BIOBaby: Videotaping the Big Event

I had the weirdest dream last night. I was at the doctor’s office getting an exam and the doctor was this older Asian lady. She called for a second opinion and this young, dopey, doctor came in. Like, Ryan Seacrest dopey. So, he sticks one of those vaginal cameras in me so we can see what’s going on with the baby. Every few minutes he would stop to snap Polariods of himself doing things like giving the thumbs up. And my vagina would be in each shot!
Then he removes the camera, lowers his surgical mask, and as he’s talking he bends his face closer and closer to my vagina until finally he has his mouth on it! Then he puts his lips next to it with his face resting against my thigh and starts humming, blowing against my skin, and giving me raspberries. THEN, he takes one of those small, skinny, straws they give you to stir coffee and inserts it into my vagina and begins to blow. At one point he blows so hard I feel a little jump in my tummy and you can see my tummy move. He does it again and just as I’m about to say, “Ummm, isn’t this kinda dangerous?,” it happens again but this time it’s so jolting I actually wake up.

And not just wake up, but jump up making a startled sound.

It was Jack kicking me. Harder than he’s ever kicked before. I was laying on my back and Jack really, really, doesn’t like it when I do that. So, I roll on my left side, fall back asleep and dream about the same thing! Except this time the dopey-Seacrest doctor is telling me I have some sort of complication and when I ask is it possible to carry Jack to term he just has this grim look on his face and won’t answer me. Of course I freakin’ lose it crying and then I make myself wake up.

That’s what I get for watching Idol and a special on the Green River Killer before bed.

- One of my projects, that I’ve yet to begin, is to take all of our VHS home movies and burn them on DVD. There’s our wedding, Kali’s birth, our honeymoon, parties, etc.

This led to Donny and I deciding the other day that we’re going to purchase a really nice DVD camcorder before Jack is born so we can film the birth and the rest of his and Kali’s lives.

I told Donny that we need to decide who the second person in the delivery room is going to be. We need a reliable camera operator. Donny said he can be both coach and film crew, but I don’t want him to miss anything… from either perspective. Ideally, it should be my Mom, but there’s no guarantee she’d be here when I go into labor so I need someone locally and I don’t think my Dad and I are ready to, nor do we need to, be that close.

When Kali was born they wouldn’t let us film the actually delivery. Just me in labor and the moment she came out. So there’s a cut from me being all loopy because of the drugs to a little pink baby girl screaming on a table butt naked. Off camera you hear me ask the nurses, “Is it true you don’t let people film the delivery because a nurse here once accidentally cut a baby’s finger off while cutting the cord?”

What?! Don’t look at me like that. It’s what I heard!

Donny and I are in disagreement over what should be recorded. I want the delivery, but from the waist up. Donny thinks we should get EVERYTHING.

“No, I don’t want you filming down there. All up in my vagina.”

“I’ve already been up in there.”

“What?!”

“What did you think I said?”

I repeated what I heard.

“No, jackass. I said, ‘I’m going to be all up in there’… you know, filming.”

“Well, fine. We’ll just have to edit the film later for family that wants to see it.”

“I’ll edit it alright. I’ll add nice gushy sound effects.”

I knew how to shut his ass up though.

“What if I poop on myself?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if I poop while pushing?”

“That happens?”

Such a noob.

“Yup. It happens a lot actually.”

Suddenly Spielberg was having second thoughts as to what approach he should take. I thought so. Then he laughs.

“What’s so funny?”

“I can just see you now… pushing out a log.”

“You are so. damn. nasty.”

Balls and Ice Cream

I need to mount a camera above my bed. Because you guys probably don’t believe half the shit I tell you. I swear. It’s all real. Another reason I have the best marriage ever.

Lying in bed waiting for the junkyard guy to come get the burnt Ford… Donny said he’d go to Wendy’s after the guy came and left so of course I’m wondering just what the hell is taking him so long… I roll on my side, rest my hands under my head and smile at Donny…he’s lying on his side of the bed, on his side facing me. Our faces are inches apart…

“Let’s play a game. If you could have any meal you wanted tonight, what would it be?”

“Do you play this game a lot?”

“Everyday.”

“Lobster.”

“Oooh, good one. Wait. Can I have lobster now?’

Laughs…”No…”

“You suck at this game. Pick something else.”

Pause.

“Meatloaf.”

“Ewwww. I don’t wanna play with you no more.”

Later… Jack is kicking. Every time I grab Donny’s hand to place it on the spot, Jack stops.

“He’s punkin’ me.”

“Wait. Did you feel that?”

