And Now For Something Completely Different...and Serious?

A good while back, a very courageous friend of mine, Kendra Thomas, posted a call to action on Facebook for a change in the national discourse on mental illness. In it, she admitted to having depression and encouraged anyone feeling similarly to seek out help. I greatly respected her willingness to share her struggles, and agree that the only way to reduce the stigma is to demonstrate that mental illness is prevalent and treatable. However, the discussion didn’t continue much after her passionate request, and I think it’s important that it does in some form or another. Considering Robin Williams would have turned 64 today if we had not lost the comedic juggernaut to his own demons, I thought now was a good time to humbly share my attempt to change the conversation.

When I was 18 years old, a boy I knew...let’s call him Carl...committed suicide. It was strange for me, as I never knew Carl very well beyond having classes together and the odd social run-in. But he and I attended the same schools for most of our lives and somehow ended up with a similar social group in college, so I felt obligated to inform those people who wouldn’t otherwise know from Facebook or word of mouth. It was unsettling, to say the least. Having an extremely intimate and uncomfortable conversation about someone I really didn’t know all that well.

“So I don’t really know how to say this…Carl committed suicide today.”

“What?? But I knew that guy. Was he really that depressed?”

People can be arrogant like that. We think we know how the world works. We think we know what everyone else is thinking, and we get upset when it turns out we are wrong.

I know about that aversion to the unknown more than most. I am one of an estimated 6.8 million Americans with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD). It’s a pretty broadly defined mood disorder, so let me be more specific about some of my individual symptoms...I exhibit an extremely low tolerance of uncertainty, high looming vulnerability to threat (basically extreme impatience), inappropriate use of abstract linguistic processing (avoidance of emotion by failing to process threatening stimuli thoroughly), and a tendency to catastrophize pretty much anything you let me think about for long enough, among others. Sprinkle a little bit of classic social anxiety on there for good measure and, bam! You have a woman in her mid-twenties who can go from perfectly happy to a sobbing wreck downing whiskey at 11:00 am and blubbering about how an awkward conversation last week is evidence she’s going to die alone, in a matter of minutes.

Don’t believe me? Ask my sister, Lindsay. Since I can remember, she’s served as my shrink. Before my actual diagnosis, we would go through all sorts of theories about what might be causing my struggles with getting through the day...That it was the type of people I hung out with. That I was overly introverted. That I was just one of those people who worried a lot, and I could snap out of it if I just gave it some effort. But I didn’t, because honestly (and I do admit this sheepishly…) it kind of made me feel more prepared than everyone else. Since I was always worrying about stuff, I’d obviously be ready for it, right? Those silly people driving to work un-petrified by thoughts of how quickly the imaginary cancer already growing in their uterus will kill them...they’ll never see it coming!

Yes, many of the people you know are currently depressed, or anxious, or obsessive-compulsive, or whatever else. You may be aware of that fact or you may not. They may not even be fully aware themselves. But waiting to ask the question until after the fact is to ignore the tragic reality that someone finally gave into whatever torment you were unaware of.

“Carl committed suicide today.”

“What a fucking coward. I’m sorry. But how could he do that to his family?”

I have no idea for how long I’ve been anxious to the degree of a diagnosable disorder. Most people don’t. In fact, it’s thought that most GAD-having people don’t seek help for it and the number of cases are much higher than just ~2% of the U.S. population. At any rate, I never thought I needed help, because I never thought I had a problem that needed fixing. What I needed instead was to get over my worries and get out of my own head. Everyone else did it every day of their lives, what the hell was so wrong with me? I’ve led a decently easy life without too much hardship or trauma. But I still found myself utterly exhausted by everyday things like...going shopping, or having a job interview. I felt weak and pathetic. Just the thought of going to a dinner with friends would make my hands shake while I fretted over every possible scenario...that is if the anxiety hadn’t paralyzed me into just cancelling. Every time I was told “DUDE you freak out over everything. Just stop worrying. It’s going to turn out all right,” I would revert into what I like to call a “worry spiral,” over why I couldn’t seem to get the hang of it.

That’s right. Sometimes I worry about worrying. Ever do that? It’s a fun lil circle jerk to work through, ending in some really colorful shades of self-loathing.

My point is, I thought seeking help meant admitting I failed. It meant admitting I was worse than everyone else at...living. I felt the courageous thing to do was to suck it up. It took the people I loved the most in the world telling me they were unable to understand my emotions and felt helpless to support me to make me really challenge my idea of what failure meant.

Perhaps instead of judging one’s actions as cowardice, we should ask how they define it, and why? Ask what could motivate a person to act in that way and, if you haven’t, be grateful that you yourself have yet to be forced to such extremes.

“Carl committed suicide today.”

“Huh, well I guess that’s one way to get attention.”

This kind of victim-blaming is the reason there is almost an entire year gap between Kendra’s original post and this one. I thought people would assume I was looking for pity and miss my overall message. But the fear of coming across as a narcissist is, to me, the lesser evil than continuing to ignore mental health until it causes another tragedy in the public eye. If you are of the opinion that I wrote this for my own ego, then that is your prerogative.

I have met several people who have claimed to have anxiety over the years. I also harbor doubts that a very small number of those individuals may be using the term anxiety to excuse poor behavior and illicit sympathy. However, I am not a mind-reader. I have no way of knowing what motivates a person to share details of their mental state. All I know is that if more people are honest about theirs, those crying out for attention will be drowned out in the conversation. It’s estimated that one-third of the population has some sort of mood disorder...with that many people discussing it, the novelty of having it might wear off.

We have all encountered people who fake all sorts of issues to gain attention. There has even been people who went so far as to create online personas with thousands of followers supporting their fight against cancer while they remained perfectly healthy. But if someone told you they had cancer, would you doubt them because there’s a small chance they wanted to martyr themselves?

“Carl committed suicide today.”

“Holy shit, I didn’t know he was depressed. Shame he didn’t even try to get help.”

The reason I took the time earlier to explain some of my individual symptoms is because mood disorders are muddled. It’s not like a virus or bacteria, where an outside pathogen infects you. You can have multiple disorders with varying levels of intensity, or just exhibit a little more social anxiety than the normal person. Each disorder is really just a spectrum of symptoms that have reached a degree of severity warranting a “disorder,” based on how your mind is hard-wired to work. A treatment that works for one person may or may not work for the next five, even if those people have the same disorder.

One anxious acquaintance of mine exhibits it severely enough to warrant daily medication and weekly therapy appointments. Another has an emergency stash of benzodiazepines to calm him down only in the event of a panic attack, but prefers meditation and deep breathing for every-day coping. One person saw a therapist for only a brief stint until they identified a good medication schedule for her. Another went to a therapist and never returned after an incredibly negative experience, but still reads credible literature on the subject for self-education. I myself see a cognitive-behavioral therapist occasionally and sometimes participate in group sessions, but don’t have any prescriptions. For me, it has proven by far the most effective coping method. For someone else, it might exacerbate their disorder.

