Dear M Redux

Dear M:

You are adorable and wonderful. You smile all the time. You regale us all with "ba ba" and "papa." You never cry. You never sleep either, but that's for another post. In short, you are the world's most perfect baby.

But I really could've done without the full scale decimation of my teeth. Nothing says "white trash" like a mouth full of cavities and a mother effin' crown. How come no one ever told me that pregnancy and nursing would devastate my mouth?

Love,

Mama Joo

This Might Be Cuter Than M

Bad Joo got a swimmering suit for her thirty thirteenth birthday. And it might be cuter than a picture of M riding a kitten on a Hallmark® card held by midget wearing fuschia knickers. For real. Even on this post partum body.

See: Lands End Canvas for details.

And they're on heavy sale. Like cheaper than Wal-Mart sale.

Love,

Bad Joo

P.S. Good Joo is still prego, still suffering, still in the USSR (or Indiana).

P.P.S. The man with the rainbow umbrella obscuring his head in the background is this Joo's part time lover.

Indiana is a Third World Country

which is why despite the G.D., gestational hypertension, kidney stones, an ongoing bladder infection, contractions, and a dilating and effacing cervix AT 32 MOTHERFUCKING WEEKS, Good Joo is still home caring for A and B and NOT, I repeat, NOT in the hospital. The infant mortality rate in third world countries is very high. Similarly, in Indiana, women still die in childbirth all the time. At 32 weeks.

For this reason, The Incision has headed down to the Fart to regulate some medical action. Look out, Fart. The Joos are pissed.




* photo courtesy of Stockvault.net

Unacceptable

Unacceptable that M has fluffier tits than his mama.
Unacceptable that M also has tree frog toes.
More unacceptable that Bad Joo's beloved rottenweiler is crippled beyond recognition.
MOST unacceptable that Good Joo's kidneys are on strike (apparently with the rottweiler's kidneys. Let's hope they went somewhere nice).

Acceptable that baby good joo is weathering the kidney tsunami okay.

This has been a red hot summer of winning, and it's only July.

INVINCIBLE or Something Like It

Bad Joo is, as the Italians say, fragile. So fragile, that motherhood is causing her weenie little wrists to bow oot like a kid with a bad case of rickets, if rickets affected only the left wrist; and passers-by regularly offer to accompany her home to the adult foster center.

Because of this pathetic weakness, Bad Joo suffered broken wrists and all manner of other joint injuries in her youth, much to the chagrin of Good Joo. You see, Good Joo always wanted a broken arm. And a retainer. Sure, the retainer was easy enough. Watermelon Jolly Rancher? Check. Paper clip? Check. One instant retainer. The broken arm, however, was a whole other animal. And it was a much coveted animal.

Perhaps it was the golden draw of the arm sling, but for years Good Joo tried to break her arm by slamming it in car doors, bedroom doors, refrigerator doors, hitting it with a hammer, and asking people and heavy draft animals to jump upon it. This Joo is not making this shit up, except maybe the part aboot the beasts of burden. And the amazing thing is that IT NEVER WORKED. She never broke a mother fuceing thing.

And so, this Joo reminds that Joo that despite the fact that this pregnancy is wearing her like a bad suit, she will get through it. She's strong like that. INVINCIBLE EVEN. Or something like it.

Five Weeks

Five weeks until C gets the fuck outta Dodge, and DO NOT COMMENT ON THIS POST if it is to inform this joo of any of the following fun facts:

(1) It only gets worse once they're out; or
(2) You should plan on being late.

This Joo does not care to learn either of those fun facts; and, unless you experienced DAILY debilitating migraines during your pregnancy; and your sister spent the last trimester spraying spray glue up your nose; AND your mother was addicted to the cancer; YOU DO NOT KNOW KNOW THIS JOO'S PAIN.

Other than that, this Joo is glowing.

When I'm Sixty-Four

days from my doo date.

At T-64 days and counting, Bad Joo is not handy mending a fuse, tending the garden, digging weeds, sleeping through the night, managing not to cry at the drop of a hat, or explode at the tadpole (whose visit ends to today). Bad Joo can no longer see her feet, although she should be able to, since they're so motherfucking big. BJ cannot go 24 hours without a migraine. BJ cannot slouch and breathe at the same time. BJ cannot be nice. In general, BJ cannot impress upon the Internettes enough how very, very poorly she is performing in this pregnancy.

