Childbirth
Posted by admin | Filed under Babies, Feces, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Uncategorized, Womanhood
Have you ever had one of those days where you got out of the shower and wondered, as you toweled off, whether you remembered to wash everything? As in, everything important? As in, YOUR BITS?
Come ON. I know I’m not the only one who’s ever done it.
Ok, you bunch of liars, it’s besides the point anyway. And for the record, I always get back in the shower and do said washing, just in case I did happen to forget. That is, unless I’m REALLY tired. Fuck it, I never get back in. You happy now? I’M FILTHY. Bastards.
And to think my husband’s colleagues read this shit while at work. Hey guys. How you doin’? Get back to work, you slackers.
SO ANYWAYS, the whole “forgetting to wash important bits while in the shower” thing reminded me of the times I COULDN’T wash the important bits while in the shower — like after having a baby. And that led me to wonder whether I had ever posted about childbirth, and lo and behold, I hadn’t. So for those of you who haven’t experienced the joys of childbirth yet, brace yourselves. Because MB is tackling this horrific subject matter.
Are you ready?….
It really isn’t that bad, relax. I mean childbirth. It really isn’t that bad.
Now, I know this is a very individual thing, and some women have terrible nightmare experiences, while others (you suck, by the way) push like they have a bit of gas to expel and TA-DA! baby is born. But the truth is, most of us end up somewhere in the middle. Meaning, while it’s neither a terrible nightmare nor the passing of a bean burrito, it sucks giant monkey nuts, but eventually ends with you holding your baby in your arms. (And with any luck, that baby is sleeping blissfully for the next eighteen years).
Now, let me qualify the whole “it’s not that bad” comment by saying one word: DRUGS. Take every. Ounce. Offered. And then ask for a bit more. Because seriously, ladies, there is no medal at the end of all this — just a squalling baby. And if you’re black and blue from the battle, how are you going to win the war? And yes, I just compared child-rearing to war. Sure, I admire the women who do it all without drugs, in a barn, out in a field, while on a yoga ball, in a jacuzzi, or whatever. Props to you. Really. But don’t tell me you’re better than me, or that your kid is better off than mine. I’ve known too many women who started out with the noble desire to have a “natural” childbirth only to end up in labor for days, having to have emergency c-sections. Look, go with what feels right, not what you think you should be doing. It’s your vagina that is getting demolished, after all.
My personal experiences with childbirth were pretty good (and by “pretty good” I mean they were one notch above getting my eyeball gouged out with a mechanical pencil. Not that it’s ever happened to me. I’m simply assuming). It was a lot easier the second time around, since I knew what to expect and wanted to delay my trip to the hospital as long as possible. With Ava, I was far more relaxed, annoyed, and reluctant. I was ordering the doctor around (”No, you MAY NOT cut my lady parts! And there is no way in HELL you’re using that thing to suck out my baby’s head! You know what? Just sit there and be quiet, goddammit. I can do this myself.”)
To be honest, the worst part for me was the immediate aftermath — taking the baby home and having to sit on a donut for days while my boobs threatened to explode everywhere. Let me make a recommendation to you ladies who have vaginal births and episiotimies: DO NOT take a mirror and look down there. BAD. IDEA. Refrain from looking, directly touching, or even thinking about your bits for a couple months. Because trust me, doing so will make you cry.
Now, before I wrap up this post, let me say a word about having everybody you know plus a camera crew in the delivery room: Another BAD. IDEA. Do you really want tons of people watching your vagina stretch to gargantuan proportions? Or possibly see you poop? Actually, come to think of it, tell your husband to get lost while you’re at it. Really. Husbands are totally worthless in the delivery room, unless they’re doctors. And even then – no point in having the hubby in there if he’s a, oh, ophthalmologist. TH really didn’t do anything helpful while he was in there. As a matter of fact, he scared the living shit out of me by turning white and muttering, “Oh my God” one too many times. The nurses had to ask him if he needed to lie down. Men are so goddamned worthless.
To those ladies who have had a baby: What was the worst part for you?
To those ladies who have yet to experience it: What scares you most?
Tags: baby, bits, childbirth, Feces, lady parts, vagina
Brutal Truth
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Just plain funny, Motherhood, Preschoolers, Uncategorized, Womanhood, parenting
One of the things I love about preschoolers is their inability to lie — well. They tell you what they think, and these thoughts are completely uncensored. It can be highly disconcerting (”Mommy, why is THAT LADY SO BIG?”) as well as highly entertaining (”This tastes like dirt.”)
