Hi, I’m melodyann.  And I’m your guest poster for today.  Damn your bad luck.  I blog at Shoo Fly…don’t bother me…  Come visit me.  I’m trying to take over the world, and it’s going kinda slow right now.

This is a story about my girls.  Mainly about Hopie, though, who has forbidden me to tell it.  Oops.  I suppose it could be said I don’t take orders very well…  Renie plays a pivotal role in this story as well.

Here’s a picture of the two of them, just to give you a good mental image.  Hopie’s on the right:

So, this story is about Hopie’s first period.  Because my middle name is "embarrass the fuck out of my children".  And so we begin…

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…

Hopie and I had just had one tremendous fight.  I don’t remember what it was about.   This was during a time when her dad and I were fighting almost constantly, and we were all tired and cranky and easily set off.  This particular evening, I just wanted OUT of there. I grabbed my keys off the table and said, "I’ll be back when I’m not so pissed at you, Hopie.  It may be days."

She followed me out to my car, alternately begging me not to leave and yelling what a horrible mother I am.  Finally, after my car was running and I had put it in reverse, she blurted out, "MOM!  Don’t go.  I think I may have started my period!"

This halted me in my tracks, but only for a moment.  I was STILL pissed, at her AND her dad.  "I’ll call your sister, I have to get out of here for a while, Hopie."

As I pulled out of the driveway, I saw her, standing with shoulders slumped, and head lowered.  It broke my heart, but not enough to go back.  I called her sister:

rrriiinnnggg

Renie:  Hello?
me:  Renie, your sister and I are fighting and she started her period.  You have to go take care of her, while I drive around a little and calm down.
Renie:  Whadya mean, she started her period?
me:  What the fuck do you think I mean?  Jesus H. Christ, Lorena, which word did you not fucking get?  HOPIE.  STARTED.  HER.  PERIOD.
Renie:  Well, hell, what am I supposed to do about it?
me:  *sigh*  Renie, let me start over.  Go to the store, buy what she needs, take it home, hang out with her, HELP her.  Be a big sister.  She’s upset.  I’m upset.  Go home and fix it.  Please.
Renie:  Awww, my little sister started her first period!  (talking to someone beside her) Dude, Hopie started her period, let’s go buy her a cake!  And have a FIRST PERIOD PARTY!!!  (back to me) Don’t worry mommy, I’ll take care of everything…
me:  Do you have enough money?
Renie:  I think so, if you’ll pay me back.  What should I buy her?  As far as feminine items?
me:  Good God.  I don’t know, whatever you think…  I’ll pay you back.  And Renie, you KNOW how she is.  Don’t embarrass her.  I don’t think a fucking CAKE is such a good idea.
Renie:  Leave it to me, mom.  I am the big sister.  I’ll take care of it.  Don’t worry!  I won’t embarrass her.
me:  Renie, you go in there with a damn CAKE for her first period, and you’re going to embarrass her!  She’ll be pissed and I’ll have THAT to deal with when I get home.
Renie:  I’m getting off now, I’ll call you later!

So, I go where I usually go when I’m pissed and I have to get away.  My office.  I love my office.  I chose everything in it, and it’s a beautiful place.  And plus, I don’t waste gas going there.  And it’s a place to go, right?

After a while, I get a call from Renie, telling me to come home and join the party.  Oh Lord, I wonder what that child has done…

Let me just say that Hopie was late starting her period.  Renie started in 6th grade, which is, I suppose, fairly normal.  Hopie didn’t start till 8th grade.  Who knows why.  Her doctor told me, "She’s slim, she’s athletic, some girls just start late.  It’s nothing to worry about."  But it WAS cause for Hopie to worry.  Because she’s a worrier and a hypochondriac.  She was certain she either had cancer, or was pregnant with the antichrist.  So, starting her period was a BIG DEAL.  But Hopie embarrasses easily, and God help you if you embarrass her.  You won’t fucking know what hit you till the storm has passed. 

So, back to the story…

I walk into my house, and Hopie, Renie, and Christa-the-child-molester (which is a WHOLE ‘nother story) are sitting at the table, laughing it up.  The table is FULL of cake, ice cream, and various and assorted pads, tampons, and boxes of midol.  The cake says, in BLUE icing:  Happy First Period, Hopie!

But hey!  Hopie isn’t mad, she’s having a ball.  I relax and eat a huge piece of cake.  Crises averted, score one for Mommy.

