Sam's Stories

Awesome

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 06:36:00 +0000

I ate today. While that may seem a little obvious to all you readers out there that eat every day, for me it was amazing. I ate a full lunch, 3/4 of dinner, and then a late snack involving a cheesy chicken cilantro guacamole taco creation and some rice. I even made snow cones for Chicken and myself in the afternoon. I enjoyed something sweet! I have not eaten so much in one days in weeks, people. For someone that ranks the joy of eating just behind wonders of sleeping, the last two months have sucked my ass. But today, I ate. It was wonderful.

Guess what I did last night? I fucking slept. Yes, indeed I slept through the night and into the morning. I had a bizarre dream about Dude, though. He was running around with a human-sized shit hanging half out of his ass, which I pulled out with my bare hands and then attempted to smoosh it back in via his belly. It did not work (imagine my surprise) and I ended up having to bath him to get rid of the mess. I am guessing that the incident with Reina (TB's crazy-assed cat) and her attempting to WIPE HER ASS on the carpet like a dog had something to do with it. The moral of the story? Sleep is awesome, even when it involves poop dreams.

My daily schedule as of late had consisted of the following:

Feel like shit
Move from bed to couch
Whine
Make sure Chicken eats
Feel like shit on the couch
Blog about feeling like shit on the couch
Examine my failings as a wife and mother
Go to bed and fail to sleep worth a shit

However, today I fucking rocked the world. Chicken had a friend over in the morning, I took them to lunch, we met the friend's mother and 3 sisters at the library, we all went to the pool, I made snow cones, Chicken and I read together while eating snow cones. After all that I planted my ass on the couch, but I felt accomplished. Eating, sleeping, participating in life, how much fucking better can it get? Not much.

Actually, it can get better. I forgot one important thing: today I introduced Chicken to Piers Anthony. I had been searching my Swiss cheese brain for an author that Chicken would enjoy, without him feeling like I was stuffing The Classics down his throat. There is also the problem of Chicken finding an author he likes, reading all the books the author has written and then getting frustrated when he runs out of new books. Piers has been a prolific writer for more than forty years. Chicken will be busy for a long time. The best part is that Chicken is already entralled with the book and has stopped reading only long enough to share a funny pun with me. Go me!

Vacation, Now With More Poop

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 20:22:00 +0000

"I wish I could toss my own salad," says Chicken while we discuss Reina's recent brush with a cling-on and her subsequent cleaning of her balloon knot with her tongue. It is good to be home. I really missed the Chicken when he was vacationing without me.

Yesterday we visited a local grocery store in Visalia, California where the friendly cashier informed us that if Chicken needed to use the restroom, "She probably wants the key." Later in a truck stop just north of the grapevine, a friendly gentleman tells Chicken that he is using the wrong door as Chicken attempts to enter the men's room. Chicken ignores him and walks into the bathroom. Then the man says, "This is the men's room," and Chicken retorts, "I know. I can READ." Chicken is so pissed he is unable to fire off anything witty but really wants to scream, "Fuck you! I have a penis you stupid fucker." The man was so disconcerted that he chose to pee in a stall instead of at a urinal. Apparently longish hair on a boy in Central California is less common than in Southern California because we haven't had any gender issues in quite a while in our home area. Maybe we just got super lucky this weekend.

We were at Don Pedro Lake, about 40 miles north-ish of Merced, California this week. I had never heard of it but apparently it is the fifth largest lake in the state. It is a narrow lake with many fingers, and Chicken describes it as a llama on a unicycle with a bunny on its back and a satellite on its head. (??) Chicken tried wake boarding and tubing behind a speed boat, as well as swimming in the lake and hiking. He was in heaven. The houseboat had a water slide that began on the second story and ended right above the lake which Chicken used as much as possible. Watching Teddy Bear hit the water after coming full speed down the slide was hilarious. Too bad I realized that floating in the lake was the only way to get a good shot of the action. I'm not about to take a camera with me out into the water.

I avoided all the water activities except for the aforementioned floating. I was able to float on my tummy in a mesh floaty thing and I enjoyed the shit out of it. Teddy Bear and Chicken dug some some clay mud from the bottom of the lake and gave me a clay massage of some sort. Eventually I had to pull off my bathing suit bottom while in the water and get all of the small rocks out of it. It was not super comfortable, but I was thankful for the murky lake water. For a moment or two I worried about fishes snacking on my privates but then I figured it might be nice.

The last time I was on a houseboat I had some poop issues. I understand this comes as a total surprise to you. I was a wee bit nervous about this trip, and by Saturday morning I had not taken a single shit. Not even a tiny little bit. The last time I had been to the bathroom was the scrapbook store incident on Wednesday. I finally broke down and ventured into the bathroom shortly before we docked at the marina. Note to dear readers: check the status of the poop tank before taking a shit.

