Pug in Tux, 1; Baby in Cocoon, 0
So, HoST and I have been seriously discussing how we could simultaneously throw our lives into complete and total upheaval while also depriving our bodies of sleep and enlarging the size of my ass. That is to say, we’re thinking of having a baby in the next year or so. This is quite a new thing for me, since I’ve gone my whole life without the least bit of interest in pushing another person through my genitals, but when Jive Turkey turned 30, it seems that her Jive Uterus and her Jive Ovaries decided to fuck with her Jive Head. So we’re all very happy & excited over here at Jive Turkey HQ at the thought of passing on our special brand of batshit crazy to a whole new generation. And frankly, I’m getting really tired of shelling out $20 a month for that bitch of a birth control pill. Future Jive Turkey Chick, you will come into this world as the result of a planned and much anticipated pregnancy, and because your mama is too cheap and lazy to drive 3 blocks down to the Rite Aid every month. Plain and simple.
And while I’m slowly getting more and more excited at the idea of all this baby hoo-ha, there is one thing that is not changing: I hate those fucking Anne Geddes baby pictures with the burning hot intensity of the deepest realm of hell.
This is nothing new for me. I’ve hated those asinine pictures ever since I first laid eyes on them. In fact, when HoST and I first started dating, the hatred of Anne Geddes and her fucking Baby Produce Department was something that brought us closer together. We were walking through the mall one day, and we happened to pass a Hallmark store with one of those infuriating Baby-on-a-Pumpkin photos. I turned to HoST and said, “I hate those,” to which he replied, “Me too.” And I am not kidding you when I say I fell a little bit more in love with him that day. Ah, romance. And hatred of innocent children.
I’m not sure what it is that makes me hate those pictures so much. It’s not that I don’t like cute things, because I will nearly have an aneurysm if I happen to see someone walking a puppy down the street, and I’ve come close to slamming my car headfirst into a telephone pole as I strain to get a better look at those fucking adorable puppy ears. And if you dressed a kitten up as a yellow tulip? I might piss myself with glee. So I like the cute. I think it’s that I don’t like “cutesy.” I despise teddy bears and baby talk and those creepy-ass porcelain dolls advertised in the Sunday paper that I just imagine some poor mentally-unbalanced, baby-obsessed woman has propped up and posed all over her sad little studio apartment where she spends entire afternoons cradling and talking to each one, pretending they are real.
I guess I kind of expected that when I was ready to have a kid, all of this stuff would immediately appeal to me, but…no. Absolutely not. For a while this kind of bothered me, because I thought it meant I was going to be some horrible hell-beast of a mother, but fuck that. Dressing babies up as fruits & vegetables in an attempt to make me say “Awwww!” and explode into a pile of ovaries just does not work for me, and probably never will. And I am OK with that.
So, to recap – I hate this:
Confidential to Anne Geddes: a baby is not a disgusting under-developed bug pupa, you sick fuck.
But I love this:
This is wrong:
“Honey, I was thinking of having Anne Geddes dress our baby up as a giant, hairy piece of dog shit – what do you think?”
But this is oh, so right:
Entry filed under: And you KNOW THIS!.