Oh Baby, Don’t Hurt Your Mama

I was born in Cleveland, Ohio, the year was 1971.  On Labor Day.  How fitting.  Although I do not remember my birth, I wish I could because apparently, there was a three-ring circus going on up in there.  NO, not THERE!  Stick with me, it is a rather funny story.

Labor Day had a whole other meaning that day.  It just wasn’t about honoring the laborers in our nation that day, it was about a young, uncertain woman whom I call mom getting ready to produce the spawn she had so carefully incubated for nine months. And mom, who had a somewhat unexpected labor partner.

Since my dad was raised as a staunch Catholic, it would be the nuns who would so graciously appear at my birth and continue to haunt me throughout my childhood years. Catholic school sure didn’t tame this beast, and I have PTSD from the stern nuns, specifically, Mother Theresa.   More on that later. Back to my birth story.

The hospital rooms were not private. There were beds lined up and down the hall like you would see in a prison cell.  Each woman was assigned a bed, and that’s it.  No privacy curtain, nothing to cover your lady bits and nowhere to hide.  It was noisy and hot. Or so I am told.

Back then dads didn’t stay while the woman was giving birth, they either sat in the hall and waited or went down to the local bar until the call came in that it was time.  Seriously, what jackasses.  Let’s think about this for a moment.  The man would go to the local bar and drink himself silly, have all kinds of feel-good emotions going on.  Maybe he chomped on a few peanuts and sipped a few cold ones while the woman was chewing on a metal bar with nuns looking up her cooterbird measuring how big she had dilated.  Staring down into the black hole. Waiting for the moment a child is born.  Or a spawn, whatever you wish to call it.  I won’t judge you.  Why don’t they allow the women a few cold ones and so they could feel all good and act silly while they are pushing out a seven-pound seed the men planted in our wombs?  “I’ll have another, Marge!  Line em’ up!”  Seems only fair. They should have an open bar in every hospital or birthing room.  In labor?  Here, have a cold one.  Have ten, maybe twelve.  No epidural needed. Cheers to that new bundle of joy!  Cheers to never sleeping again for the next eleventeen years!

Mom was in bed next to a woman who was of color.  She was a woman of magnitude.  An enormous, burly woman who had a loud voice that carried through the halls of the hospital.  The unfortunate thing was in so much distress. Rocking herself back and forth while calling on Jesus to stop the pain.   Then the chants began, “Oh baby, don’t hurt your mama.  OH BABY, DON’T HURT YOUR MAMA.” The chanting continued until my dad arrived and was permitted into the room to see my mom.  He had been at work when mom went into labor.  The other woman asked who he was and my mom had stated it was her husband.  “So that is the baby’s daddy?”  “Yes.”  “Could you please call my baby’s daddy and let him know I am in labor? Here’s the number.”  My dad of course agreed, I mean who wouldn’t?  Cell phones were not even thought of yet, and payphones were the way to get a hold of those we needed while out and about.

Dad left the room, quarter in hand and made his way to the payphone.  He returned within a few minutes, and in mere seconds of his arrival, the “Chanter” asked him if he had called.  “Yes, ma’am.”  “And? Is he coming?”  “No ma’am.”  “What in God’s Name do you mean he ain’t coming down here?  I am in labor!” Dad flinched and swallowed really hard before answering,  “He said it wasn’t his baby, ma’am.”  “Why I NEVER heard such a lie in all my days!  This his baby!  It’s his!  He better drag his no good for nothing ass down here and claims it!  I didn’t do this alone. NO sir, I did not.”  “I’m sorry ma’am, I tried.”

My mom and dad were confident she was going to tear down that room.  She started raising hell about the “No good for nothing, poor excuse of a man” and continued making a fuss.  The chanting started again.  Only this time she added a new verse.  “Oh baby, your daddy don’t want ya.  Oh BABY, don’t hurt your mama.  Oh, Baby, your daddy don’t want ya.”  This went on for hours.  The only way it was going to end for my mom was to push me out and get out of dodge.  And so she did.

I came out fine, all seven pounds and 4 ounces of me.  The apple of my daddy’s eye, the light of my mother’s life.  Or so they thought.  Until they realized that sweet bundle of joy would become a smart ass, sarcastic, strong-willed woman.  If they had only known.

Thank you sweet baby Jesus for private rooms these days.  Pain or no pain, I don’t think I could have held a straight face while that was going on.  I would have to chime on in and start singing “Oh baby, get the hell out of your mama… and run.”

I have always wondered what happened to the “Chanter” and her baby.  I wonder if daddy is still alive or if he has a story about how he once was a rooster and is now a hen.

 

 

Pumpkin Spice Is Not So Nice

I have a hatred of pumpkin spice.  I loathe it.  I brace myself every year when the calendar flips to September.  It’s like a whole new world of crazy unleashes and with each passing year, it gets crazier. To the point of being obscene.

Don’t get me wrong, I like pumpkin.  As in pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin scents, pumpkins on my porch signalling Fall has come arrived.  I love Fall!  Everything about it. I eat one slice of pumpkin pie per year.  On Thanksgiving.  That slice of pie has a tub of Cool Whip topping on it, too.  That’s called living, folks.  It’s all about the whipped topping.

Need a little spice in your life while practicing safe sex?  Slap on a pumpkin spice condom.  You’ll really spice things up in the bedroom.  Bitch, please.  Bring a pumpkin spice condom anywhere near me and I’ll be sure that your “pumpkin” not only gets carved but that your seeds will be roasted.