Until the next day…

I come home from work, happily contemplating my evening nap, hoping against hope for a peaceful evening.  But it was not meant to be.  I can hear them shouting as soon as I get out of my car:

Hopie:  Renie, I CAN’T do it!
Renie:  Hopie, don’t be redicuous, of COURSE you can do it.  You’re just scared.
Hopie:  NO, I’M NOT SCARED, Renie, I can’t do it!  I don’t think I have a hole there!  I have no place to put it!

I walk into the kitchen…  "What the FUCK is going on here?"  There are pages and pages of notes, diagrams, written instructions and hastily drawn pictures strewn all about my kitchen.  There’s boxes of tampons, different sizes, different applicators.  There’s a glass of water, with a TAMPON in it, sitting SMACK DAB in the middle of my kitchen table…

me:  Wh… What the hell?  What are you DOING?  Have you lost your fucking minds?
Renie:  Mom, leave us alone.  Hopie is GOING to wear a tampon before this day is out.
Hopie:  No Renie!  I TOLD you, I CAN’T!!  I don’t know where it goes!
Renie:  (exasperated)  Oh, for God’s sake Hopie!  You’ve only got TWO fucking holes down there, and one of THEM is your asshole.  Don’t put it there.
me:  Renie, you’re not allowed to say "fuck".
Hopie:  OK, FINE!  I’ll try it AGAIN!
Renie:  ok, that’s all I ask, Hopie.  Give it a try.

Hopie goes into the bathroom with her tampons, and I break down… I’m laughing so hard tears are forming in my eyes.  But I have both hands over my mouth, because Hopie will get PISSED if she hears me laugh.  Renie looks like she’s fought the devil.

A minute later, we hear Hopie start banging stuff around in the bathroom.  Then she cuts loose:

Hopie:  I TOLD YOU!  I told you over and over again.  I CAN’T wear it!  It won’t go in!  I DON’T have a HOLE down there and I CANNOT wear a tampon!  I CAN’T, so leave me alone!!!  Leave me alone or I will beat you stupid!!
Renie:  Hopie, you’re a Goddamn MORON!  You’re a FREAK!  You’re the only girl in the ENTIRE WORLD who doesn’t have a hole in her VAGINA to stick a Goddamn tampon in!  I’ve fucking had it!  I’m not helping you ANYMORE!  There’s only so much a big sister can TAKE!  You’re a complete FUCKING idiot!!
me:  Renie, you’re not allowed to say fuck…
Renie:  Oh God!  I can’t wait to get out of this HELL HOLE!!

As they both storm out of the kitchen, I sit down and take a look around me.  I pick up a few sheets of instructions.  I look at the tampon, growing in the glass of water.  And I can’t help myself.  I lay my head down on my arms on the table and I laugh.  I laugh and I laugh and I scream and howl and stomp my feet.  I try to stop.  Really, I do.  But it’s just too much.  I laugh until I cry.  I laugh until I pee, a little.

I send up a little prayer to God:  "Dude, you outdid yourself when you sent those two to me.  Thank you.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  And by the way?  Could you please tell my mother what transpired here today?  Because, really, she will just fucking LOVE this…"

And God said, "melodyann, you are not allowed to say fuck…..

FUCK!

I came here to blogsit today. My big time to shine; to fill Karly’s blog with filth and torture her with my awful and vulgar ways.

I had a huge Awesome! post about my farts, her farts, mullets, butts and everything completely inappropriate, but lost it all. I had a Brilliant! post, with tons of linky love, that took me the better part of the last hour constructing and I LOST IT ALL.

I was going to talk about all the cursing that’s gone on here this week, and how I swear like a sailor and a trucker, and I do it far too often. How ‘fuck’ is my favourite word and how I say it too much in front of my 2 year old.

But.

Fuckin’ Mother Fucker Fuckity FUCK! Fuckin’ fuckers fucked my fuckin’ post.

I am so sad.

I was so worried about what I was going to post here today, then it came to me. It was flowing and I was workin’ it and now it’s gone.

All because I had to search for a picture of a femullet (female mullet) and it froze my FireFox and I lost my post. *sobbing*

It’s her fault. She froze my computer and Lost My Post!

Her and her damn femullet make me laugh even though I am totally crying on the inside.

THEN! I said save so I didn’t lose my post, Again!, and Typepad politely PUBLISHED it instead.