Fearing the worst I attempted to flush soon into the process. I was dismayed to see my little rabbit turds stubbornly refuse to exit the premises. Water was entering the bowl, but my friends were not about to exit without a fight. I pushed on the flush button some more and then some more and then I noticed a VERY BAD smell that did not smell like my ass. This is when I noticed a bit of murky water in the shower. In denial I kept flushing, determined to make the poops go away.

I did not want to tell my in-laws that I had taken a shit. I continued to flush until it became obvious to even me that the tank 'o poo was FULL and the liquid yuck that had been collecting for a fucking WEEK was backing up into the shower stall. Also, a few small stragglers were still in the bowl, floating and looking very merry for shit. My poop mocked me.

I left the bathroom to whisper to Teddy Bear about the problem, which quickly became Chicken announcing, "My mom's poop is backing up into the shower!" OMFG. Minutes later we docked, the shit tank was emptied and the problem was solved. We unloaded the boat, got in our respective vehicles and I wondered if I would ever be able to shit on a houseboat again.

I still need to work on the rest of the pictures, however I thought you might like to see a couple right now. The first is Chicken preparing a tostada on a flour tortilla. The amazing part is that the tortilla is slathered with refried beans. Chicken DOES NOT eat beans except for green beans. No beans will he eat EVER. But Friday night he decided to try them and he LOVED them.

The last picture is Chicken and Teddy Bear watching the sunset on the lake. I love my boys and I am so glad to be at home.

Yessssssss!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 05:31:00 +0000

I am home. I am super fucking happy to be home. I may never leave again. Funny stories and pictures will be up tomorrow for all to enjoy. Did I mention OH MY GOD I AM HOME?! Yeah, it is that good.

Notes From Sam

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 03:08:00 +0000

Two things I need to tell you all. One, there is a contest going on at Problem Girl. The prize is a gift card for a maternity store. If you're not interested in the gift card you can always ebay or use it to pick locks. To enter you need to leave a comment telling about a really shitty gift that you received. The comments are awesome. Especially mine. I need to win or I will be naked soon. In case you need a bad gift story to help you get into the groove, there is one posted here. This post also talks about baby stuff-you've been duly warned. If that doesn't bother you I really recommend you read it.

The other item of business is that I am finally going on vacation. I forgot to blog about it, but Chicken has been on a houseboat since Saturday with Teddy Bear's dad, step-mom, and sister. We were supposed to go as well, but as it is located seven hours north the air quality was too shitty for me to safely be there. Yay for fucked-off lungs! (There were 1400 fires in central/northern California at the time.) Now the air in the area is comparable to San Diego so off we go for a few days. While we are in the area we will be visiting Teddy Bear's mother to tell her about the bun in the oven. Wish me luck.

Lastly, there is a chance that drama will erupt in the general area of this blog. I haven't decided whether to talk about it at this point. I'd prefer to keep it out of the blogosphere but I don't have control over what other people chose to do.

Full of It

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 23:08:00 +0000

Apparently my body thinks that 1/2 hour after I eat lunch is the perfect time for emergency evacuation. While I have heard that a healthy system will need to eliminate within an hour of eating, my body normally does not work that way. One would think, "YAY POOP!!" because pooping is one of my favorite things, but in certain situations pooping is a little...less than optimal. Yesterday I was in the scrapbook section of Walmart clutching my $10 gift card in my greedy little hands when the need struck. Luckily, there was a bathroom super close and although I fucking killed it there was a plentitude of stench that preceeded my visit.

Today, I was at a small, local scrapbook store. Do you see a trend here? *shut up Anna and let me scrapbook* I was happy, full of food, looking for this and that when OMG my tummy rumbled. Now, let me set the stage. I am in a small store. There is one bathroom and one employee and NO ONE ELSE in the store. I have to take a monster shit and it is not going to be pretty. I am too far from home and I have a basket with scrappy stuff in it. I head to the bathroom.

The first visit wasn't too bad. The second one was a little more intense but doable. The third visit to the poor, tired bathroom was a little frightening and involved three or four flushes. You know the toilets that are really full of water and the water rises a bit as it is flushes? They are super scary when you've just deposited the equivalant of a medium-sized goat after it is has been through a blender on liquify. This is when praying types start muttering pleas of mercy to their god(s). Luckily everything ended up where it was supposed to and I made it through without incident.

The moral of this story? Be prepared to shit my brains out after lunch and plan accordingly.

I am watching a Project Runway rerun and they are making dresses with flowers and plants. One of the contestants said, "I've got a pile of green and the only thing I want to do with it right now is smoke it." You go girl.

I Love The Innernets...