Like the time Nora said to me, “Mommy, I love you, because, you know, you’re not so old.”
Kay. Thanks?
Or the time I was getting dressed and Nora was eying my naked chest with interest. (FYI, naked bodies invite a host of hilarious, offensive, and often entertaining comments from preschoolers. Just be prepared to have your ego beaten into a pulp. And remember that they are usually eye-level with your crotch, so keep that shit covered.) After watching me remove my bra, Nora asked, “Mommy, are those your little boobies?”
LITTLE? Well, fuck. At least they’re bigger than hers.
My friend “Claire” tells a similar story that had me rolling on the ground with laughter. Her daughter “Anna” was watching Claire get dressed one day and said with a smile, “Mommy, I hope I have a big belly like you someday.”
Apparently, preschoolers’ sense of beauty is inspired by the fertility goddesses of ancient times.
She is HOT. Except for the hairdo. And the fact that she has no face. Photo by mharrsch via Flickr.
If only ours was too, goddammit.
Today was classic. I was driving back from my parents house which is three and a half hours away (ROAD TRIP!) and we had to stop to tinkle. For those of you who don’t have kids, “tinkle” = “pee-pee.” So anyways, we stopped at a gas station and as I carried Ava into the bathroom stall, Nora said, “It smells like Nana in here!”
“Nana” is what the girls call my mother. I found this so utterly hilarious that I called my mom while standing in the stall.
ME: “Hey, mom? We’re here in Podunk, Texas, in a gas station bathroom, and Nora thinks it smells like you in here.”
My Mom: “Oh my God. Are you serious?”
ME: (snorting) “Yeah.”
My Mom: “What does it smell like in there?”
ME: “What does it smell like? It smells like ass, mom. Ass.”
Nora: “ASS! HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Ava: (sticking her hand in the tampon mailbox) “E-I-E-I-O!” (Ava is currently into “Old MacDonald.” It’s all she ever says these days — along with “mine” and “no.”)
Then there are the times Nora gets in trouble for doing something she knew she shouldn’t have been doing — oh, say, wrapping Ava in an entire roll of toilet paper — and when confronted with my wrath, can think of nothing better than to tell the truth.
ME: “Nora, WHY did you do that???”
Nora: “Because it was fun.”
Well, there you go. And I ignore stop signs because it’s fun.
Like mother like daughter.
Tags: belly, boobies, fertility goddess, gas station toilet, honesty, Nana, Preschoolers, tampon mailbox
I Suck
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, Stay At Home Moms, Uncategorized, Womanhood, parenting
Generally speaking.
Now, before you start feeling sorry for me, realize that I say this in a perfectly even, non-emotional, matter-of-fact way. Not in a "woe is me, I plan on killing myself" sort of way, but in a "Oh well, life's a bitch" sort of way. Because I plan on doing absolutely nothing about my self-professed suckage. Other than write about it.
Why do I suck, you ask? Oh, let me count the ways. Where do I begin?
I know — I'll begin with "snack day." Nora's mommy was supposed to bring snacks to Nora's preschool class on Monday, and Nora's mommy sucks so badly she FORGOT. Yep. Fifteen 3-year-olds went snackless because I SUCK. Luckily, the teachers had an emergency snack at hand. I guarantee the next time Nora's mommy is signed up for "snack day," the teachers will be sure to have another emergency snack available. Which is good, since I'll probably forget then too. "Forget." *Snicker*
Do you think bite-size Milky Way bars count as a "snack" to these people?
On Friday, I am supposed to bring Valentines to Ava's class. I've even written it down on the back of an envelope of some junk mail I plan on tossing soon. How much do you want to bet I forget about that, too? I feel a little less worse about forgetting Valentines for a class of 18-month-olds, though, since they can't read, don't care, and will probably try to eat them anyway. And who wants their baby eating paper? Hell, I'm doing everyone a service by forgetting the fucking Valentines. Right?
I don't doubt that the staff at my girls' school thinks I am a moron who should not, under any circumstances, have been allowed to procreate. Whatever. Anyone who thinks that can go blow a goat. (Particularly if they're taking my money). I'm cool with my suckage. I've embraced it wholeheartedly. I'm at peace with it.
Bitch.