Seeking out meaningful help for mental illness requires much more thought than scheduling a doctor’s appointment. It requires humility to admit needing help, funds to afford it, sincere self-reflection to choose a method that suits your needs, determination to try a different route should the first not work, and a willingness to learn some of the uglier things about yourself. On top of that, no one wants to be the crazy person who has to go to the shrink. I will admit I’ve come up with various reasons to leave work for my appointments for fear my coworkers might think I’m unstable or deranged. Yes, that’s also a symptom of my social anxiety, but I do think this enters into the problem. People who feel marginalized by their disorder might not even admit to having it, much less seek out meaningful and effective treatment.

Perhaps if we stop prescribing simple “help” to those with mental disorders and instead offer a brainstorm of the various methods, taking that first step to wellness won’t seem so daunting.

I will never know why Carl decided to kill himself that day, but my friends’ reactions of disbelief, shock, and awe speak loudly to one issue: mental health is a taboo. One that we are so averse to talking about in everyday life (with the exception of caricatured psychiatrists and lunatics in entertainment), that we continue to be rocked by the tragedies that result from its mistreatment, no matter how numerous. Mental disorders can be very different to treat than some infectious diseases, but the rhetoric we use should not differentiate between the two. I can only hope that this has encouraged someone to think and speak differently about mental health, because it will remain destructive as long as we refuse to change our conception of it.

I urge you, if you yourself or anyone you know has shown signs of mental distress, to please start looking into treatment options. Whether that means simply reading about various disorders, trying homeopathic remedies, or even seeking out a therapist, that first small step can make a huge difference months down the line. My loved ones can attest to the changes I’ve gone through since finding a treatment method that worked for me. No one has a chance of improving if they don’t take action. The National Suicide Prevention Line is available 24/7 at 1-800-273-8255 to anyone who may be having suicidal thoughts, and SAMHSA has a line for treatment referral and general mental health information from 8 am to 8 pm M-F at 1-877-726-4727. Be well, my friends. And be good to each other.

The Effects of Motherhood on Your Brain

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: 

“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. 

The Great Chicken Coop Adventure

I’ve never been a morning person. Ever. In my entire life. I’ve had a fairly severe caffeine addiction since I was 18. Most times, it takes me a good four or five attempts to even lift myself out of the cozy cocoon of blankets, wool socks, and dreams that I delightfully weave for myself each night. So I try to avoid activities that are particularly mentally taxing before I’m properly caffeinated and functioning. However, since having a big girl job and coming to terms with the fact that for the majority of my adult life I will need to rise before seven a.m. five days a week, I’ve taken some steps to make them more bearable. I work out before doing anything else to help get my blood pumping. I give myself time to make a proper breakfast with enough protein to get me through lunch without my stomach throwing a bitch-fit. I choose the clothes that I will wear the night before and make sure they are ironed and clean so I can dress quickly.

It’s also worth noting that I do take steps to look quite nice for work. When I can wear what I want I’m all about comfort. But, if I need to be professional, I’m going to look professional as all fuck, god damn it. High heels. Pressed slacks. Pencil skirts. Fancy silk blouses that are never washed as often as they should be because, let’s face it, dry-clean only is code for “Eh I can wear this another day and not smell TOO much like a dumpster.”

Anyways. Point. Right. I was making one.

This particular morning I woke up late and groggy. No reason. I just did.

...okay so I gorged myself on half a pint of chocolate ice cream and a bag of Doritos the night before. Whatever. It’s not like you’re perfect or anything. I bet your Thanksgiving turkey was dry and unsatisfying (unrelated: that’s also what he said. HEYO! *high fives self*).

Back to the morning. It was late enough that I skipped my workout and healthy breakfast and just threw on the nice outfit I had laid out the night before. As I was leaving, I remembered that Dad had asked me to let the chickens out of the hen house. So I started the car to let it warm up, walked over to the coop, and pulled on the string that lifts the gate to the hen house. Since the PNW has been colder than Santa’s butthole lately, the latch was frosted shut.

*SIGH*

So I opened the coop, stooped down (in my professional business clothes, mind you), and opened it by hand. Even so, I still had to latch it open from the outside. So I stumbled back out of the coop and secured the string. Chickens = dealt with. Great success. I could go to work and drink more coffee.

Until something white caught my eye. I realized that I forgot to close the coop itself and Amelia had made a break for it. The other three were still cautiously weighing the pros and cons of running away.

FUCK!

I ran to the door and threw it shut, keeping the other three chickens inside. At this point I just had to catch Amelia. The most skittish piece of shit asshole chicken on the face of the planet. In the dark. In 30 degrees. In boots and a dress.

The next five minutes consisted of me chasing the everloving fuck out of Amelia, who had gone from “FREEDOM!!!” to “OH FUCK WHERE THE FUCK AM I LET ME BACK IN!!” She kept running the fuck into the chicken wire around the coop attempting to get back in. Apparently she thinks she’s made of liquid or is Kitty Pryde in X-Men or some shit. That annoying song yakety sax started playing in my head.. I kept muttering over and over “You stupid piece of shit just STOP running away and I WILL LET YOU BACK IN fucking stupid bitch of a chicken asshat mother fucking up my entire fucking morning…”

Finally I tackled her against the coop and she got her panties all in a bunch over it. At this point I started yelling at her “YOU AND I WANT THE SAME THING GOD DAMN IT. I’M LETTING YOU BACK IN CALM YOUR SHIT.” I managed to throw her in the coop, slam and lock the door, get in my car (that had been running the entire time still), and head to work.

The moral of the story is: if you skip your morning work out, don’t you fret. The universe will give you another opportunity to get that blood pumping...but it’ll use a bitch of a chicken to do it. My only regret is that no one was around to witness and/or film the pissed off woman in business attire swearing profusely as she runs around and around in the dark chasing a chicken.

"Working" at work.

And now, more emails from work! Sara recently recorded a song she kind of sort of helped write with a friend from college (Sara: to answer your question...yes. I am a rock star. I'm accepting applications for groupies. No fat chicks). When he sent her the initial recording on his Soundcloud account, which includes a picture of him, she shared it with the family.

Sara: Look! It's me singing!
Dad: Wow!...who is the dude in the picture? I think I'm in love. Seriously...
Lindsay: Yah, the guy is a biscuit! Date him!
Sara: Uh, he's been in a happy loving relationship with his current girlfriend whom he lives with for a long time now so...that ain't happening.
Dad: What a wimp you need to be more like Tricia Yearwood the home wrecker...
Lindsay: HAHAHA

It's good for fathers to encourage their daughters to home wreck, right?* No? Oh well...have some more emails!
* Like Dad said, it worked out for that tart, Trisha Yearwood. Married to Garth Brooks (I'm not convinced that's a good thing…) and Paula Dean made her her bitch protege'. 

