Girl Talk Thursday is Mommy Melee‘s weekly event, and I really love the thought, so here it comes: my thoughts on the topic of “Sex Shenanigans. Share an embarrassing story”!
There’s really only one to share, because it’s epic.
I’m twenty years old, living in an apartment in Connecticut. This is the only time I’ve been entirely on my own, and it was awesome, if short-lived. It’s the first day — or night, really — that Chris and I have physically met (we got together online!). My mom had mentioned that she might come over and meet him, but after a lot of chatter, a little Red Sox watching, and a dinner of chicken cacciatore, it’s 9pm and we’ve finally decided that she’s not coming over. So we start getting our groove on. I’m pretty sure you can see where this is going.
I’m naked. He’s naked. It’s the beginning of July, I don’t have air conditioning, and it’s brutally humid. I’ve got my front door and all of my windows open (I honestly can’t even tell you if my blinds were drawn) to try and get some nighttime air inside. Of course, the fact that we’re doing the deed doesn’t really help the humidity per se, but that’s okay, we’re having fun. Loudly.
He pauses. “Did you hear something?”
“I think I heard something,” he insists.
“No,” I repeat, and pull him close.
And then, to borrow a phrase from Meatloaf, LIKE A BAT OUT OF HELL, my mother comes storming into the living room where we are. Chris leaps off me and, ass-naked, goes racing up the stairs. I fumble around, grab my bathrobe (the one time in my life that my bad habit of leaving my wet towels wherever the hell I want to has come in handy), and physically get in front of her to block her. She’s screaming: “IS THIS HOW YOU TREAT MY DAUGHTER” etc etc… I’m telling her to stop, to leave him alone, whatever. I mean, this is terrifying. I’ve never seen my mom like this. Hell, I’m pretty sure she’s never seen me like this, in flagrante delicto and all.
Eventually, after much teeth gnashing, she leaves. It turns out that my siblings are in the car with her, and she told them to stay there because she thought she heard “something” through my open windows when they pulled up (whoops). Also, she tells me that maybe I should, you know, CLOSE THE FRONT DOOR if I’m going to be doing the nasty (whoops two).
Lesson learned, right? But here’s the best part:
Chris, my 6’2″, 185lb brown belt in karate, has locked himself in the bathroom. Because my mother, angry, is just that scary.
Yeah, I love you, Mom.
I had a dream last night that I met a plastic surgeon. He offered me one free cosmetic surgery. I asked if he could restore my coochie to its pre-pregnancy glory.
He laughed in my face and exclaimed, “No one can fix that mess!”
Geez. And here I thought I wasn’t having any self-esteem issues with my post-pregnancy body.
Have you seen one of these? Our hostess at Friday night’s Easter dinner was showing hers off, and it took all of my willpower not to crack up…
The other day, I grabbed the breast pump my MIL bought me and decided to disassemble and wash it. I pulled out the directions as to how to clean it, and broke it down into pieces — or at least, I tried to. The handle part is attached to some blue cup thingie, and to get the blue cup thingie detached, you have to turn it counter-clockwise and match up the dot on the blue cup with the centre of the handle.
So I’m trying to do this. And I can’t get the damned thing to turn far enough to get the dot anywhere near the handle, nevermind the centre of the handle. I started cursing at it (Maia was asleep!) and finally just threw it aside to let Chris handle later, before my brain exploded.
When Chris got home, he read the instructions and tried to follow them. He couldn’t get the blue cup thingie to come off, either.
So he paused. He looked at it. He looked at me. He looked at it again. And then he turned it once more, smoothly, and the blue cap came off. “Oh,” he said.
“How did you do that?” I asked.
“I turned it counter-clockwise.”
We had both been turning it clockwise.
We’re fucking GENIUSES in this house.