"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."