But most importantly, Bad Joo cannot go ten seconds without getting the ABSOLUTE CRAP kicked out of her by C. And when this Joo says, "ABSOLUTE CRAP", she means, "Passersby stop her on the street and say with frightful looks of horror on their faces, 'FOR THE LOVE OF COD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY, WOMAN, WHAT THE FUCE IS THAT ENORMOUS VIBRATING TUMOR PROTRUDING FROM YOUR RIBCAGE, AND WAS THAT YOUR LIVER THAT JUST SQUIRTED OUT OF YOUR SIDE?' before running away screaming."

When C is not busy pushing BJ's internal organs out of her pores, he enjoys hiccuping, doing the hustle, the Macarena, and acting like a silent, sweet baby anytime anyone touches her belly. Ah, what a joy this child will be. Even his father has taken to calling him "le petit con", which is French for, "SOMEBODY GET THIS FUCKER OUTTA HER AND GIVE ME BACK MY WIFE" or "the little asshole." This Joo forgets which.

Mothersucker

It should come as no surprise to faithful Internettes out there that Bad Joo is a bad pregnant lady. So bad, in fact, that The Incision is even calling her a whiner. Bad Joo is therefore attempting to suck it up as she enters her third trimester, but given C's near constant ninjitsu Thundercat practice maneuvers and the ever-present migraines, Bad Joo is having a rough go of it. To soothe her, Bad Joo is rewriting all those "pregnancy week by week" (to be sung in a high pitched, my-little-pony-esque voice) articles to better fit her condition.

Week 26
Your baby's sweat glands are now functioning, which means that the little fuceur should get out and get a job. He can hear you and those around you, so take a few moments every day to curse him and the day you conceived him, whilst you badger your dirty foreigner to do your bidding. This is a good way to bond with baby. You may even be able to feel the baby kick the shit out of your bladder at the sudden noise of a pot hitting your partner's head! Your baby is now about 14 inches and weighs a around two pounds.

As your baby continues to grow you will find yourself with aches and pains from the pressure. These include back pain, pelvic pain, pain in your sides or ribs, pain in the ass, pain in the boobs, pain in the head, neck, shoulders, spleen, and prehensile tail. (Wait, you don't have one of those? Slackass. All good mothers grow prehensile tails to carry their young). The best thing to do when this happens is to change your position or move around for a little bit. Often, your movement is enough to cause baby to move and therefore release the pressure and relieve the pain. If that doesn't work, whine to your mom. Cry when she reassures you that she never experienced any such misery in any of her pregnancies.

Your fundal height (or distance from the swollen reaches of your formerly dainty lady parts to the upper stretches of your baby sack) has reached approximately 2 to 2 1/2 inches above your navel, which is now so disgusting, it burned the dirty foreigner's retinas last time he looked at it. In other words, you are a fat, miserable pig, and it's only going to get worse. Enjoy the miracle of life!

Taint

Please do not give Bad Joo (or any Joo, for that matter) advice about her taint. For some reason, this apparent pregnancy has given license to persons far and wide to offer up advice to the Joo. Advice she has not solicited. Advice she does not want.

Today, for example, a foreign associate with whom Bad Joo has heretofore enjoyed a nice phone and e-mail working relationship insisted upon REPEATEDLY ordering her to oil her taint. And to avoid an episiotomy. The conversation went a little something like this:

BJ: Thanks again. It's a pleasure working with you on work-related, non-crotch or perineum related matters.

FA: OIL YOUR TAINT!

BJ: I beg your ever-loving pardon?

FA: I said, "oil your taint." If you don't, you'll be sorry. And don't get an episiotomy. You have to oil your taint to avoid it. And don't count on an epidural either.

BJ: Um, okay. Thanks.

FA: Yup, gotta oil your taint.

BJ: Thanks.

FA: Oil your taint.

BJ: Well, you're a busy gal, I'm a busy gal. I should let you go.

FA: Oil your taint.

BJ: Buh bye now.

FA: (liltingly) Oil your taint.