I am easily the mom who shows up to playdates without having brought a sippy cup, snacks, extra diapers, etc. for her kids. I am easily the mom who mooches off of everyone else, should I need any of the items listed above. (I consider this fair warning to anyone interested in having a so-called "playdate" with me.) On the upside, if I just so happen to have these things with me because I took my meds that morning, and it just so happens that YOU forgot, I will cheerfully give you mine. I may suck, but I am a generous soul nonetheless. I understand mommy suckiness, and embrace my fellow sucky mothers. We are one. Sucky mothers unite.
I am the "hostess" who throws goldfish in a bowl and "serves" it to her pint-sized guests, whose house is already a disaster so there are no unnecessary worries about little Suzy making more of a mess. My house is the one where you can hear muffled, creepy Christmas music playing even though it's February.
Trust me – kids have a BLAST at my house. Moms do too, so long as they don't have sticks up their asses. Ass sticks are not welcome at my house — please leave those in the car.
So yes, I suck…. Unless, of course, you think I rock. It's all relative.
Photo by TW Collins via Flickr.
Tags: hostess, playdate, snacks, snow globe, suck, suckage, Valentines
The Hotness
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Stay At Home Moms, Womanhood
There is very little less sexy than being the mother of a toddler and a preschooler.
Seriously. People tell you that "motherhood becomes you" when you have children, but I am convinced that this is said only to make new mothers feel better about their deflated, saggy, distended bodies. It's kind of a pat on the back, like a "Buck up, you look like shit, but that shouldn't matter any more, right? You're a mother."
Fuck that.
I will be the first to admit that my body is not what it was before I had kids. I think the body part that has most suffered are my boobs. Once upon a time, I rocked those tiny little spaghetti strap tank tops — while bra-less. I wore tube tops and didn't have to worry about looking flat-chested. I had a tight little belly button, and a perky little ass.
That's right, beeeeeeeotch!
Now, my boobs are… *DEEP SIGH* My belly button is… *SNIFFLE* My ass is… *SOB* *GASP* *SOB*
However. I am not even close to throwing in the towel. No way, dudes. I go to the gym and abuse those butt and chest machines. I take my vitamins. I try to eat well (minus the occasional Amos cookie binge. And macaroni and cheese binge. And… shit, people I have kids. I've got junk food all over the place). I MOISTURIZE. That's right. For those you not in the know, read this and begin to moisturize, or die a premature death by dry skin. You didn't think the situation was that dire, did you? Ha! Clearly you haven’t been reading Lisa Rinna’s books. Tsk, tsk.
At some point, I may even get some of that botulism toxin injected into my face and those sacks of saline inserted into my boobs. It all depends on how shitty I get to looking in the future. I guess we’ll see just how successful Nora and Ava are at sucking the life force out of me in the course of the next several years.
But rest assured, I will fight to the death. Yes, yes, I know, looks aren’t important, what’s important is family and inner beauty and WAH WAH WAH WAH (a la Charlie Brown). That’s just what ugly people say to make themselves feel better. *Snicker* Plus, what woman doesn’t want her husband (and that hot dude at the coffee shop wearing the scrubs) to look her up and down and think, “Now THAT is a MILF.”
Yeah, baby, that’s what I thought.
So. Yes, I get up in the morning and take care of myself, even if it means letting my girls eat deodorant while I apply some mascara. And I put on some nice-fitting jeans and a push-up bra, even if the only place I go the entire day is to my mailbox while my 8,000-year-old neighbors peer out their windows and probably mutter something about me being a “hussy.” (For the record, I have no evidence that my neighbors think I’m a hussy. A wedgie-picking bitch? Yes. A hussy? Not yet. I’m working on it. These things take time.) And while it’s not the most practical thing, carrying around a toddler in a v-neck top and a push-up bra, since you never know when she’ll grab you and your boobs will tumble out, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.
What about you, you saucy little minx? Come on. MILF status is just around the corner…
Tags: boobs, botox, Charlie Brown, implants, Lisa Rinna, MILF
This Used To Be a Funhouse
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Motherhood, Preschoolers, Womanhood, parenting, toddlers
Now it's full of evil clowns.
Actually, now it's full of toys, garbage, and children who are far too clever and devious for their mother's good. No clowns, thank God. That would really be the icing on the cake, if I had to deal with evil clowns on top of everything else. I'd really need some heavy meds — and serious weapons — then.
