My Baby Did Not Come Out My Butt, And Other Stories

Just kidding.  It's only one story, and it's graphic and exhaustingly detailed. You might want to stop reading now, to be honest. Because I'm feeling nostalgic now that my "baby" is about to be seven, and because I love telling the story of her birth, I'm going to go all out and tell the no-holds-barred, every-detail-I-can-remember story. I normally edit it a little for brevity and fake modesty but not today; please buckle your safety belts and stay in your seats, because this ride may get bumpy. It also may get gross. And it's likely to be really long and incredibly dull for anyone who's not me; people who often say things like "Good god, I don't want to see a million pictures of your stupid kid!" should DEFINITELY exit now. Sorry. (*I'm not sorry.)

         Just chewin' on a flower, enjoying my newly huge rack

I was one of those weirdos (so I'm told) that loved being pregnant. Even at the end when my lungs were crushed and I couldn't sleep and I had strange stabbing pains in my vagina, I didn't mind. I waited tables in a busy restaurant until two weeks before Noa was born and even though there were nights that I sat down at midnight to count my money and wept because my back hurt so much, I STILL didn't mind. Sure, I complained some. But what was happening to my body-- IN my body-- was fascinating to me.  I read a dozen childbirth books because I found every single detail interesting, even the same details over and over. I especially loved the concentric circles showing different stages of dilation and would repeatedly marvel "Ten centimeters is a LOT! Like, LOOK at that! That's HUGE! My body is freaking amazing!"  

In childbirth class I couldn't get enough of the thing the instructor would do with the fake pelvis and baby to show the how the head moves down during birth. (Note: the head doesn't just fall out. There's a lot of magical bones in babies' heads that smoosh and fold just right to fit through the magical bones in mom's pelvis that happen to be made to move around that head.) I was amazed by the different stages of labor and the odd things that could happen with each; burping and farting during some parts, uncontrollable shivering during transition when labor is almost complete and delivery is about to begin. My midwife Susan told me once that she can usually tell how far into labor someone is by how unabashedly nude they are. She said "Earlier in labor women tend to keep themselves clothed and covered up but often suddenly their inhibitions disappear and they end up topless and don't want blankets on them or near them."  This was impressive to me. And also ended up being true.

The day before Noa's November 9th "due date" (which, as a reminder, is a due MONTH-- two weeks before to two weeks after that magic date is normal for a single gestation pregnancy) her bureau/changing table got to the apartment and even though I figured I'd be pregnant for another few days or weeks I suddenly was compelled to fold and put away every single little item of baby clothing. I arranged and re-arranged it all until I was satisfied; I fastened the little foam changing pad to the top and put a soft little terry cloth cover on it. I packed my hospital bag. I checked to make sure the crib was perfectly made up (which is hilarious, because I didn't end up using it for six months). Late that night, exhausted and with my lower back howling in pain that I assumed was from puttering around all day, I decided I MUST take a shower and found that there was no hot water (because my landlord was a bit negligent with paying the oil bill...every single month). I drove to my mother's at 10pm and took a long shower, so hot that my skin turned bright pink and I felt the pain in my lower back melting a bit.

I got home after midnight and finally started to doze off around 2am, my hands on my belly and a pillow under it, and then SHAZAM-- a major contraction shook me awake. And then another one came shortly after. And another one. And then another one.

I grabbed my watch and timed them-- three minutes apart.  Consistently. I'd been told to hang out and relax at home when labor began until contractions were five minutes apart, but apparently my body likes to skip the dull parts of things and go straight to the good stuff. I putzed around for a while, waiting to make sure the contractions weren't stopping. I got dressed, brushed my teeth, and marvelled at my mucous plug and "bloody show" in the toilet when I peed. (Look it up. I'll spare you.) 

After awhile I called Noa's dad and told him I was havin' a baby.  He asked "Are you sure this is it? You know they said you could have false labor, right?" Normal me would have snarked back something smartassy, but early in-labor me was super chill and didn't give a shit about anything really, so I casually told him my contractions were three minutes apart and he was like "OH. WHOA" then asked if there was time to stop at the gas station on his way over.  I shrugged and told him "Yeah, get a coffee, whatever you want to do."

I called the midwife and told her I'd be on my way. I made myself a bowl of soup, sat down at the kitchen table, and called my mom while I slurped chicken broth. She was impressively alarmed when she asked what I was doing and my answer was "Eating soup." There was a barrage of questions--  should I be eating? Was I okay? When would Adam be there?-- and I was basically like "It's all good. I'm fine," similar to the way a suuuuuuper stoned person would say she was fine. An odd calm had taken me over and I felt light and giddy. I laid down on the living room floor and when Adam got there I was flipping through my CDs trying to decide what I wanted to listen to. I don't even think any of it was registering; I was just flipping the pages mindlessly with my hand on my belly, feeling each contraction come and go in regular waves. They weren't too painful yet, but tight and uncomfortable.  I lay in the dark for awhile and then Adam finally nervously said "Shouldn't we go?" and I figured, yeah, I think so. I guess that's what we do now.  

It was just starting to get light out as we left, a little after 5am. That time during dawn when night turns to day is always a little surreal, but in labor it seemed that everything was happening in slow motion. I was stoned on endorphins. Dopamine. SOMETHING. It was a 30 minute ride to the hospital and things picked up a little on the way there; the contractions were getting painful and I stopped talking and closed my eyes during them, lifting myself off the seat a bit until they passed. At some point Adam said again "Don't be upset if this isn't it. They might send us home" and this time I told him in no uncertain terms that I was 100% positive that I was having a goddamn baby fricking TODAY.

As I got out of the car at the hospital I had a brief semi-psychotic moment where I laughed and cried hysterically at the same time and repeated "I'm having a baby! Oh my god!" a few times. And then I wiped my tears off my face and managed to stop laughing and walked stoically into the hospital. Totally casually, as though I hadn't just been cackling like a weirdo outside the ER. They brought me straight up to the birthing center and for some reason when they offered me a wheelchair I said yes. I certainly didn't need it; I'm just lazy, I guess. I felt silly while they wheeled me up to the fourth floor like a sick person who couldn't walk, but at that point it would have been worse to say "Ummm, I don't know, I changed my mind, can we get rid of this now?" so I just went with it. 

We got into the Mom's Place (adorable, right?) and there were NO ROOMS OPEN. None. Nada. Granted, it was exactly 40 weeks after Valentine's Day, but Jesus Christ-- how does a maternity center run out of rooms?! There were about a million ladies poppin' babies out that day, no joke. They put me in a long triage room with a half dozen or so tiny curtained off areas, each one filled with a laboring mama. They briefly hooked me up to some neat contraction monitoring thingie where I watched lines spike and drop in rhythm, and someone checked my dilation (by jamming her fingers into me, party!) and was like "Yeah, we have a live one over here." DUH. Geezus, people. When I say "I'm having a baby right now" I mean I'M HAVING A FUCKING BABY RIGHT NOW YOU GUYS UGH. 

(I TOLD YOU THIS WOULD BE LOOOOOOOONG!  Feel free to take a bathroom break and get a beverage.)

I was 3cm at 6am when they first checked me. I asked if I could get the hell out of that little curtain prison and go for a walk and they gladly unhooked the seismograph (*not the actual name of the thingie). We roamed the hall of the baby birthin' floor, and I stopped to hold the railings during contractions.  I was moaning now, not like a crazed screaming television woman in labor, just a low keening that felt right. Every time I reached the end of the hall I paused and looked out the giant window at the gorgeous, sunny, seventy degree day outside.  In November. While I wasn't allowed to go outside.  HORSESHIT! I kept needing to pee, little bits at a time, and sitting on the toilet made the contractions much more intense.  That's the idea behind a birthing ball-- that sitting with your legs open helps open the birth canal, but I couldn't handle how much it hurt to sit so I kept roaming.

At 8am or so I wanted my little space back, so we wandered back into our teeny triage area.  A nurse checked my cervix again-- and this time it HURT-- and she praised me like a toddler who'd taken her first steps.  "Good job!" she crowed. "You're at six centimeters!"

My midwife popped in and cheerfully told me she figured I'd be having a baby by noon. I got a little panicky and said "What if I'm not in a room then?!" and she chirped "Then you'll have that baby right here! You'll be fine!"