Typepad rocks! Kinda like a case of the scoots after drinking too much after eating spicy food.

I’m sorry this sucks, and now that I’ve abused the linky love, wallowed in self pity and dive bombed Karly’s stats into the shitter, I’ll leave. Never to be allowed to guest post here again.

*pouts*

Is it Friday yet?

I have a confession to make. I used spend a ridiculous amount of time assessing my friends, trying to guess if they were pregnant or not. It’s a strange little activity, i realize, but i still did it, nontheless. does she look a little belly-er than normal? Is she eating more? eating less? did she pass on the alcohol? did she turn green when i brought out the chicken? I took great pleasure if and when the pregnancy was announced. because. i. knew. when they were trying to keep their first trimester a secret from the world, i was in on it.

i have since given up this habit. why, you ask?

because there are days when i am a little bloated. and days when i don’t feel like having any alcohol (of course, there aren’t many of these…) and days when i turn green at the sight of chicken. and i, of course, am not pregnant. no, ma’am, we’re done.

and i sure as hell don’t want my friends thinking i’m pregnant. silently watching me and waiting for the day i pull out my 12-week ultrasound.

like sunday morning. i woke up feeling hungover sick. really sick. i didn’t actually have that much to drink the night before - two baileys and ices (like an alcoholic frappacino.amazing. i highly recommend). but i was feeling it. like i couldn’t get out of bed.

the husband - he who should be sainted - took all three kidlets to the Toronto Busker Fest and i stayed in bed. all day. it was incredible. Much Music was showing a season one OC marathon that i was all over. This day was just as good for my brain as it was for my body. i needed a mental health day, and this was just what the doctor ordered. i don’t think i’ve had one of these since i was pregnant with Isabella, over 2 years ago.

but that night, we went with friends for dinner and to see Superbad, which was seriously one of the funniest movies i’ve ever seen, we had to call them and tell them i might not come. because i was dizzy and lightheaded and a little bit neausiated and i had spent all day in bed.

and you know what they were thinking…."Ali’s so pregnant." you know now they will just be sitting and waiting for that ultrasound picture to pop up…which i can assure you, will not.

but this is why i will never try to guess if my friends are pregnant.

**************

when Ali’s not busy working full time and chasing after her three rugrats….she can be seeing blogging over at Cheaper Than Therapy and Urbanmoms.ca.

Hi, I’m Andi from Poot and Cubby.  When Karly mentioned that guest-posters would be able to use the word "fuck" in their posts, I signed up.  How could I give up the opportunity to swear, especially when I’m all about the clean language on my blog (ha!)?  Anyway, it appears Leslie covered a lot of ground obscenity-wise in her guest post.  I figure there is always more room for swearing stories, so I’m going to tell you about my daughter, Elliot’s relationship with the word fuck and her ability to accidentally swear. 

First off, let me say, I loves me some curse words.  I’m usually careful not to swear around my kids.  I’m probably safe swearing around the two-month-old, but the toddler, she
is an oratory sponge. There was that one time I may have said fuck, but
I covered my tracks quite nicely. Lately, instead of saying fuck, my husband has started saying, "Oh, Eff!"  And, me? I
like "fricken".  Of course, my two-year old has noticed
my love of this particular word. The only problem is that, as with
many things, she uses it completely out of context. The other day when she couldn’t
get her shoes on, instead of "fricken shoes" she said, "My shoes is
just fricken me!" Then the belt on her car seat was just fricken her.
Oh, my.

The main problem with my daughter and the word fuck,
is that she says it unintentionally. Shortly after her second birthday,
for some reason many words that had the "oke" sound were pronounced as
"fuck".  We discovered this little quirk on Christmas Eve.  My sister and my dad had sneaked out for a cigarette.  My mom told Elliot, "When they come back inside, you tell them, ‘No smoking.’"  So when her aunt and grandfather came back inside, they were confronted with a smug-looking two-year-old shouting, "NO FUCKING!"  A few weeks
later, she was poking me in the butt and laughed out "I fuck you in the
bum!" I have no idea how much of this made it to the daycare workers’
ears at the time, but I’m thankful every day that Children’s Services
was not called in due to Elliot’s misinterpretation of
household events.