So clowns aside, this place really does teeter on being an insane asylum on most days. From the moment they wake up, my girls make it their mission to destroy any sense of order or sanity in our home. Nora even tells Ava, "Come on, Ava! We have work to do!" I think she picked that phrase up from Wonder Pets (if you don't know what I'm talking about, consider yourself a lucky, lucky bitch or bastard), but it is so appropriate in context, I have to smile. The "work" my little hellions have to do is destroy, demolish, and then cackle cruelly as Mama frantically tries to undo the mess.
They take things out of drawers, cabinets, any sort of container, and seem to take particular joy in creating disorder where there was once order. It's not like they are taking specific things out to play with, they are just flinging shit over their shoulders as fast as they can possibly manage. God forbid they manage to reach a box of cereal or rice or flour in the pantry — if I don't catch them in the nick of time, it will be everywhere. Toilet paper rolls — holy shit, if I am so stupid as to leave a bathroom door open, Nora will unroll at breakneck speed and Ava will be mummified, only to eat her way out of her binding. Yes, that's right, Ava eats toilet paper. And she revels in it, making sure I see her tear off a piece and deliberately put it in her mouth. As if to say, "Watch this, Mom. I'm eating paper. Whatcha going to do about it? HUH?"
Nora, at three years old, is a bit more controllable, since she understands right from wrong, and that there will be consequences for her actions. (Am I a spanker, you ask? Hell, yes. I haven't had to do it yet, but I wouldn't hesitate if I thought it necessary). Nora has also developed a devious way of getting around punishment: She becomes immediately remorseful, saying, "Mama, I am so sorry! I am so, so SORRY!" And then she flashes those big blue peepers and stretches her arms out to me… Yeah, try and spank that, you black-hearted wench.
Ava, on the other hand, doesn't give two shits and a piss, and will wreak havoc at every opportunity. If her sister is in it with her, all the better. But if not, she can manage fairly well by herself. When I scold her, she has one response: She screams at the top of her lungs. No, not cry, SCREAM. Like an angry, defiant battle cry. And then she flashes her even BIGGER blue peepers at me and a fucking dimple, for God's sake…
I was such a GOOD kid. Where did I go wrong?
I blame TH's rotten genes. Better that than my mothering, right?
And now, a vintage ad, because it made me vomit a bit in my mouth:
Tags: Ava, evil clowns, hellions, insane asylum, Nora, spanking, toilet paper
I Win Again
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Motherhood, Uncategorized, Womanhood, parenting
I mean the Mother of the Year Award.
Oh yes, I won again — this month. My mothering practices are so offensive that I am actually awarded the Mother of the Year Award every month.
You thought you won, didn't you? Ha! No way. Eat my dust, bitches.
So I've actually worn Nora and Ava down, and they now enjoy going to the gym with me. Remember this story, in which I couldn't leave my girls at the gym childcare center for five minutes before the folks who worked there paged me? Well, I have managed to break my children. Nora now asks to go there, and Ava is simply accepting. I think she may actually like the people who work there better than she likes me, but I try not to dwell on it. I am finally able to work out, take a yoga class, or simply sit in the cafe and stare at a wall if I want. And yes, I can get a bikini wax in peace. Thank Jesus. The maximum amount of time a child is allowed to remain in the childcare center is two hours, which means I leave the girls there for approximately two hours and five minutes. Ok, fine, I wait until they page me.
Ha! I'm just kidding. Ahem.
So today I took the girls to the gym and watched, with considerable glee, as they waved good-bye to me and rushed off to play with the other little kids. I worked out at my leisure and thoroughly kicked my own ass. It was great.
And THEN, once I was done, I got my stuff out of my locker and started walking out the door.
As I approached the front door, it occurred to me that I had forgotten something. Hmmm. Keys? Check. Membership card? Check. Sweatshirt? Check. Well, what the hell….?
I started laughing aloud when I realized what I had nearly done: I'd nearly left my kids at the gym.
That's right, people. Mother of the Fucking Year, right here. You got nothing on me. I will win EVERY TIME.
"Me? AGAIN? Oh, I'm blushing! I'd like to thank my difficult children, my self-indulgence, my lack of medication, and my fine, well-toned ass — which is currently hanging out of my mini-skirt!" Photo by Malven via iStockphoto.