I wasn't fine. I wanted my big room with a kitchenette and paintings on the walls that hid all the medical equipment and made the room feel like hotel instead of a hospital. I wanted my fancy tub; I wanted to get on my hands and knees in hot water until my baby was ready to come out. 

The slight panic I felt intensified the pain I was in and suddenly I hit a huge wall-- I didn't feel so in control anymore. I didn't feel calm and collected; I was scared and confused. I was going to have a baby on a fucking gurney with a room full of people on the other side of a curtain?!

I told the nurse I needed something for the pain.  Totally not what I'd planned, at all, but as things got more intense I got more and more anxious, and the pain got worse and worse. My mind was cloudy and I wanted things I didn't really want. My mom called around that time and I was moaning and contracting and barely able to speak.  Someone gave me a shot of Nubain-- which I think is pretty much heroin, but safe for babies?-- and I called my mom back, stoned and still in pain but just not caring. "Heeeyyyyy, mom," I cooed. She was impressed at the difference three minutes had made in my demeanor.  "Yeahhhh," I said. "They gave me a shot, and it's like...ummm... I feel a little better now." She asked if I wanted her to come to the hospital and I insisted that I wanted everyone to stay away until Noa came; I'd told everyone this beforehand, because the idea of a bunch of people sitting around waiting for my vagina to be big enough for a human head to fit through felt hugely intimidating, like I'd be putting on a show and had to try to impress them with my speed. Jump through a few flaming hoops and then hand them all a cute freshly baked baby bundled in swaths of flannel.  

This part gets a little foggy.  A friend claims that we spoke on the phone and I cried about not having a room but I have no recollection of that.  I spent a long time standing by the bed, rocking my hips back and forth and getting louder and louder.  At 10am someone wanted to check my cervix again and I dreaded it--- don't touch the ouchy part!-- but allowed it. This time I was 8cm, and this time I started to cry. "I want an epidural. I can't do this. I can't." My midwife reminded me how close I was, that I had sworn through my entire pregnancy that I didn't want an epidural, but I was insistent. I begged. Everything was blurring together and I had no rational understanding of why I was suddenly on the edge of a meltdown, but I couldn't stop pleading and finally the midwife said she'd get the anesthesiologist up as soon as she could. 

A few minutes later she came back. "We have a room for you! We're filling the tub up right now!" Yeah, woooooo!  NOT. I was so over the goddamn tub by now and said so. I'd made my mind up that I wanted a giant needle in my spine to numb me from the waist down, and I wouldn't be deterred. Then suddenly I was in a room, sitting on the edge of the bed with the anesthesiologist behind me.  This part was like magic; I have no idea how I got from triage to the room.  Maybe they beamed me there.  Maybe I crawled. Who knows, really?

I decided I had to pee and called off the epidural for a minute.  I sat on the toilet and had the most intense contraction of my entire labor-- this time instead of moaning I was kind of yelling "Auuuuggghhhh!" When I was done funning in the bathroom I sat back down and commanded the needle guy to make with the spinal drugs.  I don't remember it, whether it was painful or not. I don't remember being "put to bed." Maybe it was the Nubain or maybe it was because I was in transition, so close to being wide open like a turkey waiting to be un-stuffed. (Don't act appalled. If you've read this far it's way too late to feign disgust.)

The next couple hours were dull.  Adam dozed in a chair and I glared at him resentfully.  A nurse came in every now and then and turned me from one side to the other, and every single time she flipped me I farted.  Swear to god. She told me this was totally typical. I decided I had bad breath and said "ADAM. Adam. ADAM," until he finally woke up and I demanded my toothbrush, toothpaste, and one of those pink plastic kidney-shaped vomit pans to spit in. Bad breath being the worst of my bizarre concerns at that point is proof that things were a total snooze for awhile.

Before noon I was 9cm but my contractions had slowed down and my midwife made the discovery that Noa was face-up, with her back to mine. Those magic bones I mentioned earlier that make it possible for baby's head to maneuver through the pelvis? They're only reeeeally magic when baby follows directions well and is face-down. A face-up (posterior) baby doesn't quite fit the right way, and can get stuck for a while or sometimes ends up being delivered via cesarean. Most babies in that position end up twisting into the face-down position at some point during labor; only about 5% of babies are actually born sunny side up, and Noa was one of them.

My baby wasn't following directions well. So far my baby sucked. Or I sucked. One or both of us sucked.

There was more hanging out and yada yada-ing, and since my water hadn't broken yet we decided to use some giant hook thing to break it and hopefully get contractions started again. Knowing what I do now I wish I'd resisted; once my water was broken Noa's head was pulled down with less chance of turning. 

I peeked at all the stuff that leaked out of me onto a cloth pad and was alarmed to note that it was forest green.  "We've got meconium," Susan mumbled. This meant that Noa had taken her first crap INSIDE ME and we had to be careful that she didn't breathe any of it in, because that can make babies really sick. I was starting to get upset with my baby. She was making me nervous. 

They catheterized me after a while and about a gallon of pee came out into a little container. The nurse's eyes widened; I was the Austin Powers of catheter urination.

Someone came in and told me my mom and sister wanted to say hello and I was super confused and didn't know when or how they had gotten there, but I vaguely remember them coming in for a minute. I think.

We waited a little while longer and at 2pm I was still at 9cm and my contractions had gone on vacation.  I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. I agreed numbly to what the midwife and nurse called "just a whiff" of pitocin-- basically steroids for the uterus. That stuff makes your womb contract so hard it actually puts some babies into distress; suddenly my "natural" intervention free birth was full of augmentation. Stalled labor is typical when babies are bratty and refuse to be face-down, so when I look back I try to remind myself that if I hadn't gotten the epidural I may have been so exhausted from being awake for over 24 hours and feeling every contraction that I may not have had the energy to push her out.  Stalled labor is also typical with an epidural, though, so sometimes I wonder if I'd kept roaming and yelling that maybe Noa would have spun around and been born hours sooner. I'll never know, and while I try not to have regrets I often wish I'd climbed over that damn "wall" when I first hit it instead of just freaking out and tearfully yelling at it.

The "whiff" of pitocin pumped my uterus up and it started pretty much lifting weights. The contractions were coming one after the other and I was quickly 10cm dilated. They turned the epidural down and told me that I could start pushing whenever I wanted.  "Yeah, let's do that now," I decided, so at 3pm I began THE MOST CHALLENGING TWO AND A HALF HOURS OF MY LIFE. A vaginal marathon.

(Do you need another break? I'm sorry this is so difficult to get through.  Just kidding, BOO HOO, get over it.)

I was pushing and pushing aaaaaaaand pushing and not making progress. We tried everything; the midwife held a rope and I pulled on it as hard as I could while pushing.  She sat the bed up more and put a bar over my head for me to hold to give myself leverage.  Nothing. Laying on your back? Not the way babies are meant to be born.  That's a thing doctors started doing way back when they realized it was easiest to sit on a stool between a woman's legs and catch her baby and slap it's ass without having to do too much bending or leaning.  But babies are much more cooperative when mom is on her hands and knees (like my instincts had told me earlier in the day to do, when the stupid tub wasn't available because four hundred thousand people were stealing my room), standing, or squatting.  Having an epidural means you have no choice but to lie on your back, so while Adam held one leg back and a nurse held the other I pushed and pushed and fucking pushed some more, and poor Noa was stuck. Her forehead was pretty much jammed against my pubic bone. Shit was sucking.  

Finally she started to drop down a bit and I felt more pressure.  I insisted multiple times "It feels like she's coming out of my butt!" and thought nobody was listening until a nurse finally got right up in my face and soothingly/possibly irritably said "I PROMISE you she's not coming out of your butt."  My brain believed her; my butt did not. More pushing.  They checked Noa's heart rate a few times to make sure she was doing well and I remember a nurse declaring her heartbeat was "Like galloping horses!" Now I was reassured and secretly proud; maybe my baby didn't suck. Maybe she was just a badass!