BJ: Um, I've gotta go.

FA: Oh, me too. I have yoga.

BJ: Oh, well have fun!

FA: Oil your taint!

This woman has never had children but knows a cousin's buddy's friend who just gave birth and had to have an episiotomy. Failure to oil the taint. A tragic tale.

A TRAGIC TALE TO WHICH BAD JOO WOULD PREFER SHE NOT BE PRIVY.

So, unless you are a medical doctor whom Bad Joo is paying to offer advice, please do not offer her advice about her taint. Other areas in which Bad Joo is not currently accepting advice from laypersons include but are not limited to:

'roids
acne
headaches and migraines
the size of her motherfucking belly
the pros and cons of pain relief during labor
baby names
and the GNP.

Thank you. And God Bless America.

What A Wicked Game C Plays

to make me feel this way. What a wicked thing to do. To let me dream of you ohhhhiiiiiiiiiiiii don't wanna fall in love.

Bad Joo, who has heretofore sworn to buy used everything this baby should require (apart from breast milk), is now lusting over a crib. Even Blogger knows it's wrong, for Blogger is not allowing BJ to import a photo of the sexy mofo of a crib. Interested Internettes may view it here: http://www.pacificrimwoodworking.com/crib.aspx . It's the radius crib. le sigh.

Bad Joo knows that C will spend exactly five minutes of his or her life in the crib, and that said crib will really serve as a glorified cat bed from which BJ will constantly be evicting dirty pussies, but this does not change BJ's desire. BJ knows that the crib is a monumental waste of le cash, but this does not change BJ's desire.

BJ wants the Radius. BJ loves the Radius and everything about it. BJ especially loves its Jap inspired cap. BJ wants to sleep in the Radius and do dirty things to it. BJ would not even mind birthing a penis, if it meant she could have the Radius. again with le sigh.

Please, seasoned mothers out there, share your wisdom about why and how BJ should forget about le crib trop sexy. Or send cold, hard cash to:

Bad Joo
c/o The Dirty Foreigner
555 Midwestern Street
Midwest, MW 91919

Thank youse.

C Rebels

C is an unlicensed, renegade, bad baby. As first evidenced by C's first detailed ultrasound in which C refused to sit still for measuring, C is going to drive too fast, smoke crack, and avoid paying taxes when C grows up. C is one bad dood.

That's right. Dood. Although a little early, C got an unexpected ultrasound this week when he? refused to sit still so the OB could check the heartrate. In said ultrasound, the OB thought she saw a penis. Now, while this glimpse of an Eiffelwang is not 100% certain, it is sufficiently possible for this Joo to have head spinningly vomited all over her burgeoning belly, the OB, some passers-by on their way to a pregnant person convention, and the ultrasound machine.

Horror.

Putrefaction.

Bad Joo was expecting a girl. Bad Joo has no idea how she is going to take care of a penis. She barely knows what to do with the dirty foreigner's penis, and her job is not to keep that one clean.

This Joo should not be surprised, however. Good Joo had girls, and it therefore stands to reason that Bad Joo should have a boy. Still, Bad Joo intends to make the best of this by causing C to be a screaming Mary. To this end, BJ has decided to name C "Valentine Madonna Cher Sparkle Joo." Valentine Madonna Cher Sparkle Joo will be enrolled in voice lessons, ballet, and cub scouts before age 2. VMCSJ will learn to love it. And VMCSJ will wear all his cousins' clothing. Including B's leg warmers. And love it.

Any additional suggestions for ensuring the queeritude of this fetus are welcome.

15 weeks

Now taking applicants for surrogate mothers willing to carry C the rest of the way. Please send your CV and an ultrasound of your womb, being sure to point out any unusual amenities (such as a wet bar, jacuzzi, wall-to-wall carpeting, or in-womb wifi) to:

Bad Joo
Some Midwestern Town
101010

Thank you.

Pregnancy Part Aw Hell Just Throw Me Away with the Garbage Already

In celebration of BJ's achievement of reaching week 14, BJ has artfully drawn the above self portrait for all of youse. This portrait was drawn shortly after the third person in one day asked BJ if she was pregnant with twins. The correct response, of course, to BJ's reply of "no" is not, and this may shock all of you, "are you sure." Bad Joo is perty damn near ready to start suffocating people who ask this particular follow up question with her resplendent arm fat.