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 21:21:00 +0000

...and hate the real world. Yesterday I saw a father watching his daughter play on the escalator in the mall. She was about three steps down and was attempting to go UP the DOWN escalator. I am guessing that she was about five or six years old. As she struggled to hop up the wrong way her father had the older brother (about eight or nine years old) go onto the escalator THE WRONG WAY and attempt to pull her to the top. While the father watched from a vantage point where he had no physical access to either child. The two children made it safely to the top of the DOWN escalator and I held back the urge to kick the living shit of the father.

People in Walmart make me crazy, too. I was attempting to look at something in a particular aisle where this woman, her cart, and her three children were milling about. I patiently parked my cart out of the way of everyone else in the aisle and waited. And then waited some more. Eventually she looked up and said, "Oh, do you want to get by?" I smiled and nodded and was perfectly pleasant as I pushed my cart down the aisle. At this point in my life (minimal medication and maximum hormones) I am very non-confrontational in public. I am afraid that if I open my mouth I am going to fucking lose my collective shit. Er, lose my shit more I suppose would be more accurate.

Are you familiar with people that need anti-anxiety medication (or any brain meds) and they go on it and feel great and then think to themselves, "Self, I am perfectly fine. I do not need medication." So they go off the medication and are stunned when they are totally fucking anxious? Yeah, that's not me so much. I like feeling like a normal person. However, I had forgotten some of the more fun and exciting parts of anxiety. Which, by the way is a super great gift from the fibromyalgia gods. Thanks! Recently I was reminded of how not fun it is to drive while anxious. No, I'm not putting myself or others in danger. Sheesh! I just have some reservations about parking in a spot to my right. I second guess myself and my inner anxious monologue sounds something like this, "Is there enough room? Are you sure? A huge truck just pulled out but are you SURE the little Honda will fit in that spot? Maybe the truck can bend space and time and fit but I don't know if you can do it. How about a bigger spot? Like the one two miles away in your driveway?"

This is where I have to (again) weigh the costs and benefits of taking my measly amount of Celexa every other day. I'm still able to DO things, I just prefer to be able to park like a person that has been driving for almost twenty years. Is my discomfort worth any possible risks? What about how my discomfort impacts Adrienne Stephanie? GAH! No wonder I hate people. My tolerance for interaction is currently at a very low level. Which brings me back to lovin' the innernets. You all rock my world. Thank you for giving me a little piece of sanity in this world.

PS. ANNA IT IS NOT A FUCKING WIG. DON'T MAKE ME DEDICATE A POST TO THE BEAUTY OF YOUR CURLY HAIR. I WILL TAKE YOU DOWN.

I Gots Me A Hairscut

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:12:00 +0000

Have you ever thought to yourself, "Self, I wonder what Sam looks like when Teddy Bear is taking a picture of her and he is in his boxers and his package flops out?" Now you know. You are quite welcome! By the way, I got my hair cut today. It hasn't been this short in more than a decade. I haven't felt this cute in FOREVER. Hey-look at me! I feel cute!! Also? I seem to be in possession of a RACK. At least what qualifies as a rack in my world. I was thinking that going much shorter with my hair would give me an air of maturity. Mail's bride called me a pixie. FAIL. However, I look so damn cute that I don't care. Just call me the Queen of Modesty. You don't have to curtsy. Unless you really want to and it gives me a better view of your rack.

Pretty Is As Pretty Does

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 02:48:00 +0000

Today I injured myself while I was trying to pick my underwear out of my ass. In the crazy twisting of putting my arm behind my back and down toward my ass crack I pulled the muscles in my lower abdomen. For a moment, as I walked to the door of a neighbor's house I was doubled over in pain. From trying to pick a wedgie.

Some of you will realize that it was simply a matter of all the muscles in my pelvic region being all loosey goosey from the pregnancy. In a matter of seconds the pain was gone, but the embarrassment of seeing my neighbor and saying, "Hi. I just hurt myself picking my ass," will live on for minutes. Maybe even hours. You might be tempted to say, "But Sam there was no reason to tell your neighbor." But NAY! I am the Queen of Overshare.

In other exciting How Can I Stand Being This Cool news, I just got back from the grocery store where I purchased regular sized marshmallows for no particular reason. Other than the fact that my hormones screamed for them and I almost ripped the bag open in the store and stuffed them into my face. I am not an eating in the grocery store as I shop kind of girl.

Speaking of the type of girl I am, I was thinking lately that most of you only know the blog side of me. There are things that I don't think to talk most of the time because I'm too busy taking pictures of Dude to post for your consumption. (More Dude coming soon, including the flag I made for his tail and his shameful eating disorder!) Anyway, today I realized that I haven't worn makeup much lately. When I say "much" I mean "not at all" except for things like weddings and fancy TB work dinners. I've never worn makeup every day, and sometimes I look around me and think, "Self, there are people that dedicate time EVERY DAY to the application of makeup." And I just don't giving a flying fucking pig about it.