A nursing student from a local college wandered in and because I was gripping the rails of the bed so hard that my fingers were numb she shyly offered me a hand massage.  I remember her clearly but wasn't really paying attention to what she SAID and mumbled "Okay," but the second she touched me I snapped "NO, I don't want to be touched right now," and pulled my hand away. It made my skin crawl. I'm sorry I was crabby, nursing student. I hope your nursing career is going well and you don't take anything personally when lassies are pushing out babies.

The midwife said gently "Do you need to cry for a minute?" and I howled "YEEEESSSS!" and sobbed hysterically for a couple minutes, which actually felt terrific. It got me breathing and snapped me back into what was happening, and I sucked in my breath and said "Okay, I want to push again!" 

I meant fucking BUSINESS this time.

But business was HARD. Impossible. Everyone kept telling me I was doing "so good!" blah blah etc. I believed none of it. I thought they were lying to me so I wouldn't give up, and I was terrified that I'd need a cesarean to pull my stuck baby out of me, but soon the midwife was telling me she could see the top of Noa's head. I put my hand down and felt it and no doubt-- a tiny bit of head! She asked if I wanted to look, and OF COURSE I WANTED TO LOOK. She held a mirror for me and I was startled to see that my baby's head was squashed and wrinkly like a brain cactus.  

I pushed, and pushed some more. And when I was done pushing I pushed MORE. It was two steps forward, one step back. Babycakes would drop down a little and then creep back up like a sneaky crab trying to sidle away from a predator. I don't know what kinds of sounds I was making at this point but I bet they were scary. I bet if you'd been walking by you'd have said "Whoa, let's not go in THERE" and crossed to the other side of the hall and walked a little faster.

You may have guessed that it all eventually ended, or else I'd be be pregnant with a four foot tall kid who loves fart jokes right now. At 5:30pm Noa's head made it's way completely out into Susan's hands, and then her little body slid out easily behind it. She was held up to me for a moment and then whisked across the room to have her lungs suctioned and checked for meconium aspiration (aka: poop that could have been breathed in.) I sobbed again, a combination of utter exhaustion, a typhoon of emotion, and intense worry, but I was quickly assured that she was fine. I could hear her wailing, long healthy yowls like I imagine a fishercat makes, and I saw her scrawny legs kicking while she fought against the brand new air around her. The people surrounding her spoke to me as they worked and lo-- my babe was healthy! Adam had run over and was taking photos as he gave the play by play; she looked like his dad, he declared. She was covered in yellow stuff, he said. He accidentally looked at me "down there" from across the room and turned a little pale. 

                 "I don't know what's happening right now but I haaaaate iiiiiiit!"

While they worked on cleaning Noa up and finished making sure she was okay I "birthed" the placenta and Susan held it up proudly for me to see-- an ENTIRE organ, like a liver or a kidney, huge and covered in veins. My body had invented a brand new organ to help Noa grow, and then disposed of it when she no longer needed it. Seriously, MAGIC. After that the midwife sat and did reconstructive surgery on my labia.  

I kid. She put some stitches in. NBFD at that point, really. I asked for some juice and was given an apple juice box from the fridge; I squeezed it down my throat in one gulp and demanded another. I'd never been so thirsty in my life, why were they giving me four oz. servings of kid beverages?! I gulped down the second juice box as Adam held Noa out to me so I could hold her for the first time.  

And then I shrieked "NO, WAIT!" and projectile vomited everywhere. Yep. That happened.

They cleaned me up, changed my sheets, gave me some ginger ale. "It's normal, your body has a LOT going on right now," I was told. Shit, really? GIVE ME MAH BEBEH!

Her eyes were squeezed shut and her little forehead was dented from being stuck behind my pubic bone for so long. Her face was bright red and I unwrapped the flannel blanket from her body to look at her. For a moment I felt sorry for her; poor baby, so warm and safe in my belly, forced out into this bright, cold room. But it was my job to make her warm and safe again so I put her to my breast and voila... I was feeding her and rubbing her back and smelling the top of her head and whispering to her.

                                        Sweaty, pale, exhausted, and elated. 

I was in absolute awe. Yesterday she'd been rolling her knees around inside me and making waves on my belly, and today I was holding her. When she was about three years old she started telling the story of her birth and would boast "I was having a tea party in momma's belly with a crocodile and a ladybug and then the next day I came out her vagina and was sleeping at a hospital and drinking milk from her boobs!" Yes, I'd laugh. It was THAT simple. She still tells this version of her birth (even though she now knows it's not true) and thinks it's hilarious.

Lots of people came and went that evening; my mom and brother and sister, Adam's mom and brother and sister. I was exhausted and dazed and ready to fall asleep with my baby, but like a good vagina-marathon sport I let everyone hold her (after extensive handwashing! I was now a germ ninja!) and then when everyone was gone and it was time to rest everything...stopped. Silence. I held her and cooed to her and put her little naked body against mine while she dozed. She curled up against me and nursed some more. Adam passed out on the bed across the room. I was starting to drift to sleep with Noa in my arms; I still hadn't gotten out of bed yet because I kept getting dizzy so I loud-whispered for Adam a few times but he was OUT. I would have thrown a shoe but I was wearing skid-proof hospital socks.  I rang for a nurse and the answer that came through the speaker apologetically said "We'll be in as soon as we can, but we have a lot going on right now."

I had no way to get Noa into her little clear crib on wheels so I put a pillow between us and the edge of the bed, rolled over on my side, and pulled her against me. She fussed for a minute and I stuck my pinky in her mouth, and she suckled away happily on my finger until we both dozed off.  

That night I taught myself to breast feed laying on my side, the best favor I ever did myself.  This meant that Noa and I could both sleep peacefully while she ate. This is why I didn't use her crib for six months; with a newborn nursing around the clock there's nothing better than sleeping with her and rolling her to your boob when she wakes up and demands it. In my opinion, anyway. Her dad wasn't in the house long and our family bed may have just been me and her, but it was OURS and it was cozy and safe and we grew and flourished together there. I'll skip the part where there were some nights that I sat on the kitchen floor and rocked her while I sobbed because she wouldn't stop wailing no matter what I did. Wait, oops. Anyway. Forget that part. It was all rainbows and magic, goddammit!

She nursed for fifteen months until one day she just stopped. She never asked to nurse again, although she's obsessed with my boobs now.  She gapes at them in the shower; "Are mine going to be that big someday?!" And I tell her "Maybe. But maybe not." And she looks down at herself and sometimes decides she wants big, huge boobs and sometimes she declares that she doesn't want any at all. She claims to remember being a baby, snuggled up in bed with me and drinking milk when she was "thirsty." She asks questions about how she was born, and makes me promise that babies don't come out of butts. I don't tell her that for a brief few minutes I once believed that they maybe did.  

As I write this my little kiddle Noa Madeline Mash, eight days away from turning seven, is asleep on my shoulder.  She crawled up next to me a short while ago and watched me write for a few minutes, then her breathing slowed and her little body relaxed and went limp. It's been a long day; up at 6am for school, back to school tonight for Family Fun Night, then home again. Lately I've broken the habit of her climbing into bed with me in the middle of the night but tonight I'm tired too, so I may just roll over and fall asleep with her.

Someday she'll be too big to fall asleep on my shoulder, but tonight she's still a little big girl, and we'll rest and dream. Together.   

(NOTE: Today is Noa's seventh birthday; this post was written a week ago, on 11/1/13)

A Gentle Reminder About Why It's Never Okay To Put Your Hands On A Stranger

Truth be told, this may not actually be "gentle" because the bottom line is KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF STRANGERS IN PUBLIC PLACES.  And in not public places.  Whether you're male or female, and regardless of whether the person you feel like groping is male or female-- show some respect and DON'T FUCKING DO IT.

Backstory: a friend and I spent a great day yesterday at a 10-hour long outdoor music festival.  We had gorgeous late summer weather, we saw some fantastic bands that we love, we ate good food, we drank good beer, took ridiculous selfies, maybe met Macklemore, and danced and sang and frolicked.  

By late in the evening when the last band took the stage much of the crowd was inebriated; that is to say, after a long hot day in the sun drinking many beers some

of the people there were shitfaced.  Which, you know, is to be expected.  I won't begrudge anyone their party time excellent.  

