My daughter is going to be eleven in December, so it’s fast approaching the time when I will be able to look back and laugh at the experiences I had at the hospital on the night she was born. I’m not quite there yet. Give me eleven more years.

But, what the hell, I’ll share. Because, really, the good folks at Clark Memorial Hospital deserve a big ol’ thanks for nothing, and I’m just the person to provide it.

My daughter was and is a beautiful gift, but I feel sure I could have given birth to her in equal comfort in the back of a moving taxi cab, with Andy Kaufman and Jerry Lawler duking it out on the seat next to me.

I’ll just share the highlights. The first one involves Nurse Wai Chu Pu, who administered an enema. My understanding is that this is done to remove any possible blockage which might make it more difficult for the baby to get through the birth canal.

But, what I don’t get is the part where I found myself on a hospital toilet, expelling the foulest, most stench-filled diarrhea I could possibly imagine when, without so much as a how-do-you-do, the nurse traipses right in on me to tell me where she laid my hospital gown.

Couldn’t this earth-shattering bit of news have been shared from the other side of the closed bathroom door? Was it urgent enough to even merit a knock, let alone your rudely interrupting what I considered a private and solemn moment with my bowels to stand there in front of me and whistle like some strange, shit-loving robin?

I found it disconcerting to say the least. I’d have been embarrassed for my own mother to walk in on me at that particular venture, so if you wanted my opinion about your chances on Broadway, you picked a bad time.

Anyway, after my spirit was sufficiently broken by Nurse Wai Chu Pu and others like her, it was time to have my dilation checked. If you’re unfamiliar with the process, I’ll clue you in. It’s quite simple, really. Every hour or so leading up to the actual birth, a nurse will check on your progress by matter-of-factly sticking a finger in your hoo-ha to see if there’s enough room in there for the baby get out.

But…

Beware of Nurse Krueger who has fingernails FOUR INCHES LONG!

I thought, maybe, since she had gloves on, that I might not notice her razor sharp talons too much. I was wrong…Oh, Jesus…So wrong.

So, while she was busy impaling me, I was thinking to myself, “Didn’t we have a town meeting and burn you in a furnace?”

But, like I said, my spirit was broken by then. So, rather than politely asking if another nurse could check my dilation next time it might need checking, I just hoped I wouldn’t get her again. Unfortunately, I did. Over and over.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT:

Thank you. That is all.

There were other minor annoyances that night - like my epidural wearing off before I gave birth. My sister, who watched the delivery, says I was in enough pain that I was ready to give up and leave the baby in. I vaguely recall that.

And yet, to this very day, when people use the words “pain of childbirth”, I don’t think about the delivery. Instead, I’m reminded of the whistler and the woman with claws for hands. And that, my friends, should be very telling.

*NOTE: I’ve never actually heard of a case where a baby got poked in the eye while they were checking dilation on the mother, but it seems entirely possible.

On a somewhat related note, can you imagine anything cuter than baby pirates?
I can’t.

Far be it for me to criticize anybody’s art but my darling husband has been afflicting me with the radio quite a bit lately, and I feel a strong need to vent a bit. If you disagree with my usage of the word “afflicting”, you obviously haven’t been listening to a station that plays a fucking Avril Lavigne song three or four times an hour. Lucky you.

If you like Avril, fine. I’m gonna make fun of her anyway. I’m sorry, but it’s everything, everything that I wanted. It was meant to be, supposed to be, and I’ve lost it…

I guess the big mistake I make with Avril is that I tend to listen to her lyrics. It’s a no-no. My husband and daughter both like her, because they are blissfully ignorant of lines like this:

“Let’s talk this over, it’s not like we’re dead
Was it something I did? Was it something You said?
Don’t leave me hanging in a city so dead…”

At present, I’m not one of those Americans who is down on Canada. I hear they have good drugs there, and a lot of nice people are moving there. Where da party at? Canada.

But, let me tell you, Canada, I’m getting pretty bitter about this Avril Lavigne export business. Let’s get this straightened out right here and now. Kids in the Hall reruns? Good. Avril Lavigne? Bad.

That’s how I feel, eh. And if you don’t like it, well, take off, hosers!

Note: In case anyone pays attention to these things, the time stamp is correct. I am indeed writing about Avril Lavigne at 3:35 a.m.. If you must know, upon waking up to pee, I noticed that I had that stupid “My Happy Ending” song bouncing around in my head and instantly became too annoyed to go back to sleep. Hence, the post.

My crown is a little loose, but the dentist doesn’t want to pull it out just yet and risk breaking it. So, she suggested I eat things like chewing gum and Now and Laters in an attempt to loosen it further.

Back off, bud, this Laffy Taffy is prescription. Life is good.

Conversations regarding my daughter’s first flute lesson.*

Before:

Me - I don’t think Charlotte could’ve picked a better instrument. I really like the flute.

Michael - But, have you ever heard it played badly?

After:

Michael - How did you like your lesson?

Charlotte - Fine. My teacher is cute.

Me - Oh, lord no. Not a teacher crush already.

Michael - Musicians are good-looking, aren’t they?

Charlotte - That’s why I’m destined to be one.

*It was on Monday (the 13th).

When I was a teenager, I felt that my oppressive parents and my oppressive church and my oppressive grandparents had burdened me me with too many hang ups about my body, because, I thought, the human body is a beautiful thing.

Yeah, not so much.

Be thankful somebody shamed you into covering your hoo-ha. Nobody needs to see that but your spouse and your gynecologist.

In our home, the front room, which might have been used exclusively for having tea with important folks like the Queen of England or Sir Elton John, serves a more practical purpose - it’s the room where our whole family indulges in internet pleasures like blogging and playing Everquest.

Each of us has a computer, a cluttered desk, and a chair. This means we can all sit down as a family and ignore each other together.

Some of us have more difficulty in the sitting department than others do.

My husband’s chair has, in my opinion, seen better days. It has a huge hole on one of the arms, but more importantly, it frequently collapses with him in it.

It is not a collapsible chair.

Or, at least it wasn’t when he bought it.

He used to make a bit of a scene when it collapsed. He’d be typing along and fall over backward onto the carpet, then he’d loudly curse his luck, wrestle with the chair for a few minutes, give up, go get a hammer, beat on it until it was suitable for sitting in, curse a little more for good measure, and finally resume typing.

But, now he’s quite nonchalant about the situation, and frankly, it just cracks me up. Lately, the scene I witness is more like this:

Michael is typing along and falls over backward. Never missing a beat and without uttering a single disparaging word, he stands up off of the floor, grabs his trusty hammer, which is conveniently lying on his desk for use on these occasions, and proceeds to pound the living shit out of his chair. When he finds it to be sufficiently beaten into submission, he quietly and casually goes back to whatever it was he was doing before the interruption.

Feel free to laugh at him. I do.

He can afford a new chair, but when I suggest buying one, he balks at the idea, saying, “This one is broken-in.” And, I suppose he’s half right - it is broken.

Maybe if I had more of a conscience, I’d force the issue. But, sometimes we all need comic relief, and there’s nothing like a little deadpan office-chair humor to put the smile back on my face.