My mother has an hour long routine every morning involving moisturizing, shaving, plucking, powdering, and various other girly things not necessarily in that order. She does NOT just get up and leave the house. Ever. Now maybe I'm a total slacker but I like being able to say, "Well I just woke up but I can be out the door in five minutes." It is not like I don't brush my teeth or shower every day. I just want to spend my time on this planet living as opposed to primping. The fibro has only exacerbated this, because who wants to use up the day's supply of energy getting ready only to be too tired to leave the house? Exactly.

Speaking of my mother, something interesting happened today. My mother's youngest sister called me and congratulated me on my pregnancy. She was EXCITED. I did not see that coming at all. I mentioned to her that my mother did not see especially thrilled that I was pregnant, she laughed and we talked for a bit. Apparently my mother called up and said, "I have some news," in the tone of voice reserved for death, disease, and divorce. My aunt braced herself for the worst when my mother exclaimed, "My daughter is PREGNANT!!" Imagine, if you will, a pissed off mother talking about her stupid child winding up in jail. AGAIN. That's the message that was conveyed.

However, my aunt called me and did the OMGWTFBBQ!!!! YAY A BABY!!! and I was very happy. She even said, "Pretend I'm your mother," and then said it again for me. We talked a little about the crazy that is my mom, and she mentioned that when she told my mother that she was getting remarried my mother said something rude and hung up on her. I recommended that she break "good" news to my mother in the future with my godmother in attendance. She laughed and it was good. I don't trust this aunt completely because HELLO!? I'm related to her and we have some special history but it was very nice to hear someone be happy for me. YAY ME!! And to Jen who kindly offered to be excited every day for me, THANK YOU. You rock.

My Sense of Humor is BACK

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 23:38:00 +0000

Why I love Fail Blog:

see more pwn and owned pictures

Dude

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 17:57:00 +0000

Because I am still feeling the backlash of emotion from the previous post, I figured that a picture of Young Dude would cheer everyone one (including ME!) up a little. Do I miss that 500 year old microwave? Not one bit.

PS I did not put him in there. I just ran for the camera to enable me to laugh at him later.

I Did Not Know

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 07:26:00 +0000

Throughout this post I am going to skip many parts. I have a method to my madness and eventually all of it will be told.

I was reading an infertility blog the other day and the author was talking about adoption. In her opinion she didn't see what the fuss was about with first mothers. These girls chose to give up their children so there was no pain involved, right? Then the author saw an interaction between a first mother, an adoptive mother and a new baby. The first mother was visibly upset. The author realized that with the choice to give up a child there can be pain. (At this point in time I prefer the term first mother to birth mother. We do much more than simply give birth.)

Growing up I did not especially like children or babies. My friends babysat as much as possible, talked about babies and children and generally acted like girls, I suppose. I didn't have a great mother-daughter bond with my mom, and I didn't feel especially liked as a child. I don't have any siblings, either. When I reached my teen years I thought I would go to college, eventually marry, and at some point have children because that is what a person did with her life. I wasn't looking forward to much beyond college and a career at that point.

When I found myself pregnant suddenly the option to have an abortion disappeared in my mind. I had friends that had abortions, I had taken a friend to get an abortion, and I believed (and still do) in choice. But my brain screamed, "This is a BABY" and so the option was never on the table. My on/off boyfriend and I were currently in the "off" mode (yeah, except for the occasional sex) and he was not interested in being a daddy. I was 19, living on my own and trying to figure out how to get back into school while working full-time. I was worried.

Worried about raising a baby in an environment where I resented him-because that was how I felt. Worried about shuttling him from daycare to babysitter-because that was how I lived. Besides, adoption is a win-win situation, right? Society tells us that babies get a loving home, the first mother goes back to her life, and everyone is happy. I went to a few different places to find answers, one place showed me videos of a fetus and cautioned against abortion. Killing babies is BAD. I didn't find them especially useful, and their scare tactics meant nothing to me. I didn't want an abortion. I wanted answers. I needed help.

I went to Planned Parenthood and a counselor talked with me. I told her what I wanted to do, and she told me that giving my baby up for adoption was a very difficult path. BAH! My life was a difficult path. I had an idea that being pregnant and giving birth was difficult, but giving up a baby that I didn't want or need? Not a big deal at all. I was doing GOOD! for other people! and it would all be roses and sunshine at the end.