Emmie and I laughed and danced with the crowd until suddenly she froze and got a terrible look on her face, her cheeks burning red and her eyes suddenly wide. "That girl behind us just groped me," she said.  "She groped me and basically goosed me."  And just then a girl came dancing up, all smiles, and shouted "Sorry I just grabbed your ass! It's so nice, I just couldn't help myself!" and then she danced away, oblivious to the embarrassment and shame my friend was feeling.

 

I turned around to the girl and said "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?!" but she kept dancing.  Her male friend danced up and rolled his eyes and said "She's crazy, I don't even know what to say."  I told him I didn't give a shit if she was "crazy," that she had just disgustingly groped my friend and appeared to be amused by it, and that none of it was acceptable.  Period.  And he said again "I told you, she's crazy." And i said again "I don't care if she's CRAZY, keep her away from my friend."

And then he got a little aggressive.  

"Hey," he said. "It's not a big fucking deal so let's all just enjoy the show, okay?"

"Nope." I told him, because it IS AND WAS a big fucking deal and now my

friend was embarrassed and ashamed and was NOT enjoying said show.  "She crossed the line, and you need to get her out of here, AWAY FROM MY FRIEND."

And here's where things got nutty.  He got up in my face and told me in a grossly threatening way to quit being a "fucking bitch" and "grow the fuck up and let it go."  And I got right up into his face and said clearly "NOPE.  That girl just put her hands on my friend's body, it's NOT OKAY and I WILL NOT let it go. Get her the fuck AWAY from my friend so it doesn't happen again."

This entire time the girl continued to dance and laugh with her friends, and every now and then stole a look at me and her dude friend facing off, but when

I tried to look at her and say something to her she would avoid eye contact and dance away, and her friend would get up in my face more.  "You wanna make a big deal out it?" he said, "Fuck you, go get the fucking police."

And as Emmie stood nearby, tears burning her face, I said "Okay."

I approached a group of about five officers nearby and said to one of them "A girl up there just groped my friend and put her hands all over her ass and she's really upset.  Her friend is getting really aggressive with me and we're really uncomfortable because they're right behind us and we don't know how to keep them away from us."

The cop stared at me. "What would you like me to do?" 

"I'd like you to make sure that they stay away from her and that it doesn't happen again!"

"Okay. But what do you want me to DO?"

"She GROPED MY FRIEND. I'd like you to help her!"  

Begrudgingly, he turned to the other officers and had a brief conversation.  "Okay, which girl was it?"  

And because we were in a crowd of hundreds of people I said, "Come with me and I'll show you, I can't see her from here."  So he and the other officers followed me into the crowd and I pointed out the girl who'd groped Emmie and guy who had tried to defend her.  The cops made a circle around them and their friends and there was lots of indignant yelling and shock on their part that there were cops asking them to move.   Once they realized the situation wasn't going to go POOF like it had never happened, they agreed to move to the other side of the crowded venue.  "They won't come near you again," the officer I'd been speaking to said.  "I hope you're able to enjoy the rest of the show."  And he stood nearby to make sure that the group of dancing assholes didn't come back, which is nice because now I was concerned that since we'd "started trouble" they'd just come back and be even more disgusting than they'd already been.

As far as "enjoy the rest of the show," we really didn't.  I wish I could say that it blew over and we both felt fine, but the tears rolling down my friend's face made it kind of difficult for her to "enjoy the show."  The embarrassment and shame she felt over what had happened kind of tainted the frolicking we'd been previously doing.  I gave her a fierce hug.  "Are you okay? Do you want to go?"

And through her tears, in a cracked voice, she said "No. I'm not going to let them make me leave.  That just really shook me up, and was really embarrassing."  And we watched a few minutes more of the band onstage and then looked at each in other and said "Let's go."  

So we grabbed hands and made our way out of the gated exit, and then suddenly the anger that I'd felt all along started to bubble up out of Emmie.  

"Why didn't anyone take that seriously?  If that had been a guy that had groped me he would have been forcibly removed, likely in handcuffs.  What the FUCK?!"

And she's right.  What the FUCK?

Any time you're tempted to put your hands on a stranger's body in any way, remember that said stranger HAS NOT CONSENTED TO BEING GROPED OR TOUCHED BY YOU IN ANY WAY.  If you choose to grope a stranger in any way against their will YOU ARE COMMITTING AN ACT OF SEXUAL ASSAULT.  It's happened to me before ("innocent" ass slapping at the hands of a stranger, having my breast grabbed by a dude on a crowded train and being too ashamed to say anything about it) and It's degrading and embarassing and shaming, and it doesn't matter if you're a woman having "fun" and groping someone because you "just really love" their ass.  It doesn't matter who YOU are or who the other person is; it is not ever ever okay.  Ever.

"Sexual assault is any involuntary sexual act in which a person is threatened, coerced, or forced to engage against their will, or any sexual touching of a person who has not consented. This includes rape (such as forced vaginal, anal, or oral penetration), groping, forced kissing, child sexual abuse, or the torture of a victim in a sexual manner."

Recap: 

1. Keep your fucking hands to yourself.  You and everybody else in the world don't have the right to touch me, or my friend, or anyone else without their consent.

2. I don't give a shit if you're a woman-- I still don't want your hands on my fucking body, and neither does my friend.

3. If you see someone putting their hands on someone without their consent, DO SOMETHING. Step up and say "No, that's not okay."  Check to make sure the person is okay. Tell the ass/boob/whatever grabber to get lost, because they are not welcome there.  If that person is your friend?  Make it clear to them that what they've done is UNACCEPTABLE.  Get them away from the person they've just publicly groped and assaulted.  Question whether you want to spend time with someone who enjoys groping people without their consent.  Hopefully, conclude that no-- you don't want to spend time with a disrespectful asshole like that.  

4. If you've been degraded and groped by a stranger, don't be afraid to speak up.  Grab the nearest cop and ask for help.  Tell the nearest person to you that you were just groped and need help because you don't want that person anywhere near you.  It's easy to say "Don't feel ashamed, it's not your fault" but I've been there too, and it's shaming and embarrassing EVEN THOUGH I knew it wasn't my fault.  

5. If you're a cop? And someone comes up and says "A stranger just groped my friend and she's scared and upset"?  Try not to concern yourself with the gender of either party, because it's irrelevant.  Say "What can I do to help?" and not "I dunno, whaddya want me to do?" Remember that the general public looks to you to keep them safe, and if they're asking for help it's because someone likely feels UNSAFE.

6. Keep your hands off my friends because you know what? I won't put up with it, I won't "let it go," and yes-- I will make sure you are forcibly removed from the situation if necessary.  

If any of this seems "iffy" or questionable to you, you might want to sit down and think about what bodily autonomy and consent mean.  You might also want to think about whether you're kind of an asshole.  And then, if you conclude that bodily autonomy and consent are trumped by you wanting to have a "good time," please stay away from anyone and everyone I know, and the entire world in general.  

Adventures In Parentsitting (Or: We're Overthinking It, Guys)

The old adage is right-- parenting doesn't come with a handbook.  We all know this, duh, because somewhere between when our babies come home for the first time and about a week later we all get punched in the gut by the realization that we have *no clue* what we're doing.  That we're flying blind, playing it by ear, any and all other sensory cliches. 

 Admit it: even if you aren't high, you have no idea what's going on.

Most of us watch our children go from squishy, squawking newborns to toddlers that are essentially like dogs with less fur, to preschool age, to elementary school age, etc etc, and if it's our first kid we tend to watch this whole process with a sense of fascinated horror.  (The exception here to watching the entire process from birth would be parents bringing home adopted children, which I imagine being even more terrifying because the kid{s} just suddenly APPEAR as though by magic.) And with every single phase comes a new form of obsessive parenting anxiety.  

It starts with--Am I ruining little Jimmy by not bed sharing?!  Is letting Kayla sleep with me every night screwing her up for life?  Should I stop breast feeding so Mikey doesn't have a boob obsession?  Am I a terrible person for putting my breasts away when Hannah was six months old?  

And then we have-- is this juice box organic?  No? Am I poisoning my child?  Am I being too strict?  Saying 'no' too much and not letting Maddy be herself? Letting too much slide, screwing with Brady's boundaries so he doesn't have any self-control as an adult?  Am I not arranging enough play dates?  Am I spending too much time worrying about play dates?  Should I be worrying about music classes, instead?  

