Conflict of interests…

Oh, damn… Well, that was just a whole buncha stuff in my body that simultaneously twitched.

I am suddenly both horny and maternal.

It’s awkward.

#ItsOKToBeAWhore

*blink*

Oh, OK.

Hey, y’all?

“It’s OK to be a whore.”

#ItsOKToBeAWhore

The most “The fuck?” baby I’ve ever seen.

I took this photo from the car while driving, so I’m sorry for the poor quality, but I drive past this billboard every day and I feel like everyone needs to behold its majesty.

I don’t know what you talk to YOUR friends about…

Discussing life with a very pregnant ladyfriend:

Her: “We still have 10 days to go. The baby seems content to stay there forever, so who knows. Someday, I won’t be pregnant. So they tell me. It’s weird. Everywhere I go I’m like, ‘I could go into labor RIGHT NOW and that would be acceptable. Like, the baby would be fine.’ Pregnancy is a total mindfuck (brought about by an actual fuck, I suppose, haha).”

Me: “That really IS a mindfuck, now that I think about it. ‘Cause eventually the kid just decides, ‘Aaand my work in this womb is done. Comin’ at ya, Ma! Wheeeeee!’ And then she swims down like Nemo, and that ‘Y’all Ready for This?‘ song plays like it’s a sports game.”

Her: “OMG, I wish ‘Y’all Ready for This’ would play whenever anyone went into labor. Vaginas should come equipped with that pre-recorded. Also could be useful during sex?”

Me: “I’m not sure how it would work, science-ly, but I would Kickstart the shit out of technology that would enable my vagina to welcome its visiting team with a jaunty tune. Vaginal Jock Jams. Yes. Shut up and take my money.”

Not that it’s a competition, but…

Earlier today, my married-couple friends welcomed their beautiful new baby into the world.

However, today, I:
1. Looked in my purse for something else and found a brownie I forgot I’d bought yesterday.
2. Worked Cyrano de Bergerac into a blog post about OkCupid and oral sex.
3. Did such a good job masturbating while thinking about Scott Foley that now I’m gloriously exhausted and am just going to stay in bed.

So, I mean, really, who had a bigger day?

I’m about to go high-five this woman’s vagina.

I was debating what to post today but couldn’t decide. And that was CLEARLY because the Lord Baby Jesus knew I’d see this 5 minutes later and laugh so hard my stomach hurt:

“Jesus be a fence around this baby’s mother’s Love Pocket. May it recover, in His MIGHTY name. I IMMEJATELY started doing kegels upon seeing the picture because I got stressed by proxy.”

“This baby walked out of his mothers vagina with a career and bills.”

“…My uterus just put up a ‘closed forever’ sign when I read this. Any eggs that were left over just scrambled themselves to save my poor lady bits from that type of destruction. I’ll be over in the corner with my legs crossed thinking about ice packs and Percocet.”

P.S. I am aware I’m a bad person. But some of the comments are so, SO funny.

Via Awesomely Luvvie: Whose Precious Giant Newborn is This?

My kid would be such an asshole…

Emailing a pregnant friend:

“You have that Babies ‘R’ Us Frequent Breeder card or whatever it is, right? That card that gives you fetus points?”

(Again, why I’m not allowed to have kids.)

My family shuns my food baby.

I spent the day with extended family, which first means I can’t handle anymore noise and am incapacitated in silence on the couch. But it also means I spent the day being lauded for being “so petite!” and looking “so cute in skinny jeans!” Because apparently that’s an achievement. “I could never wear those, I’d look like a beached whale!”

Oh, it’s TOTES easy, you guys. All you have to do is upend your entire adult life: lose two consecutive jobs; get your heart broken twice (once in love, once in friendship); move apartments twice; doubt your overall worth; get fat; see therapists you can’t really afford; get prescribed drugs that make you lose your previously voracious appetite; get thin because you’re eating half as much; and constantly worry that even this tiny rug of vague stability you’ve managed to weave for yo’ damn self is going to be pulled out from under you.

In the words of Elle Woods: “What, like it’s hard?”

I don’t know why I waste my time on my silly blog when I could clearly be writing the next big self-help book.

I was also told how “natural” I looked holding Baby Cousin, and got the “Maybe you’ll change your mind someday, you never know.” Um, well, first, I’m 40 and single, so time’s a wastin’, and second, I was sure enough to end a decade-long relationship over the matter, which you’re aware of, so I think I’m set. Thanks for the reminder, though. And also you’re a dick.

Besides, in our family, being skinny vs. breeding seems very much an either/or situation. I’m gonna need you to prioritize your pressure. If I’m understanding correctly, being fat is acceptable as long my fat is the result of creating a person? But it’s not cool if it’s just a food baby?

DYING

I beg you to read the full comic. I laughed so hard I cried.   

Naming kids: last name, Business; first name, None-o-ya

Overheard in pre-meeting chatter at work, from two women who’ve only recently met:

Woman 1: “How old is your son?”

Woman 2: “14 months.”

Woman 1: “Aw! Are you gonna have more?”

Woman 2: “…Ehhhh, I don’t know about that…”

Woman 1: “Aw, you don’t want to try for the girl?”

Dear Lord, baby Jesus, please keep me from punching this woman in the throat.

People. This is not an acceptable topic of conversation, especially at work, where maybe we’re not all “Ya-Ya Sisterhood of the Golden Girls Traveling Caftans” wanting to discuss what’s going into or coming out of our vaginas next. Kindly extricate yourselves from other women’s uteruses. It’s, like, SUPER none of your business.