I saw a counselor through this whole process. I knew her from previous fucked up shit in my life and trusted her completely. After it was all over she told me that her children were adopted, but she didn't want to sway my decision by telling me in the beginning. She didn't want me to make my choice to please her. I want to believe that as an adoptive mother she didn't know the other side of adoption. She did quote me statistics about first mothers getting pregnant again after the first year or two to replace the baby that they lost. I didn't understand it at the time. My logical brain thought that you gave your baby up and walked away. End of story, right?

I picked adoptive parents early and bonded with them right away. I began to think of my son as theirs, a package that I was simply holding onto until it was time for them to take it. It wasn't my baby, it was theirs. The pregnancy was easy, I was twenty years old and everything was going to be fine. I was doing the right thing for everyone.

Toward the end of my pregnancy things got a little weird in my head. I bonded with my son, something that I did not expect to do at all. I struggled through more than 24 hours of labor and his adoptive mother was right there at my side when he was born. I spent the day with him in the hospital, holding him and sharing him with friends that visited. My counselor came to check on me, to see how I was doing and to see my son. Finally, I gave him to his new parents and left the hospital.

My friends took turns staying the with me night and day. As long as there was someone there I mostly kept it together. I'm not good at falling apart in front of people. Growing up I learned that it was more painful to cry in front of someone that didn't give a shit than to cry alone. Eventually I was left alone to feel what I had bottled up inside, and the pain was beyond belief.

Recently a friend that is going through a divorce remarked that she did not know how I had gone through two divorces. I told her that divorce was not even close to the worst pain I had gone through in my life. My life has not been easy and I have been through a fuckton of trauma, but nothing has even come close to the horror of losing my son.

One might say, "But Sam, why didn't you just ask for him back. The adoption wasn't final." This is where my bond with the adoptive parents fucked me in the ass. I could not hurt them by taking away my son. I just couldn't. How could I put them through the same pain that was killing me? I had heard horror stories of selfish first mothers that backed out of adoptions. I didn't want to be that person.

I wish I could describe the pain in a way that anyone could understand. The only thing that kept me from directly killing myself was my previous experience with suicide. (You can find it here: part 1 part 2) For those of you that don't want to visit/revisit those posts, I have a Reader's Digest version: I was 15 and my boyfriend killed himself in my house while I was home. It was horrible and I vowed to never inflict that kind of pain on anyone. So I didn't. I was stuck, alive, and wishing I was dead.

Do you know what I wish now? I wish that someone would have told me that I could parent. That I would not be my mother. That I would love my child and I would make it work. I wish I knew about the bond between a mother and her child. I wish that someone would have told me that the pain of adoption would last my lifetime and that it would become the only thing in my life that I regret.

Well Shit

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 05:04:00 +0000

Severe lack of sleep plus reducing my Celexa from 40mg per day to 10mg every other day equals fussy and needing to vent Sam. I'm exhausted and frustrated but it is getting better and I am mostly keeping a positive outlook. Please allow me to let off steam without judging too harshly. I would most likely be much happier back on a full dosage of Celexa but I am trying to wean off of it for the health of my unborn child. If my anxiety and depression is too much to function as a person I will increase the medication to a dosage where the cost/benefit analysis makes sense. So bear with me please, I am struggling.

I told my mother today that I am pregnant, and boy was I ever glad that my godmother was there to curb her reaction. My mother's face contorted into the most amazing configurations while she struggled to not be a total cunt. She brought up a few points for me to think about, being that I just woke up one day and realized that SEX CAN MAKE BABIES and ZOMG I'm knocked up and I didn't think about it at all ahead of time. She is concerned about my housing situation and school.

I guess the fact that I just told her that we were purchasing a larger house this year fell out of her brain, so I gently reminded her that we are buying a house this year. Hey! Guess what? We are buying a house this year! Currently we live in a two-bedroom house, and even if we stayed here for a few months after the baby is born it is not as if the baby would sleep in its own room at that point.

As far as the school situation, my mother knows that I barely finished this past semester due to the fibromyalgia and have already seriously considered not returning in the fall for multiple reasons. One of those reasons is that I might homeschool Chicken for the next two years. I know that I am not physically able to teach full-time at this point, and may never be healthy enough to do so. In addition, I am not going to work full-time with an infant/small child at home. I would not be having another child if our financial situation dictated that I work full-time. Does this mean that we budget like motherfuckers? Hell yeah. Does this mean that my disposable income is really tiny? Yeah. But it is worth it to stay at home and take care of my family.

Speaking of family, after I got home today I realized that I have no more family to tell about my pregnancy. My mother will tell her siblings and they will tell their children but that's about it, folks. No ZOMGWTFBBQ I'm pregnant calls to my family. No OMG CONGRATS WOOT YAY A BABY!! I miss my dad. I miss my Celexa. It does a great job of taking the edge off of shit that hurts.

