I’m done with my lady womb.

More done than I am with underboob sweat, and that’s a lot done.

I’m done having the babies to keep for myself and Patrick has been snipped up to keep the tadpoles from reaching through my cervix, so it’s time to take out the whole factory. What more does it do for me than cost money for feminine hygiene products while I ride horses and make me worry that I can’t wear white pants for 5 days a month?

Periods are stupid.

The every-28-day sloughing off the bloody innards of my Texas Longhorn is just another pain in my bagina, and I’m over it.

The obvious questions begs: If I elect to have my uterus removed, can I lay it out in a dehydrator and make it into a healthy Lady Jerky?

At the time I shat out my two babies, I was in the closet about all of this new-age/ancient ritual business that I could eat my own placenta for nutrients. I feel like I missed out on all of those important steps in the bonding experience with my discarded organ.

photo via inhabitots

According to one guy, placenta jerky tastes like “dry, gamy, bland jerky.” So pretty much like all gas station jerky, daddy?

Mayer takes a bit of dehydrated, cooked placenta she saved and ceremoniously places a portion in their open palms. The pieces are brown, shriveled, and brittle—like old shoe leather left out in the sun.

Because nothing is more ceremonious than eating your insides and offering it to your closest and dearest.

Placenta Brisket, anyone?

photo credit Kathryn Parker Almanas via NY Mag

I’m totally down for trying new foods. As long as it doesn’t rhyme with Picken on Chizza, let’s put it in my mouth! Saying that takes me back to my early teen years. Memories.

Or maybe a uterus Teddy Bear? We could trade it around the house to snuggle and keep us warm in our dreams. And if Uterus Teddy Bear got tired of hanging around here, we could send her on trips like Flat Stanley.

photo via inhabitots

Who wants Uterus Teddy Bear first?

At this point in my 35th year of life, having a Uterus Teddy Bear would be more beneficial to my life than the monthly hassle of shoving cotton swabs up my lady hole.

Or if anyone wants to rent out my space for 9 months, I’m totally open to growing your baby.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2012. | Permalink | 7 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: being a woman, eating placenta, menstruation, placenta jerky, uterus teddy bear

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I don’t know why or how I didn’t notice this before now.

It was only when I had to commit the egregious Crime of Misspelling when entering the “skip the ad” word into the video player box when all I wanted to do was watch Russell Brand go off on some heckler at his stand-up show.

Pee.Ess. As much as I hate ads in videos, I appreciate the ways to skip them, so kudos, PerezHilton.com.

Pee.Pee.Ess. I didn’t even watch the whole video because I was so enraged at Downy.

Pee.Pee.Pee.Ess. OK, so “enraged” is exaggerating my emotions a bit, but I’m not happy.

Amy Sedaris is one of my all-time favorite funny people. She’s in a crapton of TV shows as a guest star where she really just needs her own daily show replacing Chelsea Lately. Or maybe she can take over for that dinosaur, Jay Leno. Either way, she needs her own show, and I would watch it.

Not that this really has anything to do with Amy Sedaris and her funny ladybrain, but she agreed to be a part of this gut-wrenching ad campaign for Downy:

I have the same washer/dryer set that my parents gave us as a wedding gift way back in 1998, so needless to say, I need those wash boosters, and I’ve used these Downy Unstopables. However much this isn’t an ad or endorsement of the product, it does what it should and keeps out the old washing machine smell from my freshly laundered clothes.

But how could I have not noticed that the name of the damn product is spelled incorrectly? I have brought shame on my family.

And seriously, how can Downy, the big bad soap company that they are, have allowed for a product to have been named with a word that is spelled incorrectly?

Right at this very second, I have those tell-tell red-dashed lines under that word up there: unstopable. Even my lappytop realizes it’s not a word.

Ironically, “lappytop” is not a word and has the same red-dashed lines, but I’m not a multi-national company with investors and customers to attract.

I don’t know how these things happen or why they happen or what to do about them.

All I can do is rant on my piddly blog about the injustices done to the English language on the behalf of all grammarphiles (again, not a real word) out in the world.

And as always, feel free to point out the mistakes I have surely made in this post and all others as I am neither perfect, nor am I a multi-national soap company who feels I am above the laws of grammar.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2012. | Permalink | 10 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: grammar, spelling, unstopables, unstoppable

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There’s a problem in this world that needs to be addressed.

