warning: this post contains swears and egregious misuse of quotation marks

Our office’s resident people pleaser brought in a batch of her “famous brownies” today. I could smell the Crisco from the parking lot. She walked around from cubicle to cubicle passing them out. I politely took one. I’m not much of a sweet tooth, and besides, this is the last thing my pregnant body wants me to ingest right now. It is T minus 2 hours until the nausea officially begins for the day.

Anyway. As usual all the women in the office went ape shit. What’s really annoying is that before taking a brownie they all have to say: “Oh I really shouldn’t…” or “Maybe just one…”

Ladies, lets not pretend that you don’t stuff your fat faces with hoagies and fries at lunch. All anyone ever does in this freaking office is eat crap. All day long. The majority of people in this office look like the customers in an American Cosco. By this I mean, morbidly obese.

I hate the fact that women have to preface eating by uttering these meaningless, shallow and totally bullshit lines. As I stuffed some of the trans fat-laden brownie into my face, one of the publishers walked by.

“Oh those must be good, everyone is eating them!”

I nodded and widened my eyes in an “Oh you know it sister!” kind of a way. I hate when I do that. I am being totally sarcastic but totally pandering to the idiocy at the same time.

“Good thing bathing suit season is almost over!” she laughed.

This is one of those moments when I want to do one of two things:

Laugh maniacally until she feels stupid for saying such a clichéd and unfunny thing, or, roll my eyes and say “Oh my god, just get over it already. Eat your fucking brownie and shut up.”

Instead I “laugh” along with her and hate myself a little.

Bathing suit season. Go fuck yourself. I have an IQ over 85. I don’t bother myself with such trivial matters.

This morning the Husband was telling me that one of the guys at work was complaining because his wife spent hundreds of dollars on some new bras. He told the guys how he “freaked out” when she told him - that is until he saw her in the bras. He went on to talk about how breastfeeding their 2 children had ruined his wife’s breasts. How they used to be like the breasts of a teenager. But these new bras made them look great. ‘Buy more!’ he told her.

What a fucking asshole. Can you imagine his wife finding out that her husband was standing around telling a bunch of firefighters how bad her tits were? She carried, birthed and nursed your DAUGHTERS you fucktard. DAUGHTERS that you are going to turn into bulimic little self-obsessed twats because of your retarded attitude about women. I hope your dick rots off.

Ahh, that was cathartic.

Now back to my brownie.

good news

I can’t keep this to myself. And I do not keep a diary, so this blog is where it all goes down. For those of you who have me as a friend on the vile Facebook network, please do not make comments about this on my wall, or anywhere else for that matter, as I have people from work as Facebook “friends”.

Yep, I’m pregnant. Roughly 5 weeks along. I found out this morning. I woke up with the same funny feeling I had when I was pregnant with Avery and I thought to myself: There is no way. The reason I thought this is because my last 2 periods have been over a week late and I had resigned myself to the fact that it was going to take a long time to get pregnant because of my irregular cycles. Also, my husband and I literally had sex only once this month. Once. I know, I know, that’s all it takes sometimes. But come on. We tried to be more active on the baby making front, but me going back to work really made everything chaotic. When he wasn’t at work and we were both home together, we were either too tired or Avery was awake.

Once.

I had a really strange dream last night and when I opened my eyes this morning I just knew. I put on some cartoons for Avery, left her snuggled in the bed and got out the pregnancy test. The plus sign showed up right away. Like, as I was peeing. So I put the test in a little Ziploc bag and left it on the dresser. The Husband was on nights last night so Avery watched cartoons and I got ready for work while we waited for daddy. When he got home I got Avery to hand him the bag.

“No way” he said.

“Yep”

“But when?” he was clearly as surprised as me.

“Remember the Saturday before I went back to work?”

“Holy shit”.