An email Sara sent to Lindsay. Just this. No prior conversation or context. Obviously she was really slammed at work that day. 
Sara: So I just got a weird idea to join a roller derby team. Bad idea? I think it's probably a bad idea.

Dad: Is it REALLY only 10:45??
Sara: I guess so and I am already in pain from how long the day is dragging on...
Mom: OH MY GOD! You whiners.
Lindsay: Well, at least none of you started your day having to get out of bed earlier than you wanted because someone shat out half their body weight. I was going to go to CrossFit, but I have a sore throat and I'm sitting in front of my space heater and I feel like making shitty excuses to not go.

Mom: Oh. I'm sorry.
Lindsay: It's okay. It needed to happen. He hadn't pooped in three days.
Mom: No I meant about you feeling poorly. I don't care about poop. I have many poop stories from both of you.
Lindsay: Oh. I don't feel that yucky. Like I said, I just want to make excuses...Maybe I should drink some breast milk to get some antibodies. Does it work if it's my own? That's weird. Why did I even say that?

Mom was telling us a story about a co-worker and some of his bizarre comments about his girlfriend. Though he's a very nice, docile man...he mentioned three times in a conversation that "my girlfriend loves me." The conversation was not about his girlfriend in any way shape or form. 

Mom: Not that I love her, but she loves me. Do you think that's odd?
Sara: ...yeahhhh that sounds like a Stepford husband or some shit...maybe she abuses him?
Lindsay: Maybe she's his dominatrix. HAHAHAHAHA eewww I regret saying that. Kind of. Not really. Hahahahaha.
Mom: Thanks for the picture. ….NOT
Sara: Ha! Right after I called abuse.
Lindsay: Or he's just a wet blanket.
Mom: Everyone talks about how nothing rattles him and how nice he is. Translation - BORING!
Sara: I hate boring people. They're the worst. At least assholes can occasionally have a good time. 
Mom: Nice people can be fabulous. Nice people that never get rattled and talk in one-tone, and never raise their voices, and brag they never get stressed equates to they have no dang feelings.
Lindsay: He sounds more like a serial killer to me.

Poop and breast milk and serial killers. You're welcome, America.

East Coast Invasion

A few weeks ago, our Aunt Pat and Uncle Bob came into town from Massachusetts. They’re not literally our Aunt and Uncle though…Pat is mom’s cousin, but it was Grandma who raised her. Cause she’s awesome like that. But with these two around, all of mom’s East Coast mannerisms come out with a vengeance. I haven’t heard a single R pronounced at the end of a word in that house in weeks. I swear every time someone asked for the keys to the car I thought, “what the hell are they talking about? No one’s wearing khakis...”

…

…GEDDIT?...

One night, mom and dad managed to drag everyone over to see my apartment. I don’t know why they insist showing the family that at 23 I’m still far too irresponsible to take out my recycling in a timely fashion or vacuum regularly, but they do. We ended up having drinks at the bar that’s in my building, The Beer Authority. If you’re ever in Lake City and want some delicious brews, go there. It’s like Narnia and Beer Fest had a love child then put it in my place of residence with giant Jenga. I can’t under hype the greatness that is giant Jenga, you guys. It’s awesome.

The owner of this little spot, Burke, saw me walk in with a giant troupe of older people and a baby. I told him it was my family and they were in town visiting. So he came over to serve us and introduce himself to everyone. Pat had a hard time understanding him…

Pat: What’s your name again?

Burke: Burke.

Pat: Burt? Like Burt Reynolds?

Burke: *laughs* I wish that was my name!

Bob spent the evening people watching. Lake City draws a pretty interesting crowd, to say the least. One of the other regulars is the reason I have a “no making out with anyone at The Beer Authority” rule. I’m sure you can figure out the backstory. It’s not one that I’m either proud of or willing to share. But let’s be honest…EVERYONE has drunkenly made out with someone that they later regret. Don’t lie to yourself…we’ve all been there. You can admit it. This is a safe place.

At any rate, Bob leaned over to comment on this particular gentleman’s appearance.

Bob: See that person up at the bar, in the black hat and sweatshirt?

Sara: Yep, why?

Bob: I’ve figured it out now, but when he first walked in I thought to myself “Is that a man or a woman?” Then I saw that pathetic excuse for a beard, and I figured it out. Some of these young kids these days…*laughs*.

Sara: (While Lindsay, knowing who the guy is, snickers)…goddamnit Bob.

Bob: What, the kid looks womanly! It’s not my fault I was confused.

Sara:...I know.

*Lindsay continues to snicker*

At at table across from us, there was a group of people who appeared to be deaf, as they were having a conversation in sign language. Dad, thinking it was interesting, pointed it out to us. Literally.
Dad: I think all these people at that table are deaf because they're talking in sign language.
Lindsay: Dad, just because they're deaf doesn't mean they can't see you pointing at them. And I noticed them when we sat down.
Dad: No you didn't. I saw them first. I am the Ayatollah. I am all-seeing.

Did we mention we brought a baby to a bar?

This last weekend, we all took a trip down to Lindsay’s for empanadas and Sara was one of the designated drivers. She had the pleasure of taking Dad and Bob down…both of whom were very drunk by the time we left (at 4:30 in the afternoon) and passed a can of Bud Light around the car like we were 17 again. The whole hour and fifteen minutes, Bob wouldn’t stop asking “are we there yet?” while Dad kept harassing me with Batdad impressions. If you haven’t seen Batdad, go here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YlVi0noRr-o

Here are some excerpts of dinner conversation while at Lindsay’s:

Mom: Pat, how do you like it?

Pat: It’s good.

Mom: Do you ever say anything is better than good?! You said the king salmon at Anthony’s was just good. The bloody mary was just good. Everything’s just good to you!

Pat: Well they all WERE good.  

Dad: (watching a commercial for FIFA 14) There’s a soccer video game?! Holy shit!

Sara: There are 13 other ones too.

Dad: I didn’t think anyone liked soccer enough in this country!

Sara: Apparently they do!

Dad: Why don’t you buy that?

Sara: Because I suck at video games.

Dad: Why?

Sara: Because you never let me buy or play any when I was a kid. Something silly about playing outside or reading books or whatever.

Dad: Well now you can buy that one and 14 cats, then play it all day in your apartment and never leave. That’s how you want your life to go, right?

Sara:…I’d pretend to be offended if that didn’t actually sound appealing. 

What Post-Partum Life Looks Like - Baby Book Translations

DISCLAIMER: If you are pregnant or want kids, you might not want to read this because you may want to remain blissfully ignorant until the time comes. On the other hand, if you are not ready for kids, read this because it will be a very effective form of birth control.