Tags: biki, bikini wax, childcare, gym, Mother of the Year Award
The Crazies
Posted by admin | Filed under Depression, Insane in the MOMbrane, Motherhood, Stay At Home Moms, Uncategorized, Womanhood, parenting, schizo
I am a desperate housewife.
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate those words? Individually, they suck. Together, they suck worse. I mean, they are totally offensive together. I cringe admitting that I am, in fact, desperate. And because I hate the word "housewife" so much, I will go with "home economist." I am a desperate home economist. Ahem.
Fuck.
So here's the story, in brief: I went off my happies, a bunch of shit happened at once (including various illnesses that included my girls and me puking together in unison) that would have driven a normal, sane human being to the brink, and I went on birth control pills. Now, I will address each of those shit-storms separately:
1. I went off my happies. Aka, my happy pills. What? I thought I'd be fine without them. And I was, until….
2. A bunch of shit happened. Where do I start? The holidays. I'm not sure when the holidays were considered fun, but they have become a fucking nightmare at this point. Suicide rates are apparently high during the holidays, and while I hear it's because lonely people feel even lonelier during the season of cheer, I think it's parents of small children deciding they simply cannot take it anymore. My parents were meddling in my parenting and heaping guilt on me and TH, my kids were throwing tantrums because I wouldn't let them have yet ANOTHER candy cane for dinner, no one was sleeping in his/her own bed… Additionally, we all caught a nasty, snot-ridden cold (I'm still snotting from said cold) AS WELL AS a violent stomach bug. Snot for Christmas, puke for New Years. Oh, it was fun. I was sleeping in the same room as Nora, trying to puke quietly into a bucket so as not to wake her. God, I wish I was making that shit up.
3. I went on birth control pills. Look, my periods are wacky, and I will absolutely go INSANE if I get pregnant. So all these women are on the Pill, telling me it's fine, and oh, it's the lightest, bestest one around, so I said, OK! Let's do this thing. Bring on the hormones.
Huh.
In hindsight, I should not have gone off my happies during the holidays AND started BCPs. You're right, you're right. I set myself up.
But Jesus Christ on a cracker, if I could have videotaped myself yesterday. I was a raving lunatic, a deranged person. I was snapping at my girls for little things, ripping into TH like there was no tomorrow, throwing a fit because I got in the shower only to find that I’d run out of soap and had to get out, dripping wet, and rummage through the cabinets… My girls heard me say the word “motherfucker” at least twice, and if they grow up to need therapy, it will be because of yesterday, I swear.
Can you say INTERVENTION?
I think TH tried, by coolly asking if I was going to go Andrea Yates on his ass, and as you can imagine, that didn’t help things.
Men.
Anyways, I am doing much better today, thank you. I am getting some writing done, actually put some makeup on this morning, and I am wearing clean clothes.
It’s the little things.
That being said, I’m attacking my doctor soon.
Tags: birth control, crazies, crazy, Desperate Housewives, doctor, happy pills, insane
It’s About Time…
Posted by admin | Filed under Babies, Insane in the MOMbrane, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Stay At Home Moms, Uncategorized, Womanhood, parenting
…for another baby.
*Bursts out laughing, shoving an entire packet of birth control pills down throat with glee, washing it down with some vodka.*
NOT!
Have you ever met the woman who treats having kids like some sort of Olympic sport? Yeah? No? If not, I can introduce you to her. She's annoying as fuck. She's kind of like the woman who treats motherhood as a competitive sport, except that Preggo (what I will heretoforthwith call her) really stops caring about her kid the minute she has another one. Ok, not completely stops caring, of course. But kind of just removes the earlier-born child from her focus.
God, I'm a judgmental bitch.
But it's almost like… they aren't truly happy unless they're pregnant. Or have just been pregnant. Or are trying to get pregnant. As though their very self-worth teeters on their ability to make babies. Constantly.
I am happy / proud / thrilled to say that I think I may be done with having kids. I mean, I don't want to rule it out, as several years from now, preferably before my ovaries dry up, I may reconsider. It really depends on how drunk I am at that point. But I'm definitely not even going to think about it until I've completely forgotten how fucking miserable Newborn Land is. And guess what? I am not even close to forgetting at this point.
Plus, there's the whole Nip/Tuck issue. I want fake boobies eventually, so I have consider that as well. No point in lifting everything just to watch it drop again.