“No.”

“What about about that?”

“No.”

“You’re putting your hand there wrong. You gotta like…”

I move his hand and place my hand on my belly… horizontally. His hand was going vertically, fingers towards vagina… go figure…

“…cup that fucker!”

Silence.

“That fucker being my belly, not the baby.”

Even later… I’d just finished taking my World History quiz and we were chatting about something… I don’t even remember what… when I glance over at Donny who’s laying flat on his back wearing boxers and a white t-shirt. I reach over and tug on his boxers.

“Eww, Donny! I can see your balls.”

“So?”

“Don’t nobody want to see your balls.”

“My balls don’t want to see you either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you’re being all rude to my balls.”

“They’re being all rude to me. Hanging out and looking at me and stuff.”

“My balls do what they want.”

A little later and all out of nowhere…

“Your boobs are huge!”

“I know. You can thank your son when he gets here.”

And finally… it’s about 9:30pm… I asked Donny like 45 minutes prior if he’d go get my ice cream from the freezer. I like to let it sit a little before I eat it. He’s busy playing baseball on the 360. He finally goes to get it and comes back with a bowl and a Heath Klondike bar for himself.

“Oooh, what’s that?”

“A Heath Klondike bar.”

“Where’d it come from?”

“We have a bunch in the freezer.”

“Since when?”

“Since I bought your ice cream the other night.”

“Oh.”

I open my Ben & Jerry’s carton and my ice cream is frozen solid.

“I have to let it sit ’cause you didn’t go get it like an hour ago like I asked.”

He puts a spoonful of his Klondike bar in my face. (Ooooh, that sounds dirty.)

“No. No. I don’t want it. I want my ice cream.”  As I pout and refuse to open my mouth some of his ice cream falls off of his spoon and lands smack dab between my big old boobs.

“See! And you’re gonna get it too.”

“Gladly.”

And I finally accept the remaining ice cream from the spoon (and moan a little ’cause it was goooood) he leans forwards and sucks the ice cream from my chest. It took him like three minutes.

“Thank you.”

“No. Thank you.”

Georgia Is The New Kansas

An Open Letter to White People

For the record, I originally started this during the writer’s strike…
Also, I’d like to acknowledge my gratitude to my husband Donny and Richard, who if he weren’t gay wouldn’t be allowed to be my friend for our love is so strong, for their all their white boy help in voicing my frustrations.

Don’t be offended my lighter complected brothers and sisters. This comes from a place of love.

Today I was reminded of a long forgotten stereotype I had about white people growing up. A lot of black people did. Black people want to live more than white people do. Where would we get such an idea, you ask? Uh, how about bungee jumping, parasailing, hang gliding, swimming in shark infested waters and getting your leg bitten off only to go on Good Morning America talking ’bout, “Diane, I can’t wait to get back out there!”, and the inability to keep your fucking mouths shut while in a perfectly good hiding spot when there’s a serial killer/mass murderer/pyschopath after your asses!?

After years of watching horror movies I feel as if I’m more than qualified to advise white people to stand up. Stand up, I say! Stand up, rise up, band together, and tell Hollywood screenwriters you’re not going to take it anymore! They ain’t got shit else to do right now, so why not listen to your long overdue and valid complaints? Tell them that you will no longer tolerate being portrayed as sniveling, stupid, simpletons. (Side note: you promiscuious ladies may want to get in on this as it seems having a healthy, but not choosey, sexual appetite means that you are destined to be filleted.)

Now, I realize that this depiction of white folks is a little unbalanced since black peoples’ history in horror films can be summed up as such:

1. For many years our asses weren’t cast in any.
2. And when we finally were, we always died first.

If you’ve noticed, we are now represented more in horror films and when we are we rarely, if ever, die first. Hell, it’s not uncommon to see black people make it through the whole damn film and even through most of the sequel! And when we do die, we go out like P.I.M.Ps.

If you heed my advice and challenge these Hollywood writers to do right by you, here are some suggestions as to what you should address:

1. Why you all have to be so damn loud? I hate when the white girl being chased by the killer finds a good hiding spot and she gives herself away by whimpering and breathing all heavy.

2. If they don’t answer you, they’re dead. Every time a white person enters a spooky house/room/basement, etc. looking for someone they gotta call out for the person six and seven times getting louder and louder. If Billy don’t answer you the first time, Billy dead. Leave!