This is also intended to be a humorous account. It's funny now. Because if you can't laugh at traumatic events in your life then...well I feel sorry for you.

Traditional baby books (What to Expect When You're Expecting, Mayo Clinic, etc.) are chockfull of information for pregnant women. They guide you through pregnancy and cover the first few months post-partum as well. The writing style in these books is about as vanilla as it comes. I will now go so far as to accuse the writers and editors of these books of sugar-coating the post-partum period, to the point of almost flat out lying to you. The way they describe life immediately post-pregnancy is very, um, conservative. As such, I've taken the liberty to translate some of these descriptions of post-partum life into language that really grabs the essence of what you will be experiencing.

Labor and Delivery:

What my book says:
"What does labor feel like? ...You may feel the pain in your lower abdomen, lower back, hips, or upper thighs. This sensation has been described as an aching feeling, pressure, fullness, cramping, and backache. For some, labor pain seems like very strong menstrual cramps."
Translation:
"Very strong menstrual cramps" my ass. Labor and contractions feel like your body and some invisible force is trying to shove and rip all your insides out through your vagina.

What my book says:
"Occasionally, a small amount of stool is expelled during birth."
Translation: 
If you don't shit on the delivery table, then you're not pushing hard enough. If your baby daddy can't handle a little bit of poop, then he is no man.

Post-Partum:

What my book says: 
"When you begin breastfeeding, your nipples may feel sore or tender."
Translation:
This is the understatement of the fucking century. Your nipples will feel like they have been through a war and are about to FALL OFF. All you will want to do is air them out and and sit with cold ice-packs on them. You'll wear a sports bra in the shower because the shower stream will feel like a fire hose is being sprayed onto your breasts.

What my book says:
"(After birth)...you'll have a vaginal discharge known as lochia....it typically starts off as a red, heavy flow of blood.
Translation:
The first time you go to the bathroom, THERE WILL BE SO MUCH BLOOD. It will look like a horrible murder scene.

What my book says:
"For the first few days to weeks after birth, going to the bathroom can be an uncomfortable experience."
Translation:
Peeing - The first time you pee is like having shot-gunned 8 beers and you've been holding it for 4 hours, and you get to the toilet and you have to concentrate harder than you ever have in your entire life to try to relax so you can actually pee. Oh, and it hurts.
Pooping - I didn't poop for 5 days. FIVE FUCKING DAYS. Thank modern fucking science for stool softeners - especially if they put you on iron supplements. Pooping will now feel like you're shitting rocks for the next four weeks. I remember day-dreaming about one day enjoying pooping again. (Sara: I can confirm this. I have multiple emails and text messages from Linz pining for a possibly pleasant poop)

What my book says:
"If your incision was closed with surgical staples, they'll likely be removed a few days or weeks after surgery."
Translation:
What the book completely fails to mention is how terrifying getting those out will be. You had your belly sliced open (and you probably weren't planning on it), all of your guts taken out and put on the surgical table, and then your uterus sliced open to yank your already ill-behaved-child-who-just-didn't-want-to-come-out-the-regular-way out. And then everything is put back in and together and you were STAPLED CLOSED. Holy shit! So when your staples come out you will be petrified that your guts are just going to FALL OUT. You'll probably walk around all hunchback-like clutching your incision for a few days, because, you know, that would help (not).

Life at Home:

What my book says:
"The abrupt drop in levels of estrogen and progesterone after childbirth...likely causes the baby blues and may have you feeling emotional."
Translation: 
YOU WILL BE A FUCKING BASKET-CASE. I sobbed (SOBBED!) when I realized I hadn't gotten Jesse a Father's Day card. Yah. I did that. You'll cry because you love your baby (wah fucking wah). You'll cry because your basil and cilantro plants bolted and flowered while you were in the hospital so now they aren't producing anymore herbs. You'll be FUCKING ECSTATIC when you get the hang of that breastfeeding position you've been trying. What I'm saying is you'll be insane for a few weeks.

What my book says:
"Some women may feel like they've lost their sense of identity."
Translation:
All I am in this world is a giant boob/milk factory with a never-ending period!

What my book says:
"For some parents...comes the further realization that your baby is solely in your care. This may come as a bit of a shock..."
Translation: 
"WHO THE FUCK DECIDED WE WERE COMPETENT ENOUGH TO LET US TAKE THIS THING HOME?!"

What my book says:
"Truly, you wonder, how do I go about this business of parenting?"
Translation:
"I NEED AN ADULT! I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING. HOLY SHIT THIS BABY IS MINE AND IT'S CRYING AND I JUST SAW A PICTURE OF ME ON FACEBOOK FROM JUST LAST YEAR TAKING A BEER BONG AND RESPONSIBLE PARENTS DON'T DO BEER BONGS! WHAT DO YOU MEAN BABIES DON'T COME WITH AN INSTRUCTION MANUAL?!"


Lastly, baby books NEVER address your loss of dignity and modesty after childbirth.
Examples of how you will lose all sense of dignity and modesty after childbirth:

1. Poor Sara was mortified when like, the 5th different person came into the delivery room during labor to check how dilated I was. In between chit-chat, my nurse stuck her entire hand into my vagina to check. There is a revolving door of medical professionals in and out of the delivery room and almost all of them need to see/touch your lady bits for one reason or another. I almost wanted to put a sign on the door that said "LINDSAY'S VAGINA IS NOW OPEN FOR VIEWING. COME ONE, COME ALL!"

2. You will wear a diaper. The hospital calls it a "hospital grade pad." It's a fucking diaper. And you need it. Because there will be floods of amniotic fluid and other gross stuff flowing from your lady parts.

3. Having a contraction while trying to pee. This needs no further elaboration.

4. Writhing in pain during a contraction while the nurses and anesthesiologist wait patiently for it to end so they can give you an epidural.

5. Getting buck-ass-naked during pushing because you're trying every different birthing position known to man to try to knock that little bastard baby loose. You've got a tube for your catheter, a tube coming out of your spine, and an IV tube. That god damn hospital gown gets caught in everything eveytime you try to move. My nurses, bless their hearts, were trying to hold a sheet over my ass during the squat position to, you know, preserve what little dignity I had left. Which brings me to...

6. Pooping while pushing in front of your husband and three nurses and one of them wipes your ass for you.

7. Breastfeeding for the very first time while your nurses help. One is squeezing your boob and the other one shoves your baby's face onto it.

8. Walking for the first time. They put these super sexy compression socks on your calves to protect against blood clots. I had an epidural, but that wore off by the time I was pushing, and so then I needed a complete spinal for surgery, and then they pump you with morphine as soon as they yank baby and cut the umbilical cord. Suffice it to say, you brain's communication with the rest of your body is fucked for the next 24 hours. I needed a walker. At 27 years old I used a walker to get to the shower.