Of course, he is thrilled. I am thrilled. I’m not going to worry about bad stuff or anything. I’m just going to enjoy this. Bring on the morning sickness! Bring on the exhaustion! I can take it! Or maybe I have just completely forgotten about what pregnancy does to me. Either way, I could not be happier.

a snapshot of family life

Each time I pick up the camcorder to record something Avery is doing, and husband is not in the room, I call out “I’m recording!” and then procede with my filming. So at the beginning of every single one of our home movies, you will hear me yelling out this warning. Every single one. I call it a warning because this is exactly what it is. I am trying to preserve our precious memories in such a way that they are free from ‘daily occurrences’ in our house that might either, a)embarrass us in the future when we are watching these videos, or b) render them completely unwatchable due to any one or even all of the following:

Language peppered with the word “fuck” in its various and varied forms.

Brief nudity (usually this occurs when husband come out of the kitchen to offer me a taste of what he is preparing for dinner and either has his pants pulled down to display his ass when he walks away, or the other form which involves the front of his pants and a zipper. I won’t go into this one, suffice it to say that these happen regularly enough to warrant my concern over them showing up on video).

Mother-in-law insults. Example: On one of our Christmas videos, I say “Sounds like what your mother does every night” in response to my husband instructing me to “put some alcohol (rubbing alcohol) on it” in reference to the cleaning and disinfecting of Avery’s high chair.

Our wrong and sometimes wholly inappropriate way of joking around with each other.

Arguments, name calling etc.

As careful as I am with this one part of our private lives, it did not stop me last evening from walking out onto the back patio, with baby in arms, while telling husband that I thought he was “a dick” and that I was “sick of listening to his shit” to the auditory delight of all of our neighbors who were outside barbequing their dinners.

Classy.

poo

Well, I must admit that returning to work has gone exceptionally well. And I’m going to be honest: I am enjoying being cloistered away in a little office, free of interruption (other than occasional office fucktard who comes to complain to me about some nonsense or to ask me how my weekend was) drinking my Starbucks – sorry – FINISHING my Starbucks while it is still warm. Oh the Googling I have been doing! You see, when you come back after maternity leave, in an office comprised of 90% women, everyone leaves you alone to “get adjusted”. I have nothing to do. This is heaven.

Mind you it’s not all roses. Avery is still waking up MANY times overnight. She has got to be the worst sleeper in the history of sleepers. Yesterday she had a 25 minute nap and then was up being her usual spastic self for the rest of the day until I finally wrestled her to sleep at 8pm, only to have her wake up half an hour later so that I had to spend another 20 minutes putting her back down. When I came out of the room, husband was beckoning me to the living room with a glass of red wine and an interesting documentary on the TV. As I crept quietly towards him I must have stepped on 18 strategically placed toys. I say strategically placed because I am convinced that she leaves these toys on the ground in the exact path we take to put her to bed. I picture her methodically dropping them as we carry her off to the bedroom as if leaving a path of stones behind her to mark her trail in the woods, knowing that mum and daddy will wake her up when they slip and fall or kick some noisy toy and start it singing and then she will be able to come out and play again. I managed to escape this fate last night. This is not usually the case.

At least she has started walking a bit by herself now, which makes life more interesting for her and helps us get more of her energy out. We have also taught her to say “poo” and then make the requisite grunting noises which accompany the process. Because we use cloth diapers, we have to dump her poop into the toilet. One day, when she was doing her usual screaming and writhing around on the change table, I decided to distract her by showing her what had just come out of her bum.

“Look,” I said. “Poo!”

I repeated this a couple of times until she finally said it. Then we cleaned her up, marched into the bathroom, and flushed to poop down the toilet while Avery yelled “BYE!” over and over. Now she tells us right before she goes (most of the time) which is fucking amazing, I think. Then she bears down and it is one of the cutest things I have ever seen.

On Saturday, the husband and I were at a hardware store. I was keeping Avery distracted by walking around with her while husband went to get something. We turned the corner where there was a bathroom on display. Avery tightened her grip on my hand and then started RUNNING towards the toilet screaming “BYE! BYE! BYE!”