And it just goes on and on and on.  

But here's the thing-- in general, our kids give not a single shit about any of this stuff.  Honestly.  They give ZERO shits about whether their juice box is organic.  There's no possible way they could care any less about when we stop breast feeding them or sharing beds with them.  In short, they torture us with the enormous task of making sure we do everything right, but in their eyes ANYTHING is right.  As long as we love them, feed them, and let them play, they don't care what else is happening.

But learning this and living it are very different things.  Reasonably, I KNOW that worrying about Noa's social development is useless because she's going to figure it all out on her own anyway, but I also CAN'T STOP WORRYING ABOUT IT.  My therapist (of course I have a therapist, dummies; therapy is the new black) pointed out to me how important it is to let kids figure shit out on their own.  So Noa is too pushy with kids, and overwhelms them?  They won't play with her and after a while she'll learn to back off a little.  She's being too bossy and her BFF is pissy with her?  She'll either learn to stop wearing Bossypants or her BFF is going to tell her to eff off.  These are things we all went through at some point, and most of us came out of it pretty well-adjusted.  Or partly well-adjusted.  Whatever.  

Letting go of this and not trying to "talk it out" every single time some tiny snag in Noa's life comes up is difficult.  I want her to know that she CAN talk to me about anything, but I don't want her to HAVE to listen to me womp womp womp about everything in her life.  When she told me this summer that she was planning to perform a solo ballet to a song from her favorite movie (The Secret World Of Arrietty) at her camp's talent show I had a gnawing fear in my belly that she would get teased, laughed at.  Or that she wouldn't have the balls to walk out on stage once it was go time.  She's six, and she has NO actual knowledge of ballet; she can FAKE ballet but that's pretty different from really dancing ballet. 

Ultimately it didn't matter because the counselors nixed solo performances and everyone did a group act.  Noa and a couple friends made up a dance to Thift Shop (AWESOME) and Noa spun the wrong way and forgot part of the dance but she had SO MUCH FUN up there that it mattered NONE.  Had she done her solo ballet it likely would have been the same; she would have been imperfect but had too much fun for the technicalities to matter. Much like when she gave ZERO FUCKS when I forgot my ID picking her up from camp and a giant shitshow ensued, most of the traumas that she'll suffer in her childhood will actually be MY traumas.  They'll be my anxieties, my obsessions.  She'll tell me when she needs help, and if she doesn't tell me I'll likely be able to SEE when she needs help.

And it's my job to stand back until she needs me, so that she doesn't spend her childhood parentsitting.

                       "It's Thor!  Don't listen to him, he says you're a homo!"

Class Warfare (Or: Checking My Privilege At The Door Of My Child's Education?)

Noa begins first grade in a few weeks in Manchester, a city where a much larger proportion of children and families are living in poverty than compared to the rest of the state of New Hampshire.  The difference in numbers is startling; from a study published in 2009 by the Carsey Institute I gleaned some numbers that may be a few years old but have likely not changed much: 

"The percentage of children in poverty in 2007 in new Hampshire (10 percent) was the lowest in the nation. Thus, it is surprising to find extremely high child poverty rates in some parts of the Manchester-Nashua metropolitan area. In the city of Manchester, 25 percent of all children lived below the poverty line in 2007." 

The entirety of reasons for this disparity are likely varied and highly debated, but the Carsey Institute study linked above surmises:

"In suburban Hillsborough County, 81 percent of families with children are married-couple households. In Nashua, 73 percent are. In Manchester, only 58 percent of families with children are married couples. Thus, the higher child poverty rates in Manchester are, in large part, a result of the larger proportion of single-parent families in the city."

I'm in that 42% of single parent families in Manchester, although I'm also straight, white, and cisgendered.  For a long time I was lucky to be in the group that was living fairly well above gross federal poverty level (I'd estimate we were typically living at just under or about 200% of the gross federal poverty line; you can see the breakdown of the poverty levels here). We were making ends meet, and though we weren't flush with disposable income we had (*and still have*) food, housing, clothing, and health insurance (mine through my prior employer, Noa's through New Hampshire Medicaid since the day she was born) as well as internet access, phones, and cable TV.  We had not only the necessities, but plenty of extras.  Shelves of books and multiple pairs of shoes may not be considered a luxury for many, but here's where that sneaky privilege thing comes in, because for MANY MANY families those are absolutely things they don't have the luxury of owning or obtaining.

I began my education in Lawrence, MA at the Weatherbee Elementary school.  People who say things like "I'm not racist but--" often call Manchester the Lawrence of NH; these are typically the same people who complain about the "hispanics migrating north."  It's fairly disgusting, yes.  It's also fairly common, which is depressing.  (NOTE TO SELF:  Stop reading the comments on local news stories! EVERYONE IS A TROLL!)  I did fine at Weatherbee; I was much like Noa as a kid, reading early and well, and psyched to learn about anything and everything.  My family moved to Salem, NH when I was in second grade (the white poor migrating north!  GAH!) and I fully understand how different my experience in Salem schools was than it would have been in Lawrence.  I also fully understand, though, that Salem wasn't a poor city struggling to get it's kids through school.  It's far from the best school district in the state, but it's yards ahead of Lawrence.  Would I have turned out the same if I'd stayed there for my entire education?  As a student of the Salem School District I didn't even end up attending college, although I did graduate high school.  

There are eleven public elementary schools in Manchester and the one Noa will be attending is McDonaugh; it's rated pretty much in the middle.  The problem is that while it's rated in the middle of the group for this city, it's hardly up to par when compared to the rest of the state, and in a city already struggling to provide quality education for it's children the loss of ninety-five teachers last year due to budget cuts was a brutal blow.  A 2012 New York Times article about the battle for solutions to Manchester's education crisis stated 

"With more than 15,000 students, Manchester is the largest school district in the state, serving about 1 in 12 of its public school students, district officials say. Once, the city drew money from the large business tax base of its mill economy, now defunct. Since then, the district’s growth has not kept up with its tax revenues, and Manchester now has some of the state’s lowest per-pupil spending, at $10,283.77 per student (the state average is $13,159.15)."

When she began kindergarten last year I had the option of sending Noa to McDonaugh, or paying through my ass for private school.  There were a few things that tipped the balance for us; one of them was that I was working 9-11 hour workdays and public kindergarten was only 8:45am-2pm.  This meant I'd have had to find a way to get Noa to and from school and to and from either the Y or the Boys And Girl's Club, where I'd end up paying almost as much as the kindergarten programs there cost.  The other thing that helped make the choice for me was when Matt and I visited McDonaugh and took a tour with the vice principal; she was very clear about what the kindergarten population there was like. She bluntly said "She may be in class with kids who have never opened a book.  If you're looking for enrichment this may not be exactly what would best suit you."  

And you know what?  I WAS looking for enrichment.  I DID want her to have the chance to focus on what she's great at.  And as much as it has invoked self-loathing and guilt in me, I didn't want her stuck in a classroom with kids who didn't fully know the alphabet when she was actually able to read.  I didn't want her to be 1 of 100 kindergartners in that huge school.  

So I went to an open house at the downtown YMCA and was really psyched about their kindergarten program;  I liked the small classes, the hands-on teaching approach, their reading and math success rates of kids leaving their kindergarten compared to the public schools.  I know that test scores (especially at that age) aren't hugely reliable and can be easily skewed, but when someone says "More children graduating from our program are reading, and at higher levels" it's tough to shrug and say "Whatever."  The YMCA kindergarten program also worked for our schedule; early mornings and late afternoon/early evenings were basically daycare, but within the groups they were in school with for the day.

So because I COULD, I chose to send Noa to kindergarten there.  I spent about 30% of my monthly income on that choice, and I felt like shit knowing that for many families "touring" the public school and then "deciding" where to send their children isn't an option.  I felt like I was being classist; that by opting to not send her into a classroom with kids who hadn't been given the same chances as her, like private daycares from 10 months old on, chosen specifically because they focused on cultivating learning and not just "playing" all day (which, it should be noted, were often paid for in part by the state) I was denouncing my community, my neighbors.  I started to wonder often if Noa's affinity for letters, words, reading, writing were natural to her or things she was lucky to have had the chance to develop since toddlerhood because we had the gift of books, fantastic private teachers, and time to read and play and explore together.  I wasnt working three jobs to make ends meet, so I had time to spend with her that I know I'm blessed to have had.