9. You need to tell your nurse the first time you pee, poop, and fart post-surgery. Yes. I had to tell my nurse when I farted for the first time. I had to call my nurse when I was ready to pee, so she could come look in the commode and make sure that everything was...normal? Except peeing was hard and painful because I was swollen and sore. So there I am, straddling the toilet seat (SO MUCH BLOOD), sobbing because I can't pee and it hurts, and the nurse is bent down in front of me spraying my lady bits with warm water from a spray bottle to try to stimulate my urine flow. How about that image?

10. Everyone is taking pictures and wants to come see you and the baby and your entire body is wrecked, pale from loosing so much blood, puffy from all the drugs, you're lactating through your shirt, circles under your eyes from lack of sleep, wearing compression stockings, sweaty from all the hormonal changes, and wearing an industrial sized maxi-pad. And at this point you have zero fucks to give.



So there it is. My summation of what baby books don't address and my translation of their sugar-coated-bullshit descriptions. Congratulations!

Onion Ring Wars: Part 2

When Mom and Dad went on their million year road trip in June, they missed Sara's birthday. They didn't forget about her, though. Mom paid Sara's coworkers to take her out to a birthday lunch that day. That's how much our parents care. At any rate, nobody's schedule synced up until this last weekend to do a family birthday dinner. This last weekend also happened to be Jesse's 33rd birthday (toot toot!) so we had a big combined shebang. It was a typical family dinner setting: the boys out back shooting their arrows, Will pooping his pants and being generally adorable, Sara and Lindsay drinking beer and somehow managing to not spill any on Will whilst holding him, Mom cooking up a storm, Grandma Dee drinking scotch, and Grandma listening to Fox News and insulting her cat. Oh, and Tucker has been doing a lot of sulking because he's no longer the most adorable member of the family.

While Mom was throwing together the beer batter for the onion rings:

Mom: I put sriracha in the beer and it foamed up.
Lindsay: That's because there's vinegar in sriracha.
Mom: That's what it is!
Lindsay: HAHA! SCIENCE! CHEMISTRY! ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!

While Mom was frying the onion rings:

Mom: Sara, you have to wait until everyone gets an onion ring before you get one.
Sara: What?! Why?
Mom: Because you're an onion ring hog.
Sara: I am NOT! EVERYONE is an onion ring hog!
Mom: Well it's Jesse's birthday,
Sara: It's MINE too!
Mom: No it's not!
Sara: It is since we never celebrated it! It was your idea to make this a combined birthday dinner. You didn't even want to get me a present! You thought letting me house sit counts as a present!
Mom: No! I got you a lovely flower arrangement with herbs.
Lindsay: Just what every 60 year old cat lady wants. A fucking herbed flower arrangement.

Later we gave William a bath because the neck cheese accumulation in his neck rolls was just too much. Mom and Dad also have a giant kitchen sink, so it's easy to just toss him in there.

Dad: That's a pretty impressive nutsack for an infant!
Mom: He's just jealous.

See? Baby in the sink!

I cropped out his weenie. You didn't think I'd actually post a picture of my son's package on the internetz for all you perverts to look at, did you?

We're Back!

Holy SHIT it’s been so long since we’ve posted anything on this blog, I almost forgot we were the ones who wrote it! Here I was, thinking “who are these hilarious bitches?” Then I figured it out. And I patted myself on the back for being so damn wonderful.

So since I’m sure everyone reading knows by now, there is a very good reason that we haven’t been posting as much lately…Lindsay had an alien.

Er.

A parasite?

Crap. That’s not it either…

I don’t remember the word for it but he’s small and wriggly and needy and will steal your heart with his little face. We considered writing about the big day in the hospital but…we were otherwise preoccupied. In between contractions Lindsay wasn’t exactly thinking “I wonder if Sara’s writing this all down for a blog post later? Because this shit is amusing as all hell.”

Anyways. Let’s get up to speed on where everyone’s lives are at since William graced us with his presence in June, shall we? Let’s see here…

Mom and Dad went on a road trip to Arizona for a million years while Sara and Grandma threw keggers at their house and generally just fucked shit up. Lindsay’s been smearing poop in William’s hair and spilling beer on him every chance she gets. Jesse’s been experimenting with various styles of facial hair to see which one makes him look the most like a predator. And Tucker? He’s just been all emo now that there’s a new guy pilfering all of his attention and cuddles.

Since Lindsay’s been preoccupied, our email threads have been far less entertaining. But here’s one between Mom and I after I was brutally attacked while at work:

Sara: THERE WAS A SPIDER IN MY FUCKING CUBICLE HOLY FUCKING SHIT I WORK IN AN OFFICE THIS SHIT SHOULD NOT BE SOMETHING I NEED TO DEAL WITH FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

…I made Cameron kill it for me. Christie just laughed at me running away going “Your sister just gave fucking birth and look at you whimpering over a fucking spider.”……I have no regrets.

Mom: Well, to your credit, you didn’t have to assist in the birth, so a spider is still worse than sitting in a waiting room. 

Sara: I told them daddy traumatized me by throwing them at me when I was young. He’s not here to defend himself.
Note: though he didn't *actually* throw any spiders at me, he would totally mime chucking them in my face to make me flinch. I wasn't lying about the trauma. Just the method.

Mom: My lovely children. 

Sara: You’d do the same thing don’t even lie.

Mom: What same do I do?  Run from spiders?  I don’t think so.

Sara: Throw daddy under the bus to defend yourself.

Mom: Oh, that.  I do that in my sleep.

When Mom and Dad went on that road trip, I housesat for them. My first attempt at bringing all of my work things with me for the next morning didn’t go so well, as I informed Lindsay the next day in an email:

Sara: I went back to Mom and Dad’s last night to housesit. I forgot:

A bra

Razor

Hairdryer

Deodorant

So now I’m at the office with my hair fucked up, 1 inch leg hair in a short skirt (that’s all I brought with me for work today), smelling like a 50 year old man, and no bra.

I don’t think I’ll ever have my life all together.

Lindsay: That’s okay. Will managed to poop on his bedroom wall. He got his first bath last night because when Jesse was changing him, he pooped and then peed in his own face. FUCKING HILARIOUS. Jesse and I have been eating a lot of ice cream and drinking a lot of beer. I'm constantly wondering if my one-beer-an-hour strategy is actually OK or if William's meals are spiked with alcohol. 

Okay. I think that brings everything about up to speed at the present. Which is a Friday afternoon at the office. Dad is usually in a good mood on Fridays, but today he’s particularly chipper. You can always tell because he will absolutely refuse to stop trolling people. Here are a few things I’ve heard come out of his mouth since he arrived this morning:

Celeste: Brock, I’ve got to leave for a few minutes to run to the doctor. I’ll be back soon.

Dad: *loudly yelling across the office floor* Is it because you have AIDS?