It took us ten minutes to get her away from it.

I hope this means that the toilet training will go smoothly.

work bullshit

I was recently turned on to the website http://www.passiveaggressivenotes.com/ (thanks The Mommeh) which is hilarious and has totally opened my eyes to the world of passive aggressive note-leaving right here in my very own office. I just noticed one of these notes when I went to get a tea from the coffee station around the corner from my office in one of the halls. I would have taken a picture but my stupid piece of shit digital camera just broke, and I’m super old school so my cell does not have picture taking abilities. Instead, here is what the note (posted on the microwave door) says:

THINK BEFORE YOU ZAP!

Are you about to microwave something with a pungent odour? (i.e. popcorn) Then please take it down to the cafeteria. The smell permeates our office and makes some people sick. Thanks.

HR

I think I’m going to start a new series of blog entries related to the complete retardedness of my workplace. Was this note written by someone in HR? I doubt it. I have my suspicions that a certain woman in the sales department had something to do with this. Last year, before I went on maternity leave, she accused me of spraying perfume in my office and told me that she is allergic to “smells”. I did not spray perfume. I gave some of my body spray to my buddy Kris in the office next to me so that he could cover up the smell of our resident IT guy who smells like earth and ass mixed together. IT guy was in Kris’ office for a meeting and he was so sickened by the smell, he wanted to cover it up with some Body Shop Vanilla Body Spray. 1 spritz later and this woman marched over to my office to tell me about her “allergy” and that there is an office policy against wearing perfumes. (There is not) So please stop spraying your perfume. I took the fall for Kris.

She is totally the kind of person who would put up that sign and sign HR to it just to make it look official. No one has taken it down though. She even laminated it.

Also? I don’t want to hear about disputes over vacation days or paycheques anymore. I don’t care what issues you are having with the company. I’m cool with my job; my job is cool with me. If you’re having problems with the company, don’t come in to my office to talk to me about it. I don’t care.

A certain someone is still talking about her “princess cut” engagement ring today.

A bunch of women went to get ice cream at lunch and then came back talking about how “bad” they were for eating and how they were going to be “on a sugar high” all afternoon.

For fucks sake.

oh gosh...

my boobs are going to explode.

seriously.

is this normal? they are like rocks.

rocks full of milk.

ugh.

the size of watermelons

Today is my second day back at work from my maternity leave. Yesterday, if you can believe it, I was too busy to post. Instead of a long, weepy post about how much I miss Avery (and I do, in such a horrible, soul-draining way), I’m going to try to be a bit more upbeat.

Let’s start with the title of this post.

1. I have not stopped breastfeeding Avery. She was fine yesterday as she mostly eats solids all day anyway. I had no idea that missing one or two small feedings (or what I thought were small feedings) in a day would result in giant porno boobs. When I got home last night she nursed for like 20 minutes, just on one boob, while the other one leaked. Luckily, she nursed a few times last night and the engorgement went down on both sides. The problem now is that my tits appear to be confused and just keep producing. All day and all night. I just went to the washroom here and caught the side profile of myself in the mirror. The size of my breasts is ridiculous…so much so that I am actually feeling a little self-conscious about it.

2. Speaking of the mirror in the washroom here – my ass looks fantastic. Really. I put on my favourite black work pants this morning and I have to admit, things are looking pretty good.

3. Holy shit, my job is boring. I totally forgot about that while I was away.

4. I am already sick of the mindless, soul-sucking, eye-rollingly annoying, vapid conversations the women around here have with each other. I don’t care if the dress you are wearing to the party is “Bordeaux” coloured, or that the engagement ring your douche bag fiancé gave you is a “princess cut”. Please stop interrupting me while I am trying to get caught up on very important celebrity news on Perez Hilton.com

5. Hello again Internet. I’m back and I am going to enjoy hours of mindless Googling, uninterrupted by a whining 1 year old.

6. No one cool or interesting sits near me anymore.

7. I hope I get pregnant this month.