So now here we are, and for a multitude of reasons (I'm unemployed, we're still living in the same neighorhood, etc etc) Noa will be starting first grade soon at the school I shunned for her kindergartnerhood. She left the Y not only reading, but reading books that are labelled for ages 8-12.  She's a bright, curious, enchanted child who lives to learn.  About anything.

And part of me worries that she won't have an opportunity to thrive at this new school, that she'll be lost and overlooked, and part of me feels like an asshole for feeling like that.  

I try to keep my privilege in check as much as possible but this is a point that I always feel icky about.

The choices we make for our kids-- when we're lucky enough to have those choices available in the first place-- are of utmost importance, but am I worrying too much about these choices, or not enough?  Now that I'm unemployed Noa is officially among the 1 in 4 Manchester children living far below the poverty line. Do I have any right to act as though the economic status of this city, this neighborhood, this public school where she'll begin her "real" education, aren't good enough for us?  

I do have that right, as anybody does.  But are we all drawing lines in the sand and assuming that the poor communities around us deserve the below-par educations that they typically get?  That if families "want" more they could automatically have more?  That, forgive me, "you get what you deserve," but we're all exempt from that blanket statement because we all deserve more than the poor people next door?

The poor stay poor for a million reasons, and these schools stay sub-par for a zillion more.  I'm lucky that I've had choices in the past to make about Noa's education, and that I likely (hopefully) will in the future, and in the meantime I hope that she's able to grow and thrive within an environment that may be less than ideal for her.  I'll keep my ears and eyes open for opportunities to leave this city that has become stunted in so many ways, and hope for the best.

I'll also, in the meantime, do the best I can to keep my privilege in check, knowing that I'll often fail.  Knowing that I want more for my child--- but that I don't want her to ever think she deserves more than the child next to her because of where we come from, how much money we have, the language we speak, the color of our skin, the number and gender of the parents she has, and a multitude of other variables.  

I'll do the best I can to balance my guilt with common sense, to find the best possible opportunities for this little being I've created to grow and thrive and mature into an adult who can navigate the socio-economic nuances of this crazy world with care and grace.

   

GOOP Edition! (Or: Shit I'm Super Into)

Some of these may fall under the umbrella of "life hacks" but since that expression is bizarre and a little creepy I'll just say these are things I'm super into, and you should be grateful that I'm sharing my secrets.  Say thankyou, ingrates.

1) BEHOLD:  The glass jar speaker enhancement system!  I love my iPhone (fine, I want to french it but it isn't waterproof) but it sounds like shit when I listen to... ANYTHING on it.  Tinny and hissy and just overall crappy.  The louder I turn up the volume the shittier it sounds.  The Glass Jar Speaker Enhancement System magnifies the sound and makes it a little fuller, and as long as you don't turn it up too loud it sounds 100x better than the phone on it's own.   Perfect for listening to your Bryan Adams Pandora station, NPR news stories, or audio you took of your girlfriend talking in her sleep.  You can also use a short drinking glass for the same result.

2)  SUGAR!  It's good for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and it makes a great snack, too.  But beyond it's nutritional benefits it also makes a kickass facial scrub.  Just gritty enough to work well, but not so gritty that it sands off the top layer of your skin.  A fresh complexion = good.  Top layer of facial skin missing = bad.  Don't do this if you have severe acne or facial rashes of any kind because it will just irritate it and possibly leave open sores on your skin.  NO GOOD.

3) "Homemade" foaming hand soap.  It may not really be homemade but it's saved me assloads of money.  Noa was using ridiculous amounts of hand soap and even buying the cheapest stuff they make-- and giant refills-- we were still going through it stupidly fast and then I read somewhere on the interwebs that mixing one part Dr Bronner's castile soap with three parts water in a foaming soap dispenser makes kickass hand soap.  Just buy one bottle of the cheapest foaming soap you can find and when it runs out keep the bottle; feel free to jazz it up with stickers or Swarovski crystals or whatever.  Put the water in first and add the Bronner's AFTER, otherwise it foams up and runs out of the dispenser.  One 32 oz bottle of Dr Bronner's that I got for $14 on Amazon has lasted months.  I expect to not run out until at least 2016, at which point I'll just take my flying car to Target to buy another bottle of the Doc B.  I like the lavender kind the best, because lavender is like the little black dress of scent:  always in style, perfect for any occasion, and verrrry sexy.  

4)  I'm scared of regular deodorant/antiperspirant ever since I learned that aluminum is very likely not good for our bodies.  Plus, our bodies are made specifically TO perspire, so eliminating that process is just strange and also very likely not super good for us.  I tried a few different alternatives to the Suave baby powder scented crap I'd been using since I was about twelve but wasn't too into any of them;  the hops in the Tom's of Maine stuff stained my armpits yellow after a few weeks (oddly, I'm the only person I know of that has had this problem-- and I tried on multiple occasions to use it again after taking breaks, and continued to get Yellow Pit Syndrome), the lemongrass and baking powder "bar" I tried made my armpits sting and the smell was way too strong (and the "bar" crumbled and made a huge mess everywhere), and trying a deodorant powder wasn't strong enough.  I was piss-pants happy when I discovered Lush's Aromaco deodorant bar, because a) IT WORKS!  b) it doesn't leave any creepy residue or stains behind and c) it's cheap and lasts a long time.  It's made with baking soda, witch hazel, chamomile vinegar, and patchouli oil.  If you hate patchouli don't come within a mile of this stuff; I've been using it for months and I'm immune to the smell now but other people comment on it sometimes.  I couldn't care less, but that's just me.  If you've been using antiperspirant for a long time you might not be used to feeling a little damp under the arms, but that's easily remedied with a little powder slapped on that shit.  Just make sure you use something that doesn't have talc in it, because (health alert!) that has also been shown not to be good for us, especially when breathed in.  I might be a Lush fanatic, but I really like their Coconut powder; it smells sooooo good, has no talcum powder in it, and lasts a long time.  Anyway.  Sorry I want to make out with Lush.  

5)  TP facial blotting paper.  Don't be one of those people who buys super expensive little sheets of fancy blotting tissue stuff, because TIP:  toilet paper works just as well.  Humidity at 95%?  Skin squirting grease at a startling rate?  Toilet paper that shit and move on.  

6) OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, SUNBLOCK WIPES!!!!!!!!!   Sorry about the yelling and the exclamation abuse, but I literally peed my pants when I discovered these (and by "literally" I actually mean "figuratively").  Noa was using like 3 cans a week of the spray stuff at camp (counselors aren't allowed to help the kids put it on because NO TOUCHING and I'm fairly certain Noa was just spraying it into the air all day for the hell of it), and she wasnt using the lotion stuff the right way (just kind of half-assedly slapping some onto, like, one arm and half of one leg).  If there's one thing I hate more than how expensive sunblock is it's buying shitloads of it and seeing my kid STILL come home with a burn.  Sunblock wipes are PERFECTION-- she can keep a couple in her pocket, it's super easy to use, and one wipe covers her whole body.  I didn't even know such a miracle existed until a few weeks ago, but it has changed our lives.  Well, it has changed the way we apply sunblock, which has changed .000256% of our lives

7a)  Homemade fabric refresher!  WHOA!  Fuck Febreze; it's spendy and chemical ridden.  Take a spray bottle and mix some water and a little lavender oil and hoooooly shit, spray everything in your home not made of plastic or wood and sit back and enjoy how fucking awesome everything smells.  URGENT NOTE:  there's nothing nice in our apartment and nothing I'm worried about "ruining" (it's all been ruined, there's just no ruining left to be done) but I can give you some warning advice.   a) I wouldn't spray it on your computer.  Sorry.  That has to stay stinky.  b) shake it well before using it.  c) if you have fancy shit made of, like, satin or silk or rhino skin or whatever, I'd make sure the oil won't ruin it.  This warning has been brought to you by Not Being Mad At Me Because You Sprayed Oil All Over Your New Suede Couch And Ruined It.  