And for those of you who are thinking, "But you have to try again for a BOY!" No, I don't. NO, I FUCKING DON'T. I was given two beautiful, healthy girls. Why the shit would I complain? I'm sure having a son brings all sorts of different joys, but seriously, I'm fine. I'll survive. Really.
Plus, I've heard the stories about the shooting pee at diaper changes, and would rather not have to worry about it. I'm not sure I would know what to do with a baby that has those kind of parts to it.
So the other day I overheard a Preggo gushing, "We're pregnant again!" while I was at the gym. I happen to sort of know this woman, and I sort of know that her youngest (she already has two) is younger than Ava. And her oldest is younger than Nora. So she already has a three-year-old and a fifteen-month-old. And I have a question: Why? Don't tell me you love every second of it. Don't. Because I won't believe you. I'll think you're full of shit, dissatisfied with something in your life, and therefore use procreation as a coping mechanism.
Oh, and for the record, I am in a great mood tonight. *Beams*
Tags: birth control, boobies, competitive moms, Nip/Tuck, Preggo, pregnant, vodka
It’s Been Way Too Long…
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Womanhood, vintage ads
…since I’ve posted an offensive vintage ad. And these two are so bad you may actually start laughing, which is what I did. I mean, I laughed my ass off. Judge for yourselves.
And by far, my favorite of all times:
Oh my God, I CANNOT STOP LAUGHING.
On that note, if only I could have five minutes alone with the guys who came with this stuff. Just five minutes… It’s all I need…
Tags: sexist, vintage ads
Pirates On the Brain
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Just plain funny, Preschoolers, Womanhood
So as many of you know, I have been writing an ongoing serial over at The Noble Pirates. While it is fiction, I do a whole lot of research on the subject in an attempt to make it as historically accurate as possible. As such, I have become obsessed. My pirate obsession has led to me neglecting my baby Mommy Brained. I'm so sorry, MB. You are not the redheaded step-child, I swear. You are my first, and I will not neglect you any longer.
It is probably not necessary to tell you that I dream about pirates, see pirates wandering around the mall, see the word "pirate" on street signs and billboards, and hear it spoken by people ALL THE TIME. Usually, they're saying the word "prior" or "pyre" or something. Anything that begins with "p," if I'm being honest with myself.
Nora has gotten used to accompanying me to the bookstore or library and has begun to ask me, "Mama, are you looking at pirate books again?" Even the three-year-old understands that her mother is fucking nuts for pirates. My knee-high boots are now my "pirate boots," and Nora routinely grabs sticks off the ground, slashes them in the air (or at Ava) and says, "AAAAAARGH! I'm a PIRATE!" I can already see her in therapy years from now, talking about her mother's abnormal fascination with 18th century criminals, and how it impacted her desire to date bad boys. As obsessed as I am, if Nora or Ava showed up with a guy who looked even remotely like a pirate, I'd call the police immediately. And then they'd scream at me, telling me it was all my fault to begin with.
My pirates have even begun to take over my marriage. Poor, poor TH. I know he'd like to accuse me of some sort of infidelity, because I talk about my pirates the same way a tween talks about the Twilight dudes (you know, with stars in my eyes, eyelashes fluttering, heavy breathing, nipple-rubbing). Really quite sad. It's gotten to the point where I can't even compliment TH without some pirate implication hanging over my head: Today, TH was looking particularly scruffy and unshaven, and I said, "TH, you look ruggedly hot today." Immediately he said, "Why? Because I look like a fucking PIRATE?"
Sheesh. Calm down, people. I'm writing a novel about pirates, but I'm not PSYCHO. Well, not completely.
On an entertaining note, TH has begun to sneak onto my laptop to add his own creative thoughts to my manuscript. It's actually REALLY annoying, but also damned entertaining. This morning, while I was showering (cue porn music), TH hurriedly sat at my laptop, probably snickering like a naughty kid, and added a couple lines to one of my chapters, including: "Howel asked Sabrina to strap one on and lay seige to his poop deck."
Granted, I was laughing for far longer than warranted. But seriously. He needs to stop. Ok, not really. But he definitely needs to put his erotic lit in a different color font so I don't ACCIDENTALLY publish it online.
So TNP readers, you are forewarned: If you should suddenly come across some soft (or hard) core porn while reading about the various sailing rigs, know that it's *probably* TH hard at work.
If the lawyer thing doesn't work out, he's always got a future in erotic literature, I guess.
Tags: Ava, erotic lit, Nora, pirates, The Noble Pirates