Celeste: Shit no!

Dad: Oh, so you’re pregnant then? NICE!

A company-wide email was sent out with details on Friday Husky potlucks. There’s something like six UW alumni in our office compared to two Cougs. I, for one, feel forced into a hostile work environment…but when I tried to file a complaint they told me it was unfounded. Humph. Dad decided to hit reply-all and sent this:

 “About 80% chance you guys will lose to Boise”

Then a single email just to me...:

“…if this is what HUSKY nation is all about I’ll be a COUG…pussies.”

Later, a coworker sent Dad and me a lunch invitation:

Christie: Ray and I are going to eat Mexican (sit outside) if you two weirdos want to join.

Dad: Not me bitches. I got important shit to do.

Christie: Punkassbitch (both of you)

Million Dollar Idea: HOSPITAL BAR

Lindsay's birthday was last weekend and she and Jesse went up to Kathy and Brock's to have her birthday dinner. Grandma came downstairs and this was the exchange they had mid-embrace:

Grandma: Hey fatty! *giggle*

Lindsay: You're lucky you're so old and small that even when you're a bitch it's cute.



Here are some typical Dad comments. And for the record, everything Sara and I say about Dad here is true. Seriously.  

Sara: So we played trivia last night at The Beer Authority...the trivia was fucking ridiculously hard. One of the questions was “what do you smelt with steel to make it stainless?” WTF KIND OF A BAR TRIVIA QUESTION IS THAT???!?!?!?!

Mom: So what do you marry with steel to make it stainless? Carbon?

Sara: Chromium, apparently. We put nickel.

Dad: Chromium, duh…

Sara: Nice Google search

Dad: That’s not hard. Have you ever heard of “Chrome” same thing. Guy stuff, bitches just don’t know this stuff. 

Sara: Dad, you are an honorary bitch. You wear nail polish and sarongs and go to Zumba. You’re on the same level of “dude” as Hoff* at this point.

Lindsay: I'm so happy I woke up to this conversation

Dad: Just for the record, I haven’t even worn my sarong this year, I haven’t had nail polish since Sun Lakes 12 years ago, and I am a total “Bro”.

Lindsay: Don't forget that he was also a girl scout and took Home Economics by choice in high school. 

*Hoff is fabulous. Fabulously gay.



Lindsay sent out an email to Sara and Mom wondering if they had everything they needed in their hospital bags and if they wanted Lindsay to pick anything up at the store to have at the house for them.
Mom: I have tea and my fake sugar in my go bag along with an un-opened bottle of wine. I will remind Daddy to get beer and anything else he will need at the house. Like his mixed nuts and stuff. Daddy can go to the store to get food. We could even eat out if needed. So don’t worry about us.

Sara: Shit. I should probably have my shit together to leave. I know I won’t be down there as long as you guys or anything but still…

Lindsay: You might want to have a few things. Or at least a list/mental list of things to buy at the grocery store on your way down. Larabars, water, etc. 

Mom: And you are not drinking my wine. So get your own. O.K., you can share.

Sara: Wait so…I need to bring my own or not? Can we drink it at the hospital?

Mom: Probably not at the hospital, although if we bring twist top, I don’t see why not.

Lindsay: Oh my god. You two are not drinking wine at the hospital. 

Mom: Why not? You and Jesse will have champagne.

Sara: That's true. You and Jesse have champagne. We have wine. 

Lindsay: THAT'S DIFFERENT. I will have just given birth. I dare someone to tell me I can't have a glass of champagne after childbirth and 9 months of sobriety. I FUCKING DARE THEM.

Sara: WOOOOOOO GETTIN’ DRUNK IN THE WAITING ROOM!!! YEEEEAAAAHHH

Just kidding. I’d feel pretty dirty drinking in a hospital. Unless there’s a bar. In which case…LET’S HIT THE BAR

Mom: Who's driving?

Sara: Ummm...Tucker can drive us.

Mom: Tucker would be a killer driver. I mean...literally!

Lindsay: BAZINGA!

Sara: Ha! Nice one Mom. See? Without wine you won’t have all of this witty banter to keep you entertained while you give birth.

Lindsay: I have this really disturbing mental picture of you two sitting outside the delivery room on the floor sharing a bottle of wine out of a brown paper bag like two bums and offering pulls to the nurses.

Mom: You may have started drinking already, but I haven't.

Sara: Yah, but you're still drunk from last night, probably.

Mom: That could be.

Jesse's Solutions to Lindsay's Mobility Limitations

When having a conversation about how awesome Macklemore is, Dad told us that he went to Meadowdale High School and he knows this because he...

Dad: ...just saw it on the interweb.

Sara: You’re right. That’s why all of Macklemore’s songs are about loving his hometown, Edmonds. Oh wait…

Mom: Don’t ever believe anything a salesman says.

He went to Garfield and Nathan Hale
"Haggerty was born and raised in Seattle, Washington. He attended Garfield High School andNathan Hale High School, going on to earn a bachelor's degree at The Evergreen State College. Interested in reaching a younger generation through his music, he was a part of a program focusing on education and cultural identity called "Gateways for Incarcerated Youth" where he facilitated music workshops.[3][4]"

Dad: Who is Haggerty? And what does it have to do with Macklemore?*

*Another shining example of Dad's listening skills. He asks shit like this all. the. time.

Sara: Macklemore isn’t his real name, dad. His name is Ben Haggerty. That’s why there’s a line in Irish Celebration that says “Proud to be a Haggerty.” Duh

Dad: God if I had a shitty name like that I’d change it too..


Dad gave Lindsay a call the other day to ask about something and this was what he said when he hung up:

Dad: Ok honey, uh, love you, and...try not to get anymore pregnant.

Sara sent out an email bitching about a co-worker and how he was acting like an ass at work, and here were our incredibly useful suggestions for how Sara should handle her situation. Names have been changed to protect Sara's reputation. 

Sara: I somehow pissed off co-worker for asking he and superior the same question, and using superior's answer first. And he’s being a huge wang and refusing to help me. Is he like…actually emotional or something? I assume he’s on his period at the least.

Dad: Tell co-worker to quit being a girl and do some work...

Sara: I would but it would probably just dislodge his tampon even more. Jesus.

Lindsay: Well, judging by how Sara is kicking ass at her job and how much co-worker is sucking, maybe he should actually consider growing a vagina because his balls aren't doing him any favors.

Sara: Good point. Betty White agrees.




Sara made a comment to Lindsay about how when she was younger, she didn't think Snoop Dog was a real person.

Lindsay: You didn't? How did you think he wasn't real? Snoop Dog is so ridiculous he HAS to be real. 

Sara: No, I thought dad made him up for his stupid jokes about his new album “Sniff my booty…”*And then I saw a music video on TV when I was like 12 and my whole world turned the fuck upside down.