7b) Another kind of homemade fabric refresher!  Tea tree oil has natural anti-bacterial properties, and bacteria is usually what made stuff like sports bras and sneakers smell kind of undesirable after a while.  SOLUTION:  Tea tree oil and water in a spray bottle.  Spray that shit down when you take it off, and it won't smell like a camel when you wear it again because the laundromat is too far away to be bothered with.  Please see warnings a, b, and c above.  

              "Mmmmm, your bra smells so good!"  

                                (No, I know!) 

8)  Paper towels.  They clean up messes, but more importantly:  when you run out of coffee filters {for three months} paper towels work just as well!  You can thank my boyfriend for this special tip.  I didn't know Paper Towel Coffee Filters were a thing before I saw him do it a couple months ago.  Maybe this is something everyone already knows; if so, I apologize for wasting your time with the obvious.   ps-  When you run out of paper towels {for three weeks} you can also use cheap shitty napkins as coffee filters!  AMAZEMENT!

I think that's it for Top Secret Amy Mash life tips.  If I think of any more I'll let you know.  Otherwise,  stop buying hand soap, fabric refresher, and coffee filters and send me a thank you card for being a good friend.  

I Did Not Vomit On The Bus! (Or: Another Day Bites The Dust)

I've lived in Manchester without a car for three years now.  You may be surprised to know that it's never occurred to me to utilize the city's buses, or if you know me well you're likely unsurprised by this because if there's one thing I excel at it's overlooking the obvious.  I like to pretend it's because I'm super smart; my brain space is taken up by so many hugely important thoughts that other smaller things just have no space in there.

Pretending is fun, guys!

My boyfriend helps whenever he can but he has a job (bastard) that he has to drive all over the place for, and he's not exactly at my service when I'm like "I need some new lip gloss, y'all."  There's plenty of things within walking distance of where I live-- a laundromat a half mile away, a grocery store a mile and a half away-- but the problem becomes how to transport laundry and groceries home with my two weak girly hands.  I noticed recently that lots of people roaming the streets around here have these nifty basket things on wheels with a handle (NOT a stolen shopping cart.  Quit being an asshole.) and I was like "LIGHTBULB! DING!  I need one of those!"

So today I decided to walk downtown and catch a bus to the mecca of cheap shit: Walmart.  I was going to get myself one of those rolly basket cart things, goddammit!  I looked up the twelve bus routes in Manch Angeles and figured that the Eight was what I wanted.  It left from the Radisson downtown at 1pm today, so at 12:30 I set out to stroll downtown and find my destiny.

Only when I got to the end of my street I realized the sky looked like it was about to rain fire and brimstone upon me, so I hustled back home to grab my adorable clear bubble umbrella.  I'm always dying to use it because seriously, it's adorable, but as a general rule it only rains when I don't have it with me.  SOOO....by going home to get it I ensured that there was a 100% chance there was zero chance I'd end up needing it.

                                                       Ri-Ri:  Always prepared!

Guess who was right about going home for the umbrella precluding the need for an umbrella?  Yeah.  Me.  Always me, guys.  Here's what the sky looked like when I got close to the bus stop:

Hardly the apocalyptic storm I'd sensed on leaving my house TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE.  But it's a good thing I turned around for that umbrella, because it made me juuuust late enough that I saw the Eight pulling out as I approached the stop at 1:02 pm.

But fear not-- ain't nobody gonna break my striiiiide, ain't nobody gonna hold me down, whoa-no, I've got to keep on mooovin'! I sat on a bench and worked on my tan (by "tan" I mean sunburn and freckles) and enjoyed the scenenery:  two super old dudes making each other laugh hysterically, which was adorable although I'm fairly certain they were telling filthy jokes because they kept looking around guiltily.  "Sweet Caroline" blaring from the PA in the park across the street for no reason at all (I had to restrain myself from jumping up and yelling "SO GOOD! SO GOOD!").  Two kids making out.  Like, staring into each others' eyes longingly and murmuring sweet nothings to each other ("Is your mom home? Let's go back there and MAKE LOVE.").

Another bus heading where I wanted to go was coming at 1:30, so I didn't stress about it, and at 1:25 the bus pulled in and a beam of light shone from the heavens and angels sang. I was on my way to GLORY!  I picked the only seat open that faced front, because I was feng shui-ing my bus seating.  I was facing THE FUTURE!

The bus driver was adorable.  When we pulled away he used the PA to say "Next stop: the moon" and then cackled hysterically.  I briefly considered riding the bus all day just to see if he says that every single time the route starts, but I had THINGS TO DO.  My future beckoned me, from a nationwide chain store that abuses and underpays it's employees.  Keep it in perspective, people:  I needed a rolly cart.  I listened in horror and amusement as my fellow passengers passionately discussed "building a giant wall around the border and only letting in the Mexicans who speak English."  GAH!  I'd happened upon the political debate bus!  *I pulled the "let me off" cord but the bus driver pretended to ignore me because he hates me and was punishing me.  (*This didn't happen.)

We got there at 2pm and I strolled into Walmart like I had just been promoted to Lady Resovoir Dog (Resovoir Bitch?), but without a sexy cigarettes because I stopped that crap. 

I was all "Let's DO this shit!" which should have been my first sign of trouble, because every time I think/say "Let's do this shit!" no shit ever gets done.  Ever.

I started scouting for the rolly cart that would change my life.  This was going to be a gamechanger.  Things were going to be different; I was going to roll my laundry down the street to the laundromat in style!  And then the people who work at Walmart and ruin lives were like "That doesn't exist.  I don't know what you're talking about."  I refused to give in to their lies and betrayal, so I searched the store.

Luggage department?  No rolly carts.  Laundry department?  No rolly carts.  Outdoor gear department? No rolly carts.  HOWEVER- a large volume of camo gear which I briefly felt a need for.  Then I opted out because I decided I don't want to get shot the next time I'm in the woods.  Camo = bad.  

Without the rolly cart I couldn't buy cheap bulk snacks for Noa's summer camp.  Without the rolly cart my trip was in vain, because I'd have to walk a mile home from the bus stop once I got back downtown.  Without the rolly cart everything was sad and bleak and empty.  *I kicked over a display case of Gatorade because it would be too heavy to carry home, and I really need it to legally enhance my jogging performance.  (*This didn't happen, but I wish it had.)

I dragged myself sadly around the store and got some toothpaste and new toothbrushes.  At 2:55 I got back on another bus to take me downtown.  There were no forward facing seats this time so I sat in a sideways-facing seat toward the back, hanging my head in shame because all my dreams had been shattered.

                                                WOMP WOMP WOOOOOOMP.

But!  Surprise Twist:  It turns out I get bus sick when I'm not facing forward, guys!  I focused on not barfing.  I took the toothpaste out of the bag so I had something to barf in.  I focused more on not barfing.  The bus stopped at the mall and the mad hydraulics on that thing that lower it to the ground when people are getting on almost pushed me to the egde.  I gagged.  But I did not vomit.

The bus dropped me off where my journey had begun at 3:30 pm.  I slugged along the road, angry about my lack of a rolly cart.  I got home a little before 4 and sadly opened the bag of Cheesy Garlic Bread chips that I'd purchased.  Oh, did I forget to mention those?  Don't worry, they're shitty.  I want my $2.29 back, Lays.

Downside:  I spent 3.5 hours walking and taking busses all over the goddamn place only to fail at my mission.
Upside:  I got toothpaste.
Downside: I almost vomited on the bus.
Upside: I did not vomit on the bus.

So there you have it.  The better part of my day in a (fairly wordy) nutshell.

I am rolly cartless.

Apologies, I have to go now.  There's a shopping cart somewhere with my name allllllll over it!  (I'm going to return it, quit being an asshole.)

                 

Run, Mashbot, Run! (Or: When A Perfectly Good Day Kicks You In The Ladyballs)

Today was a good fucking day.  A GREAT day, even.  I was in a fantastic mood, went to breakfast with my mom, got a lot of shit done, squeezed in some downtime (dancing and using a bunch of jackets on the back of the door as punching bag; no, I'm not kidding), and fixed some crap on my computer that I've been meaning to take a crack at and actually succeeded at accomplishing.  YES!  I WIN AT COMPUTERING!