3. Shoot first, ask questions later. How many times have you seen a white woman have the killer at gunpoint only to stand there shaking and looking all confused? And how about when she tells the killer, “Don’t move,” yet proceeds to let him approach her dumbass until he backs her up into a wall and takes the gun from her? I hate that shit. Girl, shoot his ass. Sometimes they try to explain it away by making the woman doubt whether or not the bad guy is actually bad. You don’t want to shoot poor John and it turns out he was on your side. Solution? Shoot his ass in the kneecap! You can get away and if it turns out he was a good guy, bygones.

4. Stop leaving perfectly good hiding spots! Has anyone seen 30 Days of Night? Why the hell would you be in a more than adequate hiding spot for like 20 days, and then leave to go hide in the grocery store with a shit load of windows and entrances?

And while we’re on the subject, why is there always one white person in the hiding spot that just has to get out? He/she always messes it up for everyone. They’re either claustrophobic or just plain too stupid to not freak out and ruin it for everyone. Kill his ass. And kill him early.

My favorite fucker-up-of-a-perfectly-good-hiding spot is the white girl that will run screaming from cover because she saw a rat or mouse, and right into the arms of the psycho zombie-vampire-rapist. Dumbass.

5. Whenever we watch horror movies together, without fail I will make Donny laugh by saying, “A time and a place, people. A time and a place.” Why do I say this? Because white people always find the time to screw when faced with death. Now I can understand if you’re in a room locked with a bomb and you feel like death is imminent, but while on the run and you find an abandoned house to hunker down in for the night do you really want to catch an axe in your ass ’cause you just had to get your groove on? Does the threat of death and dismemberment really turn you on that much?

6. Is it too much trouble to ask that you make sure the killer is actually dead? Why do white women stab the killer in the shoulder then proceed to a. drop the knife b. turn her back on the prone killer and c. sob so loudly she can’t hear that the fucker has just stood up and is about to, deservedly, stick a knife in her skull? Good rule of thumb? If you manage to incapacitate the killer commence to cutting his head clean. the. fuck. off. And then his dick. ‘Cause that’s how you roll.

7. Ever heard of safety in numbers? Apparently white folks haven’t. It can be like 12 of them stuck in a house with a killer and instead of everyone just sitting in one room and waiting for his crazy ass to come to them so he can catch a 12-man beatdown Brooklyn-style, they decide it makes more sense to split up into groups of 2s, and sometimes solo, to look for clues, find an exit, etc. Inevitably, one of these groups will consist of a guy and girl who will find a room to fuck in (see number 5.)

8. White girls, stop running up to the attic or down to the basement. For once I’d love to see one of you, I don’t know, try the front door. Hell, even jump out a first story window, but stop going to the places with little to no exits! And stop tripping and falling. For the first 45 minutes of the film, you are the most agile bitch ever, but as soon as body parts start flying you suddenly can’t run two feet without tripping over the wind. Learn how to run, bitch!

I can run in heels carrying a baby in my belly, my child in one arm, and my cell phone in the other while texting a blog. Surely you can dash 15 yards through the woods without stumbling twice only to fall perfectly on your back all the better to scream perfectly into the camera while being slashed.

9. Listen to the black people! Even if it’s the single, stoned, brotha, listen to his ass. Even if it’s the brotha sitting in the theatre. Listen to his ass!

10. Assume all urban legends are real. Stop trying to disprove them. Nothing good can come of it.

11. The killer is ALWAYS white. And always really, really, sick and twisted. If you are the last person standing be prepared to run through an obstacle course made up of all the people he has killed before getting your ass. White killers think that shit is funny to watch you hurdling over poor Susie’s head.

12. Stop taunting crazy people!

Hormones Suck!

I’ve been miserable all day.

My tummy is just so…so….full! It’s just this big ball that I can’t navigate the same as I used to.

The place closest to my house that does 3D/4D ultrasounds was closed today, fuckers, so I couldn’t make an appointment which just pissed me off. I want to see my baby, damnit! I can’t wait two weeks!

To appease me Donny came home from work just now and asked, “Want to listen to the hearbeat?” I nodded like a petulant child. The baby used to spend a lot of time on the left now he/she is always dead center… or maybe he/she is just bigger. Anyway, it’s cool because now not only do we hear the heart beating, but we can hear when he/she moves around. I jiggle the little wand to get a reaction and sure enough the baby reacts.

I’m in one of those restless moods where nothing seems to please me. You know those times. Those are the same times that when you sit back and act like a grown-up you realize that you really don’t have shit to complain about, but yet you still just want to pout and eat cherry italian ices and watch Oprah.

It doesn’t help that Donny and I got into a psuedo-argument about pink socks. Yes, I said pink socks.