Lindsay: WOW. I'm dying right now.

Sara: Dood this is MY LIFE and you're LAUGHING at it.
*One of Dad's overused jokes when we were little was to ask us, "Have you heard Snoop dog's new album? It's called sniff my booty!" I honestly have no idea if Snoop Dog, did in fact, come out with an album titled "Sniff My Booty," but Dad somehow decided that was hilarious and would say that to us at least 3 times a day for several years. 


Finally, Lindsay is very pregnant. Like, 2 weeks away from delivery pregnant. Obviously, she's not as quick, or agile, or nimble as she used to be. She's been doing a lot of scooting to get out of sitting positions and rolling over in bed is like making an 8-point turn.

Jesse made these comments about her mobility:

When getting out of the car:
"We need to get you a little seat ejector that just propels you upright."

When trying to maneuver around a tight space:
"You need a truck beeper. Beep. Beep. Beep."

When trying to get off the couch:
"I think we need a crane to lift you up off the couch."

Rage Emails at Work

Sara sent Lindsay an email whining about work being boring or harder now that she's been given a promotion. Actually, I don't remember what the context was for this email, I'm just speculating. I'd say 75% of the email exchanges between Lindsay and Sara begin as rage emails because what we want to say in real life is supposedly "socially unacceptable."

Lindsay: Well go home and have a whiskey. Jesse just finished his paleo challenge and turned in report cards so he is having one tonight!

Sara: I will. I might just get kind of silly by myself and be pathetic.

Lindsay: It's not pathetic. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I WOULD GIVE TO GET DRUNK AT HOME ALONE RIGHT NOW. 

For Christmas, Lindsay got Dad the Girl With The Dragon Tattoo Trilogy. Naturally, she read them first. Seriously though. Read those books. 

Lindsay: Dad is going to give you the 3rd Girl With The Dragon Tattoo book so you can bring it down on Sunday. If you forget it I will CUT you. 

Sara: Not going to happen. I will intentionally leave it on my balcony.

Now that I actually have to interact with people at work on a regular basis…I really need to not be such a raging cunt in the morning. I don’t say anything, but any time anyone says pretty much anything to me before 10 all I can think in my head is “I want to fucking stab you right in your stupid goddamn fucking face.” Regardless of whether or not they’re actually bothering me. It’s a problem.

Lindsay: Meh. As long as you don't ACTUALLY say it. People might figure out that you're not a morning person and leave you alone until 10am though. So maybe you should keep this up. 

Sara: That’s true. And it would be nice if I could somehow get that to be an unspoken policy with people. Maybe I’ll try operant conditioning? I should get some chocolate.

Lindsay: OOOOOOH. I like that. Psychological experimenting on unsuspecting co-workers. It's like we're real life super villains.

I got an email yesterday from Sara raging about some asshat she had to deal with who clearly is an expert in passive-aggressive-beat-around-the-bush communication techniques.

Sara: So one of the accounts I took over for is ______ and the account manager is down in ______. Last week he asked me to get a quote for a computer (which isn’t something we normally get quotes for). I got one from the distributor that sells laptops. Sent it over to him.

He said they needed some things changed. So I requested the change. Didn’t hear from the distributor for a few follow ups. Just now he calls me (a good 3 hours after I sent him the quote) and says that it needs to be changed yet again and gets all in my business about how he needs it today and blah blah blah. Keep in mind, our distributor is in Colorado so by the time he called me they are done for the day. 

DUDE JUST TELL ME WHAT THE HELL YOU WANT. I CANNOT READ MINDS NOR AM I AN ENGINEER. AND ON TOP OF THAT, I NEVER FUCKING QUOTE COMPUTERS SO I REALLY DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING. GAH. 

Lindsay: 



Sara: Not so much that…but just TELL me what you want! I’ve now sent you 3 quotes based on EXACTLY what you told me you wanted, and each time you send it back for some sort of change and are getting irritated with me as if I should a) know what you want without you telling me or b) have done this before and be able to talk RAM and hard drive space with a fucking distributor. Please don’t get irritated with me because you can’t ask a question correctly. 

Lindsay: I know. I just thought a donkey wearing a hard hat was funny. You're dealing with the government remember. Most government employees are about as efficient and competent at their jobs as sacks of poop.

Sara: No, I’m dealing with a coworker. That’s who I’m dealing with. 

Lindsay: Well in that case, tell him to say what he means, get to the point, and quit talking to you like a Dandy.

Sara: Another guy came in here to give me a hard time over something, and I turned around (joking, btw) and said “I am SO done with you people not telling me what you want and then storming into my cube to tell me I did it wrong. It’s Monday! I cannot deal with you being incompetent!” Except I think he thought I was serious and was all like “We don’t know what we’re doing either, it’s fine!” 

Lindsay: See? Donkey with a hard hat. 

Sara: You're a donkey with a hard hat. 

Lindsay: False. My job is so easy I know exactly what I am doing at all times. 

From Sara to Mom, Dad, and Lindsay. Sara and Mom have been trying for a really long time to get my Dad to try pho, and he's just never shown any interest. Keep in mind that my mother kept my Dad CC'd in this conversation. 

Sara: Apparently Dad likes pho now that EVERYONE else at work got him to go and try it. I'm so mad at him.

Mom: You can’t be serious? I love Pho and I always want to make it, and he always turns his nose up at it. What a little bitch

Who wants some pickled green beans?

Last weekend, Jesse and Lindsay made the trek up to Mukilteo from Auburn to come for a visit, and Sara also dropped in on the afternoon as well. We had a nice, wholesome afternoon of beer drinking, cussing, and our Uncle M. even came over to play some music before dinner. 

Every summer, Mom and Dad visit Dad's Uncle Ed up on the Tulalip reservation and they can a shitload of pickles and pickled green beans. Mom had just had hand surgery when they did this last year, and she fucked up the recipe so everything came out saltier than the Dead Sea. When you open a new can, you have to pour out half the brine and fill it back up with water to make everything taste right.
Lindsay: *eating green beans* 
Dad: Yeah, eat those pickled green beans up. They're super salty and I don't like them. This last batch Kathy made was shitty.
Mom: Well, when we made the last batch, I had just had hand surgery and I think my mind was still kind of fucked up on painkillers.
Dad:  Your mind is always fucked up.
Mom: You're just...all fucked up.
Lindsay: That escalated quickly.
Dad: Gee, what a nice house.