The problem begins with “plastic cont” and ends with “ainer.”

I’m all for saving the world, one plastic tree at a time, but there’s only so far this lazy housewife is willing to go. I don’t use quite as many Ziploc bags as I used to; in fact, I hardly use any plastic baggies at all. Instead I try to use reusable containers as much as humanly possible.

But DAMMIT, these plastic container manufacturers are making it harder for me to stay semi-sane.

Do you see all of those plastic container lids I have on the bottom shelf of the cabinet? There’s approximately twenty-eleven lids in there, all of which came with matching storage bases. Do you see all of those containers on the top slider shelf? There’s not twenty-eleven of them up there. I’d guess I have 1/2 the amount of containers than plastic lids to match.

I know what you’re thinking. No, I’m not one of those weirdos featured on My Strange Addiction who eats plastic containers.

Way back in 1998, I had a Tupperware wedding shower. Yes, really.

I had 3-4 other wedding showers, too, but the one with my extended family was a Tupperware party because at the time, my aunt was a consultant and my mom was very practical. For all intents and purposes, though it sounds weird, it was the best idea for a wedding shower ever. I was stocked up on a cabinet full of lifetime guaranteed plasticware, ready to start wedded bliss as a near-child bride.

I do still have most of that circa-1998 Tupperware, along with some odd pieces my mom handed down to me. Sometime along the way since I got married, the whole Earth blew up and every lunch meat processor started selling their cold cuts in reusable plastic containers.

Those lunch meat containers along with the grocery store-available containers have infiltrated my Tupperware cabinet.

And fuck-all, none of the plastic lids match any of the plastic bases. Even the lids made by the same manufacturer as the bases don’t match up with their own kind.

This square Ziploc lid doesn’t match its own square Ziploc container. ITS OWN KIND. They don’t even like their OWN KIND.

Ziploc should match Ziploc; Rubbermaid should match Rubbermaid; Glad should match Glad; Hillshire Farms should match Hillshire Farms; no-name-given should match no-name-given.

But these stupid plastic containers are stupid and don’t match up. I’d totally take the blame if it was a dishwasher-melting situation, but it’s just not so. They’re completely different and don’t match, even though the tops and bottoms are made by the same company.

I swear it’s a conspiracy, man.

Or maybe it’s a conspiracy BY The Man to keep us women in a tailspin of frustration in the kitchen.

It’s time to start a plastic container revolution. Or develop a taste for hard plastic.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2012. | Permalink | 7 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: plastic containers don't match, tupperware

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If ever there was a reason to stop breastfeeding your kids before they start talking, this would be it.

Broken Rule Notice

discussing girl’s breasts and wanting milk from them

original image credit unknown

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2012. | Permalink | 6 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: breastfeeding, broken rule notice

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I’ve already established that we women are gross. It’s just a fact.

We get even grosser when we’re knocked up and have to push human beings out of our crotch holes or have them sliced out of our wombs.

The old and infirm have known the secret we women learn when we have babies at a hospital, and if it weren’t for their necessity and our lack of thought processes at the time after baby delivery, we’d have never listened to their secret-telling anyway.

The disposable mesh panties the hospital gives out after having a baby is one of the best inventions The Man has ever bestowed upon our just-birthed asses.

There’s no way a woman or gay man invented or designed these monstrosities of fashion, but every once in awhile, The Man gets it right. And in this case, “getting it right” means stretching the cotton mesh over our expanded asses and recently deflated mom pouches.

You’d never think that a one-size-fits-all underwear would actually work for a woman of any size, but in the case of the disposable mesh panties, they really do fit. I’ve not met or talked to one mother who couldn’t fit the un-designer hospital panties over their butts and under their hospital gowns; they fit every lady.

Today, I’m going to blow your damn mind.

Amazon sells the disposable mesh panties.

Seriously.

[Amazon also sells Ben Wa balls, but that's a story for another day.]

I will say though that they are not the exact mesh panties I received at the hospital after pushing out my babies, but they’re close. And just like my government-employed dad says, “Close enough for government work.”

Since I’m currently in the market for new panties, I may need to order some for my not-so-recently deflated baby pouch. Because if anyone can pull off sexy in disposable mesh panties, it would be me, right?

