When Lindsay first got pregnant with Will (heh...kind of sounds like she came down with some sort of disease, doesn't it?), I warned her about pregnancy brain*. It's when the mother is too distracted by all her baby-making stuff going on and turns into a blithering idiot until she comes to term. Well, she made it all the way through the nine months without too many incidents and thought she'd been let off the hook. Little did we know, her pregnancy brain just manifested postpartum. And is less...idiot and more...psychotic. She's gotten weird, people. Real weird. Like...I'm weirded out by her at this point and I spent the majority of my morning imagining an adventure movie about a fly trying to get back to his estranged family after he got stuck in my car and driven to Woodinville**.
Yeah. Real weird.
The other day she very seriously tried to convince me that she saw a UFO in the backyard, to the point where she sent me a video. It was thirty seconds of the night sky. Nothing there. Anyways, for your amusement, I've documented some of the stranger and more ridiculous messages that have come from my sister dearest in the last few months:
Yeah. Real weird.
The other day she very seriously tried to convince me that she saw a UFO in the backyard, to the point where she sent me a video. It was thirty seconds of the night sky. Nothing there. Anyways, for your amusement, I've documented some of the stranger and more ridiculous messages that have come from my sister dearest in the last few months:
“Will finally pooped after about 20 minutes of pushing. It
was epic.”
Lindsay and Jesse came up two days before Christmas to Mom and Dad’s to visit. I was otherwise occupied (read: drunk) in Seattle the first
night they arrived.
“WTF biautza? Donde esta? Mom just told me she’s going to
poop in my stocking.”
This email was titled “I’m Susie-Fucking-Homemaker," and read:
"I just made baby cereal out of a coconut. Bam.”
Lindsay: Will wiped a bunch of snot on the couch and now he’s playing with it. *sigh*
Sara: That’s half your genetics right there.
Lindsay: Fuck.
Sara: Half.
I didn’t watch the Grammy’s this year. I mean. I never do. But
this year I did get a play-by-play of Lindsay’s takeaways from the night. It’s
worth noting I didn't reply to a single message until the next day.
“Keith Urban looks like a lesbian.”
“What the fuck happened to Steven Tyler?”
“Merle Haggard looks like a hacidic jew”
“Pharrell looks like he’s on safari.”
“Stevie Wonder is totally playing on a Barbie piano”
“Daft Punk look like storm troopers”
“Sooo…it’s cool that Taylor Swift gave a passionate
performance but it was just a little too
Linda Blair-in-the-exorcist for me.”
“Is anyone going to offer Lorde an iron or vitamin D
supplement?”
“I know Dave Grohl is grunge and everything but you’d think
he has something nicer to wear than a
black t-shirt and jeans.”
“Pink is switching careers to be an acrobat in Cirque du
Soleil. Is that what we’re supposed to take away? I’m confused.”
“John Legend can play my piano any time.”
“If Madonna showed up at my wedding dressed like a fucking cowboy and sang like that I.Would.Lose.My.Shit.”
“I can’t even call Robin Thicke a douche. He’s so much more
than a douche. He’s like an enema. Whatever equipment you need for one, that’s
what he is.”
*There's not really any such thing as pregnancy brain. Much like PMS, pregnancy brain is an exaggeration of a symptom (in this case minor memory deficits during pregnancy) that affects a very small number of the population and generally isn't a big deal. One of the fun parts of being on the wrong side of misogyny is shit like this. Any mention of a reason for women being irrational/dumber than men is immediately blown out of proportion. Remember the whole women-can't-be-in-leadership-positions-there's-too-much-blood-in-their-lady-parts-for-their-brains-to-function piece of shit? Yeah. So let me be ABSOLUTELY clear here...pregnancy brain is not real. I was joking. THESE ARE JOKES. Women are people. Deal with it, fuckers.
**It had a happy ending. Sir Edmund Roger Flyhound made it back to his loving wife and children, all a midst a cheerful acoustic guitar track and rapid credit reel.
*There's not really any such thing as pregnancy brain. Much like PMS, pregnancy brain is an exaggeration of a symptom (in this case minor memory deficits during pregnancy) that affects a very small number of the population and generally isn't a big deal. One of the fun parts of being on the wrong side of misogyny is shit like this. Any mention of a reason for women being irrational/dumber than men is immediately blown out of proportion. Remember the whole women-can't-be-in-leadership-positions-there's-too-much-blood-in-their-lady-parts-for-their-brains-to-function piece of shit? Yeah. So let me be ABSOLUTELY clear here...pregnancy brain is not real. I was joking. THESE ARE JOKES. Women are people. Deal with it, fuckers.
**It had a happy ending. Sir Edmund Roger Flyhound made it back to his loving wife and children, all a midst a cheerful acoustic guitar track and rapid credit reel.
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