So Yeah And Then There Was The Penis Pump

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 06:52:00 +0000

I said in a previous post that I no longer feel like death. Technically, this is true. However, I feel like complete shit most of the time. I am one of those ungrateful bitches that whines about how horrible pregnancy is and blah blah blah. I suppose when my previous pregnancies were pretty fucking fantastic this whole difficulty with eating and drinking EVERYTHING plus having a shit-ton of trouble sleeping is making me fussy. Today Chicken informed me that I should get fixed after having this baby because I am a whiny bitch when pregnant and he is not interested in going through another one with me. One would be shocked and appalled but FUCK ME if he isn't right. I can't believe that Teddy Bear hasn't said, "Fuck this" and left yet. I would leave me if I could. I suck.

In other news, I ignored the whole preggo thing when I went to the fair with my mom, Chicken, and Jesus the other day. Then I got home and read the comment/listened to voice mail from Eliza and realized that twisted minds think alike. Tomorrow I am having lunch with her and my godmother (for their June bdays) and part of me wants to tell then. She won't be a total cunt in front of the godmother.

I received a voice mail from my mother yesterday. Apparently H2's stepfather passed away. The man was abusive (to his wife, mentally) and an asshole behind closed doors. I am not sad. I am happy that H2's mother is finally free of him. My mom recommended I attend the service this week and I have no urge to do so.

In other people dying news, my father's best friend passed away last week. I can't believe they are both gone now. They were a terrible twosome, best friends for 30+ years. He leaves two daughters (my age), and six grandchildren with one on the way. He wasn't even sixty years old.

Cooterus*

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 03:59:00 +0000

On Friday I created a new word: cooterus. It refers to the whole of the female reproductive organs, including labia, vagina, uterus, ovaries, etc. Most words cover one or more implied parts, however cooterus takes care of the whole shebang at once. For example: "Oh my fuck there is a baby in mah cooterus." Or, alternatively, "Mah cooterus hurts."

*patent pending, copyright, all rights reserved, may not use without saying, "Sam made this up because she is cool."

Happy Belated Blogoversary

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 22:06:00 +0000

I just realized that I missed my third anniversary of blogging. I think I was too stressed about the doctor's appointment on Wednesday to pay attention to silly things like the date on Tuesday. Three years, people. THREE YEARS.

And here is where I delve into pregnancy weirdness so you might want to leave/heave/go find Steve:

I have NO mojo thus far in my pregnancy. One could blame it on me hating Teddy Bear, however I don't even want to do with my myself. Pitiful. Sweets = blech. This poses a problem when you take into consideration that I LOVE Coke. I've been drinking the caffeine free variety but now it is too sweet. Diet Coke tastes like dirty ass. Therefore, no Coke for me. What the fuck body?

I love chocolate a whole fucking lot. Since I got sperminated? Not so much. Couldn't care less about it in fact. Candy? Nope. Other sweets not yet specifically mentioned? Nope. Green vegetables? YUMMY. Say what? Luckily water is back on the menu because WTF why did plain water make me want to hurl? I am trying to be grateful on this one. Feeling of vomit? Much better. Boobies hurting like a mofo? Much better. Fatigue? A little better. Fibro pain in the morning? Better but not gone. I'll take it! Fruit? Gross excepting pinapple.

I no longer feel like death, and I am super fucking happy about that, indeed. Speaking of super fucking happy, I was driving home from the ultrasound and thought about Adrienne Stephanie's heart rate of 169. I snickered and thought to myself, "Self, that is your child." Erin mentioned the same thing in the comments. Yes, I am a dirty girl. As for the heart rate fortelling gender, I did a moment of research and gladly it is an old wives' tale. At this point I am rooting for a penis. More on that later.

It's Alive

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 21:35:00 +0000

Holy shit I am actually pregnant with a real live embryo. One that comes complete with a heart rate of 169. Teddy Bear showed up at the last minute a bit frantic and worried and WE MADE A BABY AND IT IS IN MY UTERUS. Holy Fuck. I am pregnant.

Back Away From The Cervix

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 05:57:00 +0000

I finally went to the doctor today and had my first appointment. I can't tell you how much I missed having not only my hoo-ha invaded by metal, my cervix scraped with something that resembles a fucking RAKE and then a couple of fingers groping around. GAH! The doctor said that my ute feels at least as pregnant as I say I am, and maybe ahead a little bit. Considering the specifically timed nookie either she's a nutjob, the damn thing is ALREADY big like TB, or there is more than one occupant. I vote for nutjob because the other two options suck ass. I did wrangle a referral to the ultrasound place and later called and made an appointment for Friday. I will feel much better after seeing a heartbeat.