And now I just realized I mentioned my dad in the same post I mention pushing babies out of my crotch and Ben Wa balls. Damn, I’m classy.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2012. | Permalink | 7 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: disposable mesh panties, hospital panties, mesh underwear

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You have warning signs that both are coming but neither is avoidable.

Wailing on the bathroom floor is a sign of its process.

You hang out by the toilet.

Sucking on ice chips makes you feel better.

Unexpected bad things come out of your body.

You look dazed and confused for at least 24 hours after it’s over (see photo).

If you’re lucky, your mom will be there to take care of you.

People sympathize with you and do NOT want to be you.

You discover muscles you didn’t even know you had in places they shouldn’t hurt.

Passing gas, and only gas, is a sign of recovery.

…and such has been my life for the last 24 hours, minus the baby-exiting-my-bagina part.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2012. | Permalink | 7 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: pregnancy, stomach virus

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There must be some kind of omen about a chicken crossing the road right in front of you. Or maybe an old wive’s tale. Or maybe this is normal when you’re not in Suburbia.

Watching a chicken cross the road right in front of your car isn’t something that happens every day to a suburbanite. Or really, happens ever in my Pleasantville planned community. Though I did see some girls riding horses on the main road through our manufactured town once, and it wasn’t even during the holiday parade.

A chicken crossed the road in front of my car this past weekend when I was out in Downtown MethHead, Florida with my girls, mom, sister, and her kids. I’m pretty sure I heard it cluck, “BAWK BAWK, MOTHERFUCKER!” as it passed by. Now that I think about it, that chicken probably knows Jenny’s Beyonce.

We were coming from the U-Pick, side-of-the-road farm where we picked strawberries with our own hands, and for the whole 20 minutes it took us to pick 6 quarts of farm-fresh fruits, we were damn farmers.

Clearly the chicken who crossed the road smelled our freshly dirtied feet from afar, and it felt safe crossing in front of my minivan.

Picking strawberries in the boonies was a teachable moment for our suburban kids.

“See, kids. Your food doesn’t really come from plastic bags! Your food comes from people with very dirty feet. And, kids, if you want some Oxy, you can follow that chicken back to its coop where it nests in some methhead family’s living room. Just bring me back some farm-fresh eggs.”

I’m never at a loss for finding ways to teach my children the ways of life in Florida.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2012. | Permalink | 7 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: anna, chicken cross the road, claire, kids, nolan, picking strawberries

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My hair, tonight.

Insanity.

And yes, it’s as heavy as it looks. I could probably forego my regular chiropractor visits if I cut it all off.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2012. | Permalink | 8 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: angie, curly hair

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Like the adage goes, when you’ve got it, flaunt it.

It’s how I feel about my hair, my fingernails, and just like pageant moms, using my children’s cuteness to validate my own self worth.

I have fabulous nails, but I hate to have them painted. When I have painted nails, it feels like a layer of astroturf is shellacked on top. The polish only lasts for a few days before it chips away, and then because of my lazy tendencies, I end up looking like a 1/2 dollar hooker with chipped nail polish. It’s much like my painted toe nails look right now: Hooker Chic.

Until Pinterest, I had no idea there was a movement of ladies using their fingernails as canvases for nail art. While I admire their creativity and dedication to their nails, it’s something I would never be able to keep for longer than an hour.

Thanks to the magic of computers, I’ve transformed my fingernails into artwork. Inspired by the many, MANY nail art pins on Pinterest, we can see what my fingernails would look like if I had the time, patience, talent, time, creativity, time, focus, time, and dedication to create art on my nails.

Maybe I can inspire some nail art with my original creations.

USA! USA! USA!

The French Rock God Manicure

The Angie (my personal favorite)

If someone does actually recreate The Angie on their nails, I’ll send you five whole dollars as a token of my appreciation.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2012. | Permalink | 10 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: fingernail art, nail art inspiration, nail polish, pinterest

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I wrote this last night on Facebook as a reply to my 2nd mom*. It’s pretty much 101% true.

So of course I made it into a someecard.

My internet wit is used to shadow my lack of ability to do pretty much everything else in life.

*2nd mom does not refer to a step-mom, mother-in-law, or lesbian mother, but rather my actual 2nd mom who is, in technical terms, my BFF’s mom.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2012. | Permalink | 2 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: internet wit, someecards

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