Since Elliot has never been one to let down her audience, once she mastered the proper pronunciation of the "oke" sound, she has found new words to mispronounce.  Lately she is mildly obsessed with The Big
Comfy Couch - a show she calls " The Big CUNTY Couch". Now
she loves the word "comfy". Last night, when we were snuggling while reading books, she turns to me sweetly
and says, "I’m cunty. Are you cunty, mommy?" It took every ounce of
strength I had to control my laugher and answer, "Yes."  That’s right.  I’m cunty.  How about you?

Oh, how I hope that she loses her fascination for this word before she starts preschool next month or I am going to have some serious explaining to do.  Does anyone else have a kid whose super-power is accidentally swearing?  Or am I the only one whose child has inherited the little-known Potty Mouth Gene?

Silly, silly Karly.  Giving up this fine space to the likes of me.  Who am I you ask.  I’m Mamma.  I write over at Mamma Loves… and DC Metro Moms.  But today, today I’m here and Karly isn’t, so I’m totally going to slut the place up. 

Now I’d typically go at the whole brothelizing the joint by hanging red silk scarves over the lights and showing you my tits, but ask anyone–my HTML skills suck and well the tits?  I’ve nursed two babies.  I’m not so sure I could retrieve them from my waistband anymore.

No.  The way we’re going to get all Xaviera Hollander is to discuss Blogher.

Blogher?

Yep Blogher.  I know much has been written about Blogher and by now you’re sick and tired of hearing about it–the parties, the pictures, the swag.  But did you hear about the sex toys?  Yours truly came home with some lovely items.

The first panel I attended was entitled Naked on Web: Will Personal Bloggers Make History.  The topic was fascinating as the premise was that women bloggers are recording womens’ lives in a manner unlike  ever before in history.  While historians must now trudge through moldy, dusty archives to find letters or journals that document the lives of everyday women in history, blogs will provide future historians with a vast accounting of the lives of "everyday" women.  I loved this idea.

Nice, but where do the sex toys come in?

One of the panelists was Always Aroused Girl.  AAG is a mom, an ex-wife, a sex toy reviewer and a blogger (among other things I’m sure–aren’t we all?).  AAG has a terrific backstory.  She kept a journal for years of all of her fantasies–fantasies she could never act out in her first marriage.  Upon getting divorced she decided to start living them out and documenting her journey on her blog.  Is that bravery or what?

Not only is she brave, but she’s sweet as can be as well.  The minute she found out she would be speaking on a panel at Blogher she contacted all the vendors she reviews for and had them send items for her very own swag bags.  The first thirty or so people to arrive at the panel each received the coveted silver bag.  Apparently each was filled a bit differently.  Mine? 

Of course I’m such a horndog I immediately had to check out the contents.  Condoms, lube, brochures, a pink dildo (dishwasher safe) and a big white gift box.  I pulled out that box and opened it slowly like it was Christmas morning.  Inside there was pink tissue paper enfolding my treasure.  I gently pulled back the paper to reveal a large, purple, glittery silicone thing–a thing that looked like a gun.  It was a bit anticlimactic.

I did go and thank AAG for my goodie bag (I may be a horndog, but my mom raised me right), and she inquired as to its contents.  The novice that I am said, "Oh it had two dildos."  "Did you get one of the Jollies?!", she asked very excited.  "Um, I don’t know."  "Does it look like a gun?", she replied.  "Um, yeah."  "Oh you have to check out their website!"  Then she went on energetically describing all of the selling points of the Jollie.  I nodded, thanked her again, walked on to my next panel and spent the rest of the day pulling out the Jollie to anyone who would look at it.  It got handled quite a bit.

Now I could go on to recount to you the story of getting stopped by TSA at O’Hare for a thorough bag check–yes as the entire security line was held up and watching as they pulled out not one but two dildos from my bag.  But I’ve already taken up too much of your time.  I will just leave you with the most shocking tidbit about my dildo swag which wasn’t revealed until a few weeks later. 

Any of you who have actually returned from surfing the Jollies web page may already know this, but one evening while bored I decided to check out the site that AAG had raved about.  She said they gave suggestions for its use etc.  So I checked it out.  Now it wasn’t the suggested uses or variety of positions that were scandalous.  It was the price.  I had received a $150 dildo!  One hundred and fifty dollars for a hunk of sparkly silicone!  Seriously?!  Seriously?! 

I’m thinking about quitting my job and starting a sex toy manufacturing business in my kitchen.  I may even through in some glitter.