The pukey feeling is still much milder than it was, but the fatigue is brutal. The fibro pain is bad when I wake up (which is often), but not horrible during the day. It is managable. Tomorrow I am going to the Del Mar Fair (shut up I will never call it the San Diego Fair, that is bullshit). I am going with my mother, Chicken, and Jesus. Chicken's best friend's name is really Jesus. We call him the Son of God sometimes. We're a little immature. Jesus calls Chicken a derivative of his real name, but with a girly twist. They're an excellent match and have a shitload of fun together.

I'm nervous about spending the day wtih my mother. One, because it's my mother and that is a fucking chore in itself. Two, because my mom doesn't know that I'm knocked up and I REALLY don't want to tell her. I have no idea what her reaction will be, but based on previous conversations I am not counting on it being good. After I had Chicken my mom strongly recommneded that I get my tubes tied. What doctor is going to do that when I had one child at home and I was only 22?

Several times over the years she has either talked to me about the tubal OR getting a hysterectomy. The hysterectomy because I have crappy periods that tend to be painful. Not like endometriosis, just a little miserable. So take out my uterus, right? CRAZY. She got a hysterectomy when I was six months old. According to her it was because the doctor told her not to have any more children. According to my secret source, it was because she wanted to be damn sure never to have any more children. She didn't want anymore-when I was six months old. Can you imagine? No baggage here people!!

My mother loves Chicken, but she has issues. I know better than to expect her to be excited about this pregnancy but it always hurts a little when she reacts crappily. Some of you are probably asking, "Why do you want to tell her now?" The answer is that I am getting to the point where I am having trouble hiding it for long periods of time. My lower abdomen is all fat, my boobs are bigger and eating is a chore. The only reason that I am going tomorrow (instead of letting Chicken go without me) is that I have never been to the Del Mar Fair with him and next year I will hopefully have a sixth month old baby. Not a recipe for a day of fun with a fucking zillion people.

I loved the Del Mar Fair as a child. LOVED IT. I want to share the experience with my favoritist Chicken in the world. I hope that tomorrow is fun and I can tune out any negative energy spewing from my mother. Maybe she'll be hapy for me? HA HA HA.

Hormones and Pornography updated

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 22:04:00 +0000

I received an email from Thanksgiving Mom and apparently her work now blocks Sam's Stories as pornography. She was pretty excited to get home and see all the exciting PORN! and PENIS! and SEX! and BOOBIES! but alas it is mostly just my gutter mouth.

However, I didn't want to disappoint her so I searched high and low for some porn pictures to post for today. It seems that with all the hormones coursing through my body I'm a little more squeamish than normal. That means that violent, bloody, movies and pictures of Lisa Simpson doing her father are not super yummy. Although I am pretty sure that Simpsons porn would be gross all the time. Who would have thought that searching for "cartoon pornography" would return so many results that were just plain NASTY?

Enjoy the pr0n, TG Mom!

*Teddy Bear sent me the "No fisting the cats" cartoon and I had to update the post*

Stoner Update

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 01:53:00 +0000

Dear Police Officer,

Driving around the area where adults are smoking pot with an underage girl a few times before approaching is probably NOT the best way to catch them in the act. In fact, I bet that those two young men saw you, grabbed the bong and the weed and left. (Oh they did? Super surprised!)

Searching the ninth grade girl, questioning her, (she lied? really? super surprised) and then leaving is also not effective. Way to go cop! Show my son that calling you to protect a minor is a fabulous idea. I am sure that next time he will rush to notify me of any and all illegal activities taking place in front of him.

Love and Kisses!

Sam

Dear Mommy at the Park,

When a few concerned pre-teen children approach you and ask for your help, telling them that you are too afraid to do anything is not effective. I understand that you had your toddler with you, but you could have left and called the police. Hey! I bet you could have given a better description and more information than my 11-year old child. But, whatever. You don't mind taking your child to the park where men are getting a young teenager stoned, right?

Love and Kisses!

Sam

After the cop left, I picked up Chicken and his two friends (both girls) and took them for ice cream as a reward for trying to do the right thing. I hope they keep trying to do what is right and notify an adult when they need to protect their friends. By the way, the girl smoking pot is a former friend of the two girls, and she has been smoking pot since the end of sixth grade. Please don't wait until your children are already caught up in drugs before talking with them!! It is never too early to have an age appropriate discussion about sex and drugs.

Chicken ROX

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 22:56:00 +0000

My Chicken went to the park to hang out with some friends that I am a little unsure of at this point. I'll tell you more on that later. But today, I received a phone call from him that there was a 9th grade girl in the park with two twenty-something males and they were smoking pot together. Chicken and his friends were worried about the girl. One of his friends used to know the girl and they didn't know what to do. So Chicken called me for help. *swoon* My kid is awesome. We talked for a few minutes and then I asked him if he wanted me to call the cops. Chicken was relieved and replied, "Yes please!" I called the local police department and they are sending someone out right now.

