I Heart My Little A-Holes (19 page)

By the way, what totally sucks is while I’m writing about my excessive thighs, I keep going to the kitchen to get more turkey jerky. Damn you Costco and your giant bags of shit I don’t need to eat. I’m eating it now as opposed to later at my OST (Official Snack Time) so my husband’s not subjected to my turkey jerky breath tonight. Oh, who the F am I kidding? You know he’s going to get home later and be like, “Were you eating turkey jerky?” Uhhh, yeah, like four hours ago. That shit lingers.

But I digress. A lot. So here’s what really sucks balls. When you get preggers you don’t get to pick which body part you carry your little poop machine in. ’Cause if I got to pick, I’d totally pick my thighs. Why ruin a perfectly good body part like my somewhat concave belly when my thighs are already beyond repair?

Which leads me to the point of this. Yes, there is a point. The top nine ways being preggers destroyed some perfectly good body parts of mine. Yes, nine:

1. So you’ve heard of a FUPA right? For those of you who don’t know what that is, just Google it. Wait, no, that’s like when I used to ask my mom what a word meant and she’d be like, “Go look it up,” and goddamn it, I’m not old enough to say shit like that yet. A FUPA is a (whisper this part) fat upper pussy area. Blaggggh, I feel like I have to go take a shower now. Anyways, now that we got that shit out of the way, ever since I had two babies, I have a FUPA. Which totally sucks because I used to only have an UPA. Man, I really miss my UPA. How the F do I get rid of the F and get my UPA back?

2. WTH happened to my bladder? I mean, I totally get why it was a hot mess when I was preggers. That baby was in there leaning on it and kickboxing it and squeezing it like a sponge so I had to pee like every other second. But now the baby’s out, so I don’t get it. And it’s not like my vajayjay’s all stretched or something— I had a c-section. Makes no F’ing sense.

3. Okay, you know when you find an old, mostly-deflated balloon in the toy bin and it’s a little wrinkled because it used to be filled with air? Yeah, that’s what my boobs look like now. Only they’re not some fun color like red or purple. They’re Caucasian-colored. (At first I wrote flesh-colored, but that’s bullshit since flesh comes in like all different colors. Remember how Crayola used to have that peach crayon that was called flesh? Introducing the racist crayon! Wait, how did I go from deflated boobs to racist crayons?) Anyways, on a scale from one to ten my boobs used to be like a six and now they’re like a three. On a good day. If that.

4. While we’re on the subject of boobs, WTF happened to my nipples? Ever since I breastfed, they literally have wrinkles. I mean I look at them in the mirror now and I want to plug in my iron. And I don’t even know if I own an iron. The next thing I know AARP is gonna start sending catalogs to our house addressed to Karen’s nipples.

5. Ohhhh yeah, here’s probably the worst one of all. My tush hole. No, not my front tush. I expected that shit to change. But my a-hole??? Yup, my a-hole gave me the most thoughtful baby shower present ever. A lovely hemorrhoid (why the hell is that word so hard to spell? All in favor of changing the spelling to hemroid, say aye!). I mean I’m not surprised I had one when I was preggers. I’d sit on the toilet for like hours on end trying to push out an F’ing rabbit turd, so it makes sense. But it’s still here. Does this shit like NEVER go away?!!! And just when he hasn’t reared (is that the right word???) his ugly head for a while and I think maybe he’s gone, he pokes his fat head out again and he’s like, “Hello, Karen!” And yes, I’m sure he’s a he. He even starts with the letters “he.” I kind of picture him like Newman on Seinfeld.

6. Okay, my feet are so small, sometimes I think it’s a miracle that I’m not constantly falling over. I’m like the opposite of a Weeble Wobble. So you’d think I might be happy that my feet grew like half a size during my second pregnancy. Ennnhhhh, wrong. It doesn’t sound like a big deal until you consider the fact that I have an entire closet of shoes that DON’T F’ING FIT ANYMORE. So now every time I get dressed up for a night on the town (all two times we’ve gone out since having kids), I’m like Anastasia trying to cram her grotesque foot into Cinderella’s glass slipper.

7. I don’t have bags under my eyes. I have luggage sets. And it doesn’t seem to matter how much beauty sleep I get. I swear sometimes it looks like two caterpillars are camped out under the skin beneath my eyes, and I totally wouldn’t be surprised if my skin opened up one day and two butterflies flew out. I might be a little freaked out, but mostly I’d be psyched to get rid of my bags.

8. Before I was preggers I only pictured muffin tops on those slutty high school chicks who wear super low, low-rise, thong-showing jeans with short shirts. And now I stand corrected. I could wear pants up to my diaphragm, but as soon as I button them closed my extra skin would just cascade out all over the waistband. Like if it’s raining outside and someone forgets their umbrella they should just duck under my overhangs.

9. Okay, I don’t know if my uterus is all annoyed that she’s being ignored after getting all that attention for 9 months, but this is what my period used to be:

And now it’s:

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Uty (that’s my uterus’ nickname) is all like, “Yeah, you know how you were all psyched and shit not to have your period for fifteen months? Well, I saved up all that junk for you and now I’m gonna deliver it.” The first time I got my period after breastfeeding I was like, “Agggghhhhh, I’m bleeding to death, call 911!”