Those who know BJ in the flesh will immediately note that this drawing is somewhat flawed in that BJ's legs are not this long.

Part I of Many in the Joos' Series - Why Pregnancy Sucks

So, pregnancy sucks. At least for the Joos. Sure, for many of you out there, pregnancy is a time of glowing, contentedly stroking your ever-swelling abdomens, and trying on various fashionable slings for baby. For the Joos, however, it is a time of swelling to monstrous proportions, bacne, and psychotic mood swings. These mood swings are not helped by those surrounding the Joos, although, to be fair, the Joos could be surrounded by a million Mother Theresas and still rip the eyes from the sockets of anyone who spoke to them.

Since Bad Joo is clearly meant to be pregnant, her body has, at 13 weeks, swollen to size AREYOUFUCKINGKIDDINGME (petite)? This has, as you Internettes might imagine, lead to many the hilarious exchange.

Case in point:

Bad Joo gave up on fitting into her tiny tees this week and decided to wear a maternity shirt to work. THIS WAS A BAD, A BAD YOU KNOW IT SHAMON DECISION. For immediately upon her arrival at work, the following occurred:

BAD JOO'S BOSS: Hello, Chubby!

fin

Internettes, you do not need to know how a pregnant Joo reacts to being called chubby. Bad Joo does not want you to develop chronic nightmares or begin torturing animals in your angst and despair. Suffice it to say that there are bits of vocal chords strewn about many a historic building throughout Bible Belt City, and Bad Joo's Boss has retired. And Bad Joo has decided 'tis better to have one's melon-like belly hang from the bottom of a tiny tee than to eviscerate one's boss following a chubbers comment.

Watch for more hilarity as we follow Bad Joo down the long, long, interminably long road to C's arrival. God Save Us.

C

In honor of Michael Jackson's passing, Bad Joo has made a C. Easy as 1-2-3.

C is due January 7.

One Time At Band Camp

Not really. Although GJ did play the flute (feebly) and piano (loudly) for a few years during her adolescence. So anyway. This one time in Fart Wayne GJ was preggers with the Dazzle Horn (B). GJ was still wallowing in self pity from the move to Fart and the fact that she was pregnant. GJ really does not enjoy being pregnant. Someone (fine...GJ's OB) had just called to announce that GJ was diabetic. Now, GJ knew it was from the 15 poptarts and Mountain Dew that she had consumed in the waiting room prior to the test, but didn't feel it appropriate to tell the OB this. Who would believe GJ anyway? Pregnant people do NOT partake in such a diet. That's ridiculous. GJ just had not been feeling like herself and with the new sugar baby syndrome was just generally feeling like shit. After several phone calls to the lawyer hubby ("SUGAR...some of us have to work"), GJ decided to just drag herself to the OB. Upon arrival at the office of the OB, GJ whipped open the door and announced that she was in labor. Pandemonium ensued and two hours later it was determined that GJ should shut the fuck up. It was just a bladder infection. After obtaining antibiotics, GJ marched home and threw herself into bed. Poor A just meandered around the house playing horse doctor..."GET IN YOUR STALL. YOU ARE STICK. YOUR PEE IS FULL OF BUGS". While resting GJ's fab dog Lu entered the room all weird and drooly like. GJ looked. Re-looked. And looked again only to determine that it was too late. Lu barfed fluorescent yellow all over the builder grade carpet and bed. Crying, GJ laid on the floor clutching her bladder and simultaneously cleaning up dog vomit. The down comforter was dragged down the stairs to the new, sparkling front loader. GJ's only request upon purchasing a new washer and dryer were that they would wash a king sized down comforter. Fifteen minutes into the "clean the dog barf off of this" cycle the washing machine blew up. Crying again, GJ dragged the 5000lb comforter, full of water, out to the deck to dry. And 15 minutes later "Terry" the pterodactyl or blue heron if you will (more on this later) flew over the comforter and shit on it. And this friends was the worst day in all of GJ's life.

SIDE NOTE...the GJ loves a comma whether it belongs or not. Like it. GJ may have also missed a few. Like that too.