I really don't care if consenting ADULTS smoke pot but I remember being a young girl hanging out with older guys and it is not a path I'd send anyone else down. Also- don't pass a bowl around where my 11-year old and his friends can watch. Okay? Go home and smoke out there. Or sit in your car. Leave the teener girls alone. If they want to smoke pot with their teener friends, so be it. But there is no reason to get little girls high. Well, there is a reason but in the grand ole state of California you have to be 18 to consent motherfucker.

My Body is Lame But in a Good Way

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Sat, 14 Jun 2008 19:55:00 +0000

I feel like pregnant shit and my fibromyalgia is again somewhat quiet. YAY! I'm going to wait until Wednesday (my regularly scheduled 1st ob appt) to find out if things are still...alive and such. Until then I am putting my damn head in the sand, clicking my heels together and chanting, "There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's..."

Update, Now With Moar Pussy

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 23:45:00 +0000

(see previsou post if you are thinking to yourself, "what the fuck?")

TB called the doctor's office (because I chickened the fuck out) and spoke with the nurse. She poo pooed my concerns which I am sure only helps my not looking like a crazed pregnant woman, right? They couldn't get me in today and the nearest Urgent Care doesn't have the capability to do an ultrasound. I am NOT hanging out in the ER today. Do you want to know the really helpful comment that the nurse made to my husband? "Well, it is not that uncommon to see a reduction in symptoms during a heat wave when the ~~hormonally crazed~~ pregnant woman becomes a little dehydrated."

So don't worry! EXCEPT I would have no fucking idea if we are having a heat wave because I've been at home on my ass for days and it isn't hot in here. Also? We have plenty of liquids in the house because we're super awesome like that. Therefore, the super helpful nurse advice is a great big fucking non-example. SUPER.

Teddy Bear isn't worried because no bleeding = perfectly fine, right? Ha ha ha. Also, something of interest to those in the know...TB commented last night that the pregnancy book for guys that he is reading (which is a piece of shit in my opinion) doesn't have a section for helping your mate deal with miscarriage. Or anything about miscarriage. Really? Books ignoring miscarriage? NO?!?

So that's that. Oh wait! A funny for you. Chicken had a comment about Riverside County and Temecula that made me cackle. I need me some cackle, people.

"Temecula is the pussy of Riverside County. It's the only good part."

What The Shit

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 06:05:00 +0000

I will be eight weeks on Sunday. How's it going, you ask? Well, here is a breakdown:

Pregnancy symptoms: gone
Fibromyalgia: back in full swing

Tell me this is perfectly normal and that I don't need to freak the fuck out. Oh, nevermind. I have already done the freaking the fuck out. I will be calling the doctor in the morning and politely requesting verification of live and appropriately sized embryo immediately. I just don't feel right, and waiting until next week to go to my regularly scheduled appointment is NOT going to happen. I can't bring Teddy Bear to the first appointment to see a dead baby. I just can't.

Names And Insufferable Cuteness

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 07:18:00 +0000

*pregnancy post warning for those visiting from NCLM*

My current last name starts with the letter S and for simplicities sake I'll just say that it is Smith. I specify current last name because I've had, oh let's see...FOUR freakin' last names in my lifetime. Currently my name looks like this: Sam, Maiden Name, Teddy Bear's last name. I replaced my former middle name with my maiden name due to my issues with losing my dad and blah blah baggage.

This is a typical, long-winded patented Sam way of starting a little story about names. When Teddy Bear was in his mommy's tummy, all ten plus fucking pounds of him, (don't even get me started on his family history of birthing HUGE babies) his parents wanted to name him something that started with an A, then an S, then his last name that we'll call Smith. Do you see the problem? Yeah, no one wants to have their initials spell ASS.

Unless, of course, you are a sixth-grade boy and your mother is pregnant and you have the opportunity to nickname the grain of rice residing in her stomach. I really wanted to use the reader suggestion of Egg on my blog, just to answer the question of what came first for once and all, but the Chicken's nickname kicks ass. No pun intended. He nicknamed it Adrienne Stephanie Smith.

He talks about Adrienne Stephanie a lot, anything to get the name in because sixth-graders are all about beating a fucking horse to death. I'm just immature enough to still be amused every time. Until today when I was on my ass in bed and he asked where my uterus currently was and then got close and TALKED to Adrienne Stephanie. He said he'd kiss "her" but she was too close to my parts at this point and GROSS. Which I totally agree with, but I was too busy trying my damndest not to cry to think about anything. It was so damn cute.

Calling It Quits

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 06:33:00 +0000

On June 5, 2005 I quit smoking cigarettes and I am still clean three years later, bitches!