Lindsay and Sara began bickering about something, and Jesse, always the instigator...
Jesse: Take it into the backyard!
Sara: I bet I could take Lindsay now...eh...well...maybe not.
Dad: Yah, I'm still putting $20 on Lenslay during a knuckle rodeo - even pregnant.
Sara: I don't even get an advantage when Lindsay is pregnant?!
Jesse: Maybe in like, 2 months when she's really huge and waddling like this. *sticks out his arms and waddles like a penguin*
Mom: Yeah, and her balance will be off so you could just push her over with your finger.
Jesse: Yah! she'll be like a turtle on it's back!
Sara: *Looks at Lindsay like "see how it feels?"*

A little later, our favorite Uncle came over to jam with us. He and Jesse play guitar and Sara and Lindsay sing.
M: Don't you think Jesse and I play well together?
Sara: No, I think you guys sound like shit.
M: I'm going to hit you and I'm going to hit you hard.
Sara: *Cackles*
M: You know, my blood pressure is high and you're not helping!
Dad from across the room: How's your dick pressure?!
Lindsay: What the fuck does that even mean?
(Sara: Lindsay...pretty sure we all know what that means. I'm sure Jesse can explain it to you)

I had been awhile since we had all jammed together for shits and giggles and we were talking about how nice it was to do it again, and how we should really try to make more of an effort to get music into our lives on a semi-regular basis.
M: You'll be calling me up to play music from now on, I know. You'll be calling me up yelling "fuck! I need my fix!"
Sara: You make us sound like crack heads.
Lindsay: Well, Sara has a drinking problem.
Sara: *while sipping a beer* It's true.
M: And Brock can't hear.
Dad: *from the other room* What?

Mom was making cioppino for dinner, and she tends to talk out loud to no one in particular when she cooks. She dropped this sophisticated culinary phrase on us.
Mom: OK, I'm going to start seasoning and shit.

During dinner...
Mom: You know what I want for my birthday?
Dad: A new husband?
Mom: <thinks about it> No! All men are the same, they just come in different packages.
Dad: *raises his hand* But I'm a good vacuumer!
Jesse: It's true Kathy, I've vacuumed with Brock before. 


Dad: Just let Taco** lick your hands and your pants. You'll feel all sorts of better.
*everyone snickers*
Dad: I know I always feel better when Taco licks my pants.
**Taco is Dad's nickname for Tucker. In case you don't get the licking pants reference, go here. If you've met Tucker, you know about this.


After dinner, while cleaning up...
Dad *toot*
Sara: Did you just fart on me?
Dad: I didn't hit you with it!
Lindsay: Jesse farts in Tucker's face all the time.
Jesse: I do.
Mom: Thank you for sharing.
Lindsay: He does!
Dad: I used to do it to Mika all the time. She loved it.
Jesse: So does Tucker!
*all of the women exchange looks*

Just for you Darren...

Darren: Damn, I always miss out on a chance to be part of an upcoming Brower's blog...


DARREN, IF YOU WANT TO BE FEATURED ON OUR BLOG, YOU HAVE TO LEARN HOW TO SPELL OUR FUCKING NAME RIGHT.


ASSHOLE.

Trolling The Parents

We assume that it's fairly evident to anyone reading that Dad likes to fuck with us. Really...he likes to fuck with anyone in general. He's the original troll. But we have our moments of revenge, like this email thread from last week:

Sara: So I went to hot yoga with Margo from work yesterday. Margo almost danced professionally so…that was a bit intimidating. But I did it. And holy mother of god am I hurting today. I’m sore in places I didn’t know existed.

I was, however, able to tuck my fingers under my toes by the end of class. Awesome.

Dad: None of you ever had any flexibility at all. It would be good to work on that.

Lindsay: I think I will start yoga. Probably after el bebe comes.

Dad, the reason we're not very flexible is because we're so muscular. People with lots of muscles have trouble with flexibility. I can still put my palms on the ground though!

Dad: Muscular has nuttin to do with it. That’s not true NFL football players are very flexible.

Lindsay: Did you learn that during all your years as an NFL physical therapist?

 Mom:

Dad: They had a big special on it and all of them work very hard on it. The results were pretty dramatic from an injury standpoint. I know that my flexibility is better than all of you combined. Not a good result for women who should inherently have much better flexibility than any man…

Sara: Maybe it’s because you’re just not much of a man then?

Lindsay: BAZINGA!

While Dad likes to troll, Mom likes to instigate. A few days ago, she sent us all an email in the morning titled “If the Gov’t buys up all the ammunition, can you shoot your gun?” I (Sara) will usually get into what I assume will be a discussion (but always turns into an argument. Hm, unintended arguments over politics...I wonder if anyone else has had this problem?) with Mom any time she sends something over like this. You know, because I’m a brat. And because most of the stuff she sends us is typically about how Obama’s ruining the country and conservatives are being unfairly bullied. Anyways, this particular day I wasn’t in the mood for a mature argument:

Mom: http://www.infowars.com/dhs-purchases-21-6-million-more-rounds-of-ammunition/

(The article’s about how the DHS has started buying tons more ammunition and goes on to speculate that it’s a move to disarm Americans without legislation)

Sara: Wait, are you telling me that the U.S. Government stockpiles more ammunition and weapons than they could ever possibly use and far more than anyone else has?

Mom: I don’t understand how your mind works. The Gov’t hasn’t been buying ammo and all of a sudden they are buying millions of rounds?

Sara: You’re right. They’re obviously trying to disarm every American citizen in an effort to start the 4^th Reich and fascist rule. Obviously.

Mom: The third Reich started because of complacent people like you.

Sara: And I feel just terrible about it. When Obama starts gassing people I will do the honorable thing and shoot myself. Because that’s obviously his game plan.

Mom: I think he wants to be king. And be careful what you put in an e-mail. You could trigger an investigation by Big Sis.*

Sara: Oh of course. Any day now he’s going to seize power and because of the poor complacent idiots like me, there will be no one to stop him. This is how the world ends, not with a bang but with a black guy.

I assume Big Sis is Hillary. What, do you think homegirl and I aren’t already in kahootz? I sell to the government, Mom. Me and Hillary are both crazy liberal bitches. I get to be her pet when she and Obama take over.

Mom: Why did you bring race into this discussion? It is about the content of his character, not the color of his skin. 

Sara: Because it was funnier that way.

Because I’m mocking you, mother.

Mom: I’m appalled that you think racism is funny.

Sara: I’m appalled that you’re still attempting to have a serious conversation with me.

Mom: I’m appalled that you don’t recognize our country is going to hell in a handbasket.

Sara: A handbasket would burn up long before we got to Hell.

Be serious, mother.

Mom:

Dad: Enough! This is 25 emails to me from you clowns. Leave me off please...

Sara: No. I'm a honey badger, and you know what?



Lindsay: Honey badger don't give a shit. 


Mom:   

Dad: LEAVE ME OFF THIS SHIT!!

Poor Dad. We love him. We really do. But sometimes we just can't resist. 

*We think she actually means Big Brother. Another example of Mom's ability to fuck up common terms and English in general. (Sara: No, she means Janet Napolitano, Secretary of Homeland Security. That's why her picture is there. Duh)