I've been sick for the last week or so and have done nothing but sleep and watch TV and then sleep more and get up to pee.  I'm finally feeling not only better, but like I said-- fantastic.  Noa's day camp in Goffstown has a bus that takes her back to Manch and stops about a mile and half north of where we live at 5:15 every day and today instead of begging someone to pick her up, or taking a cab, I was all "Dude. I mean BUSINESS right now."  I put on some shorts and a sports bra (I told you I wasn't fucking around! The sports bra is the briefcase of jogging!), made myself an awesome playlist featuring THIS--



-- and THIS--



-- strapped my sporty iphone armbandy thingajanger onto my arm, and was off.  I tucked a $20 behind my phone in the armbandy thingajanger just in case I needed to stop for water (ahahahahahahahaha), and was like "DON'T FUCK WITH ME, WORLD."

At 4:30 I stormed up Bridge Street like I was on my way to bust a meth lab and even turned on one of those phone apps to "map my walk" so I could look back at it later and feel bad about my 16 minute mile.  I made the crosswalks my bitches and stormed across them glaring at oncoming traffic like I was....Boss Of All The Crosswalks, I guess?  I started to feel REALLY good and was all "Fuck walking, I'ma do me some jogging!"

I jogged about two blocks and then started to have a heart attack so I set the next telephone pole as my Don't Die Until Then goal.  And you know what?  Success!  I didn't die!  I slogged along for a couple more blocks and then was all "YEAH, jogging!" again so did a two block jog, two block walk thing until I got close to the church where Noa's bus stops.

 At this point I was barely walking a straight line.  Oops.  Overdid it.  So I stumbled into a gas station, ripped open a cooler door, pulled a Gatorade from the shelf and proceeded to chug like it was being funneled into my mouth from a second story window.  Why Gatorade, you ask?  Well, to enhance my performance, DUH.  I remembered to pay the attendant before I stumbled back out, and dragged my ass the last stretch to the Brookside Congregational Church.  I had assloads of time to spare-- because I don't want to brag or nothin', but I did 1.58 miles in 23 minutes, which is a 14:37 minute mile and I KNOW you must be jealous of my jogging {slogging?} prowess.

Face throbbing and heart beating like a death knell, I threw myself down under a tree...and you know what?  I STILL FELT FUCKING FANTASTIC.  Endorphins: not a myth!  I sat under that tree with a goofy smile and caught my breath and said to myself  "Next time it's going to be a 13 minute mile.  Baby steps."  (Sidequote: "I'm sailing!" -What About Bob)

This--



--came on my phone and I laid back and sang along with my earbuds in while I took shitty lomo photos of the church and waited for the bus.  AHHHHHHH.   I'm just gonna dance all night!  All was well in the world for our fearless hero Mashbot!

                                                     (Plane And Steeple! Lomo GENIUS!)


And then the fucking bus pulled in.  And I looked at my armbandy thingajanger and shit my pants, because I had failed to put the most basic of necessities in the goddamn thing-- MY DRIVER'S LICENSE, the one and only thing required for the bus peeps to release my child to me.  I desperately started looking through my phone for something with my picture and name on it, and yeah-- NOT A FUCKING THING IN MY PHONE IS GOOD FOR ANYTHING EVER.  I tried to casually be like "Here's my Facebook page" and the YMCA counselor looked at me like I had just tried to use a piece of toilet paper with "Noa's Mom" written on it as my ID.

So at this point the MOST INTENSE PANIC EVER set in.  I'm not ashamed to admit that I started crying.  At this point they were going to take her back to Goffstown, and for round trip cab fare that would have cost me $40-$50.  Which I CANNOT AFFORD EVER, because unemployment is an unfriendly bitch.  I asked if I could get on the bus and if we could stop on the way to the next bus stop when it got close to our neighborhood so I could Usain Bolt it to my house, grab my ID, and beam myself to pick up my kid.
They promptly shut me down.  Not because they didn't trust that I'm a fast fucker like Usain Bolt (I was wearing a sports bra, I think they knew I meant Speed Business) but because they can't allow anyone else on the bus but the campers and counselors.

At this point I was so desperate I was babbling incoherently about all the tree-named streets near downtown.  "Chestnut?  Do you go by there?  Walnut? Beech?  Ash Maple Myrtle fucking Orange?"  The bus driver finally took pity on me (*I owe you one in life, bus driver.  When the zombie apocalypse comes I'll find you and take you to my super fast jogging camp*) and offered "You live on Ash?  After we stop on South Maple we come back up Maple Street and head north to the Amoskeag Bridge."  So of couse I continued to babble incoherently: "Okay ahhhhh I'm going to run as fast as I can but it's like a mile and a half and I think I might die trying but goddammit I'm going to Usain it to my house, grab my ID, and I'll be out on the corner of Maple next to the Dominos Pizza waving my ID around like a fucking weirdo when you go by and if I don't make it....well, fuck my life, I'll take a cab to the backwoods of Goffstown."  (Truth: there was really no swearing {unless you count "shit"} because there were children staring awkwardly at me, including me own. But in my head I said the f-word so many times I should get an honorary sailor's medal.)

And in a panic I looked my six year old in the eyes and gritted my teeth and said "Everything's okay, I'll meet you in a little while."  And in the way that a six year old will, she made no bones about it.  She sat next to her friend (Sara? Madison? Arianna? Fuck.  Forgive me, parenting gods) and waved and said "Okay, mommy!"

And then the bus driver pulled that gear thing that makes that hideous squeal that busses make, and off he went.

And I  FREAKED.  I sprinted up Chestnut street carrying my stupid sporty armbandy thingajanger with the headphones dragging behind me and then....I realized that I would probably literally die trying to make it there on foot before them.  So, classy broad that I am, I called Queen City Taxi as I was running in between construction cones and roadblocks with tears streaming down my face and shrieked at them that I needed a cab to find me while I was running south on Chestnut Street.  And the guy was casually like "Yeah, sure, five minutes" because apparently this happens frequently in Manchester (although I'm assuming under different circumstances, possibly involving meth labs).

And five minutes later a cab passed me and I waved my phone in the air while sobbing (because that's the universal sign for "Cab, please!") and then was on the phone shrieking to the people from the Y before I even had the door closed.  They were all "Yeah yeah, we'll let the counselor on the bus know" and without using a single obscenity I said "NO, TRUST ME, SHE KNOWS.  Please give her my phone number and if she passes the spot where I'm supposed to meet her and I'm not there PLEASE HAVE HER CALL ME so I can sob hysterically.  Sounds good!  Thaaaanks!"

And the cab driver caught on to my "issue" and was like "Hey honey, I'm going to get you there as fast I can."  HERO!  He avoided the traffic on Bridge, ran a few people over, knocked down a couple stop signs, brushed off a high speed chase with the police, etc etc, and when we pulled up to my building he cheered "You can do it!  Go, honey!" while I threw money at him.

Up three flights of stairs.  Gave the brushoff to friendly neighbor.  Kicked open the front door without using the key (JK. But no, I seriously did. I WISH.)  Dove onto my bed, grabbed my purse, somehow flew back down the stairs without any serious injuries, gave the brushoff to friendly neighbor AGAIN, and took off down the street and around the corner to the wasteland of the Dominos parking lot.

And I waited.

And I swore.

And I waited.

And I saw that bus pull up, and I put my hand up to the oncoming traffic (*what is the deal with that stretch of Maple Street near Corey Square?  It's a packed neighborhood and people take that stretch at like 50mph.  UNNECESSARY, says Bad Day Lady), and I ran.  I flashed my ID and the counselor nodded like I was trying to get into a 21+ show at frigging House Of Blues (I didn't even get a pink wristband! No fair!) and Noa got off the bus-- and I grabbed her, and I squeezed the shit out of her, and I said "I'm so sorry if that was scary for you!"

And she said....."Nah. I knew you would find me."  And then she nodded toward la conveniencia across the street and said "Hey, can I get an ice cream for after dinner?!"

She got her ice cream.  DUH, you guys.  I'm a sucker for a kid with a good attitude.  And you know what?  She could care less that the entire shitstorm even went down.  Clueless. 

Amen.








IMPORTANT NOTE:  Despite Noa's bus stop being at a church, there were unfortunately no nuns cheering me on as the title pic may suggest.  Major bummer.