Want to attract the man or woman of your dreams?  It’s simple!  Just swish a little pumpkin spice mouthwash around for a few minutes, and voila!  You’ll attract the person you have always dreamed of.  Not.  More like you’ll attract a person with a weird fetish of rolling around in spices as foreplay.

There are doughnuts, cereal, drinks, meats, candles and coffee creamers, oh my!  When will it stop?  Who sits around a boardroom table and decides some lunatic wants pumpkin spice in their bratwurst?  Apparently, a lot of people do, or these companies wouldn’t be producing products like this.  If you eat bratwurst that is flavored with pumpkin spice, we can’t be friends.  Bratwurst only requires a little mustard and maybe some saurkraut as an added bonus.

If you love pumpkin spice and live for the season, good for you.  I make no judgements.  We all have our own preferences and likes.  Go get a latte on a cool Fall morning.  Enjoy every last drop.  But this pumpkin spice everything is a little out of hand.   You can’t go anywhere without seeing it advertised on any billboard or fast food restaurant sign.  It makes me want to start smashing pumpkins.

I better put some bail money in the bible, I might need it if I start on a smashing pumpkins spree.

Y’all gonna make me lose my mind, up in here, up in here.

Pumpkin spice season makes me feel a little Octobery, like I want to visit a pumpkin patch or murder someone.

Please.  Stop.

 

And So It Begins…

I guess this is the part where I introduce myself. Where I tell you who I am, what I am all about and what the heck I am trying to accomplish. There are two words that can sum me up pretty easily. Hot and mess. Hot mess. That’s me. I go through life like the pink elephant in the room. I really shouldn’t be left unsupervised.  But they claim I am an adult now.  Go figure.

Controlling my tongue is not a problem. It’s my face that needs deliverance! Ok, so maybe that isn’t exactly true. I do tend to say what is on my mind. At times, holding all this sarcasm in can physically hurt. It’s a sense of relief when I can allow my mouth to spill out what my mind is thinking. But then there is always the chance that I have offended somebody. I don’t mean to, because sometimes the truth does hurt, and the way to tell someone they are being an asshat is delivered more gently through humor. Right? Just shake your head yes.

I guess I am not accomplishing much with the introduction, am I? Since I am completely certain you are waiting with bated breath, allow me to go ahead and dish the dirt on myself. Completely. Well, let’s not get carried away. Baby steps, folks.

So let’s start with a little about me. I am forty-six years old, as much as that number seems to be escalating and quickly, I am actually thankful I can say I am forty-six. It’s a privilege. Not a birthright. And, I figure the longer I live, the more people I can piss off or entertain.  You decide.  I am also quite certain there is a pretty good chance I’ll end up being one of those senior citizens who bite people randomly.

I hate pants.  I love wine.  I can kill you with kindness or sarcasm.  Pick your poison.  I am a mother of two grown children.  I am also a single mother to one grown ass woman I call mom.  The broad can drive anyone to drink.  You’ll hear more about her as time goes on.

My other children have left the nest and left me batshit crazy.  I love them, with all that I have in me, but there were times I wanted to drop kick them in ways the CPS would not have approved of.  Bless their little hearts.

Little pains in the asses they were, and still can be.  Don’t roll your eyes at me.  I just felt all the holier than thou parents sigh in unison.  You know you have wanted to do it, too.  You just won’t say it out loud.  You are the same parents who sit silently and judge mom’s like me while your Little Johnny is wreaking havoc on the neighborhood.  Just say it out loud, they drive you crazy.  You know it, I know it.  You’ll feel so much better.

How’s that saying go?  “Well-behaved women seldom make history.”  And, it’s true.  You can’t be all Mary Poppins all day every day.  How fun is that?  Tell the world, (and your children) how you really feel.  If they don’t like it, well they can pour themselves the bowl of Cornflakes you had planned for dinner.  Don’t do it for them.  That’ll teach em’.

Still with me?  Good.  I mean,  you must like torture.  Or you are just utterly amazed at what you’ve stumbled upon.  I hope so.  That means you will be back for more.  Or, you can go try to detox yourself and pray for me.

If you came here to be coddled and babied.  Back that bus up, Gus.  Not happening.  I pretty much tell it like it is.  I offer no apologies.  I will offer you a bitch slap and an eye roll when appropriate. Oh, and for free.  You’re welcome.

Oh, did I tell you I am writing a book?  Yes, I have been.  There’s no ending.  Not yet at least.  I can’t go into all the details, but there will be an ending.  It may come in crashing like a tsunami, but it’s gonna happen.

You’ll learn more about me as the blog develops.  My hope is to make you laugh, maybe even cry a little or scream “Uncle”. Maybe I will drive you to drink.  Or make you attend church to cleanse yourself.  Who knows? Get your panties out of the wad they are now in.  I believe in Jesus.  Sometimes Jesus wants to bitch slap me.  I know it.  Why do you think I choose to walk in a zig zag pattern and not a straight line?  So He cannot easily reach out and zap my ass.

I have so much in the works and in store.  I wish I could share it all.  For now, patience is definitely a virtue.  I don’t know what the hell I am doing.  But I am not afraid and I am not stupid.  Because wine.

Thanks for stopping by.  You can find me on Facebook at Breakfast at Christy’s.  I will link my youtube and Instagram accounts soon.  Lord help all of you.

Please excuse the mess.  Just step over things until I get situated.  Might be a bit.  Again, no apologies.  I’ll see you soon.