd be all, "Boobies!" and a second later he'd be all "Spot on the wall!" and then a second later he'd be all, "Nap!"

My plan was to nurse for a year.

Fucking snacker.

My milk ducts started to back up. I had to pump almost full time, because, see, he's get my milk all flowing and then flat out refuse to nurse. Shit hurts, yo. Pumpedy pump pump pump. He would fuss with me, just a little, but almost every time he nursed. He never nursed for more than a minute or two on either boob, but for sure not on the right. This left me with one awesome DD boobie and one awesome C boobie. And the milk ducts eventually got totally blocked and totally infected.

My husband had no clue what I was talking about. The kid ate just fine for him. The kid never fussed for him. Grrr. One day, when 2of3 was 4 months old and particularly hideous, I said screw it. I said, 'To hell with it, I'm giving this kid a bottle.'

He sucked down a 9 ounce bottle of formula in Less than a Minute.

The kid was starving. The kid hated nursing. I never, ever once tried to nurse him after that day. I pumped out the milk I had to in order to kill the pain and threw it out. He was perfect after that.

Kid Three: Born happy and healthy and little. Had a ton of complications at birth that got her one awesome night in the penthouse suite of the hospital, the NICU. Don't think that bill didn't make our head spin. But this was kid three. No one was giving her a bottle, damn it.

My plan was to nurse for a year.

The first day I got to have her with me, she nursed for 8 hours STRAIGHT. I am not exaggerating. She loved my boobies more than anyone ever has. I let her, because, well, she'd just spent the night in the NICU, and I was worried. In the next day or two, the doctors for some reason I can't remember (she wasn't pooping or peeing or some bullshit) told me I had to supplement her. Fuck you, I'm not giving her a bottle. No way.

And then Gigi and Auntie N came to visit. And then I realized that Auntie N giving her a bottle would be a fabulous way to bond. So, I caved, and her auntie got to give her a bottle. Which was so sweet I could have died. And that was the end of the bottles. I was full-time at home, so dad never needed to feed her. I didn't ever leave her side, so she never really saw a bottle again.

Her first birthday came. By then I was so fucking over it, there are no words. Josh and I were split up and I wasn't so keen on anyone touching me. This kid would not stop. She was eating ice cream and hot dogs and shit; there was no need to keep nursing her.

She had different ideas.

She nursed until she was, oh, god, 17 months or so. I have never been so ready to quit anything in my whole life.

To this very day, she is unnaturally drawn to my boobies. When she gets really upset, or really tired, she doesn't want anything but to nuzzle in on my chest. I know she doesn't remember why, but I also know that they are still her security blanket.

I said all of that to say this: Every kid is different. Every mom is different. Every experience anyone ever has nursing a child is different. Just look at me: same person, three totally different experiences. It doesn't always work. And that is totally ok. What matters, in the end, is that the kid gets fed. Sometimes, it's ok to quit. Sometimes, it's important to quit. Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to sell you something.

Ooops!

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!