So that’s nine, and I’m too lazy to write more even though there are so many more things to bitch about. Baby brain, stretch marks, varicose veins, your pee spraying everywhere, etc. etc. etc. Oh and I’m sure the women who had vaginal births probably have plenty more to add, but I ain’t gonna go there. Every time that comes up, half of my friends say their vajayjays are tighter than the eye of a needle while the other half claim their vajayjays are like gaping Grand Canyons or some shit like that. Eww gross. I mean, uhhh, all vaginas are beautiful.

You know those skinny bitches who can order jeans off the Internet that they’ve never tried on before and when they arrive they fit perfectly? I am not one of them. And if you’re one of them, I’m sorry for calling you a bitch, as well as a lot of other names behind your back.

I’m one of those d’Anjou-shaped women who goes to the store and apologizes to the salesperson 9,000 times for bringing 100 pair of jeans into the fitting room. And then after trying on all of them, I’m forced to pick between the pair with the acid wash and the pair with factory-made holes because they’re the only ones I could squeeze over my thighs.

Where am I going with all of this? Well, the other day I went shopping with my mom at my third favorite store in the whole wide world.

So anyways, I’d vowed not to shop for new jeans until I dropped most of the baby weight I’d gained, but A. I’m coming to realize that ain’t gonna happen, and B. Every time I lean over I’m petrified someone is going to notice that I’m still wearing maternity jeans. So F it.

As I’m standing in the fitting room in a mountain of discarded jeans that must be mislabeled with the wrong sizes, I try on the last pair. Hello, what is this? A pair that fits? They’re perfect. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh (FYI, that’s the sound of angels singing). The color, the waist, the rise, the crotch (almost as bad as the words
moist
and
kumquat
). I look at the label. NYDJ. Hmm, what does that stand for?

And then it hits me. Not Your Daughter’s Jeans. Oh no you di’n’t. I can’t buy these. isn’t
Not Your Daughter’s Jeans
just a fancy way of saying MOM jeans? True, I do have a daughter of my own now and I don’t want to wear her jeans, but only because they’re covered in residual poop particles after giant poopie diapers. As I stand there staring at my finally perfect looking ass, I wonder whether it’s worth it. Should I buy a pair of Mom jeans?

Well, let’s just say if you see me looking awesome in a pair of jeans, you’re welcome to whistle at my sexy tush. Just don’t ask me why the label is scratched off.

Anyone who knows me well knows I have FIBS. Fake Irritable Bowel Syndrome. It tends to flare up when a new People Magazine arrives (courtesy of my MIL who passes me her old ones because I’m too cheap to subscribe).

ME: Honey, can you watch the kids while I go to the bathroom for a few minutes?

TRANSLATION: I’ve got a date with some hot celebrities who just had babies but already look great in bikinis and make me feel like shit.

So yesterday I opened up my two-week-old People magazine and found an article titled “40 is the new 20.” And since I’m turning 40 tomorrow (unless someone is nice enough to pour me a cup of Drano), I thought how F’ing appropriate. I think to properly pick this shitty article apart, we should start at the beginning. The title. 40 is the new 20. I sure as hell hope not. Here’s what I was doing when I was 20:

Walking home with my undies inside out after a stupid ass frat party.

Telling people I didn’t think email would ever catch on because people like to hear each other’s voices.

Hovering over a public toilet puking up pink daiquiri (thank you spell check) as my roommate held my hair back and in between vomits I apologized as it splattered all over our naked calves. I owe you my firstborn, Hannah. No seriously, come take her. At least until she’s four. And then again when she’s a teenager.

So if 40 is the new 20, kill me now. I want nothing to do with it. But just for shits and giggles (BEST. PHRASE. EVER.) let’s continue on to what some of the celebs are saying about being 40.

Sofia Vergara bitches about her thrice-weekly (is thrice even a word ’cause it sounds made up) torturous glute workouts, but adds that the results are totally worth it. Ehhhh, wrongo. I’m calling bullshit on this one Sofe. You don’t look like that because of your workouts. You look like that because of some damn good genes. I could work out
thrice
a day for two years straight and my glutes would still look pregnant.

And Jennifer Garner says, “I’m really happy. I’m in a great place in my life.” Oh yeah, which place is that? Your home in LA, New York, France or Bali? I’m just making that shit up but I imagine that’s where she has homes. Yeah, I’d be in a good place too if I had multiple mansions, and none of that McMansion shit. Not that I have anything against McThings. Oh shit, now I have a craving.

And then there’s Gwenyth (how the F do you spell that name?!) Paltrow’s page. She says a lot of good stuff, but then ends it with, “After two kids I look better now than I did when I was 22.” Ehhhh, wrong! You look good G. You’d look good at 80 wearing a paper bag, but you don’t look better than you did at 22. No F’ing way. The only reason you might think that is because you probably had some weird haircut or were wearing a lame flannel shirt in the mid 90’s, but there ain’t no way your belly looks better AFTER you had two kids.

Oh and I LOVE what Gabrielle Union says about staying beautiful. “I drink a gallon of water a day.” A gallon?! A. I’d have to duct tape a water bottle to my mouth to drink that much. And B. I’d have to duct tape a toilet to my tush.

Anyways, blah blah blah, the article goes on and on and I need to stop talking about it because I’m just sounding like a jealous bitch. Which I am. Because I’m pretty damn sure when it comes to MY body, 40 is NOT the new 20. Unless of course when I was 20 I had a muffin top, a beard, an F’ing constellation chart on my chest, extra elbow skin like a friggin’ elephant, and boobs that belong on the cover of National Geographic.