And the winner is...

And the winner of this week's caption contest is... ANGIE!

Again, SO many awesome comments. I had a four way tie and had to enlist some help. And as with last week, this one made everyone here laugh out loud. Or LOL for you hippies. Angie, shoot me an email and I'll get you in touch with Carrie. Enjoy the new 'do (and the wine).

Caption Contest Monday!

Caption contest Monday!  The winner of this caption contest will receive a free hair cut and style from my oh-so-talented friend Carrie at KINK - a very fun and fancy salon in Clayton.  That's a $50 value, people. 

Oh, and they have free wine.  Yeah, they're fancy and you feel super fabulous.  One minute you're like:

And the next you're like:

I'll pick the winner from the comments below tomorrow (Tuesday, July 31st) at 5pm CST.  And the prize is fully transferable, so even if you don't live in St. Louis it would make an awesome gift for someone here (ahem me ahem).  Enter as many times as you like!

*One winner will be selected Tuesday, July 31st at 5:00pm CST and notified via and  Winner must be 18 years of age and a legal resident of the United States.  Prize only redeemable for hair cut and style with Carrie Straatman at KINK salon.  Prize has no cash value.  Prize must be redeemed by September 30, 2012.  My family members are not eligible to win BETH!). 

Shaggin' wagon (part fin)

Nick asked that I not ruin his post with an intro.  His wish is my command. 

There was once a time when Hannah went on these girls weekends, when I would pull out my ramʼs horn and send a bellowing message to all of my friends. We would assemble and revert back to a drunken infancy, interrupted only by Del Taco and soiled pants. That feels like a lifetime ago as I counted the days before this years trip, which would leave me at home alone for three days with our three beautiful children. Although I tried to look at this as an opportunity to spend quality time away from endless work with those children Hannah tells me about, I knew better.

They just wear you down. A few hours, and my college education is gone to lunch with my perspective, laughing over nachos about the pathetic ass they left back at home with those screaming sacks of eyes and teeth. It isnʼt a specific offense, per se, but a culmination of small challenges.

The infant begins to chatter at Six. AM. I jump out of bed to quickly brush my teeth before she wakes up the one year old. The one year old is already up and screams violently when I go to the infant first. I go to the one year old and the infant sobs hard enough to vomit some kind of mucus. The three year old is now up and screaming she has to pee. She is wearing undies. We started potty training a week ago.

I leave the puker and the other one with abandonment issues to help the pisser. She somehow pees around the toilet seat she is sitting on. I am kneeling on the floor cleaning urine from around the toilet to a chorus of sadness under the supervision of a hyperactive naked girl who saved some of the urine in her bladder to run down her legs once standing.

 “Ellie, why are you peeing now?”

 “Iʼm not Ellie, Iʼm a baby crocodile.” What?

 “Baby crocodile, why are you peeing on the floor?”

 “Baby crocodile is sad.” What? Note to self, do not ask questions to which you either already know the answer, or do not care about the answer.

 “Daddy needs baby crocodile to please pee on the potty” I say as I place her wet ass in the tub and turn on the water.

After I finally have them changed, fed and planted firmly in front of the television, I am amazed by how swiftly I am able to transition my mood to hopeless boredom.

Yesterday, I think to myself, I made several decisions that immediately affected the lives of over twenty patients. Now, the thought that surfaces between waves of boredom is “Why wouldnʼt they eat the bananas I gave them for breakfast?” I resolved to make them eat those bananas before they eat anything else for lunch.

They didnʼt eat the damn bananas for lunch either.

I couldnʼt hold out for my break any longer. I put them up for their nap with empty stomachs about an hour before their normal nap time. I was just sitting down with a huge sandwich to watch Steven Seagal preach Justice to the mean streets when the pisser starts to run around her bedroom. I can hear her feet running from what sounds like one side of the house to the other. I decided not to hear anything. Not the first, but the second loud slamming noise forced me to put down my almost untouched lunch and reluctantly go up the stairs with a bite of turkey sandwich so big I couldnʼt chew.

I opened her bedroom door to see that she was pulling out the dresser drawers and piling them, and their contents, on the floor.

“Ellie, what are you doing?”

“Iʼm a baby crocodile.”

“Baby crocodile, what are you doing?”

“Baby crocodile needs a bath.” What? I experienced a shock of concern as I walked over close enough to see she was standing in a pool of urine. The urine trailed from her bed. I set her in the tub and took the bedding to the washer in the basement where I also left my urine soaked shirt. As I emerged from the basement I could hear the chorus return, lead by the pisser with attachment issues and the teething puker singing backup. The song they sang was called “Endless Despair.”

Thank god for the alcohol that got me through the remainder of the weekend. 

The more sober I became Sunday, the louder the song bellowed in my mind. I mean, they used to eat bananas all the freaking time. They will starve before I throw the bananas out. Why didnʼt they sleep last night. They laughed at me every time I became frustrated. If the baby crocodile wants to be tucked in then why does it keep getting out of the freaking bed.

My wife and her cheap friends came back at 630 Sunday night all happy and smiley. 

“How was the weekend Nick?” one of them asked in some kind of a sarcastic voice.

“There is no Nick, only Zool.”

They did not have anything clever to say about that.

“We will all perish in flames.” I stated. “Right, baby crocodile?”

Shaggin wagon (Part Deux)

So you all know my single friend Carrie.  Carrie "please-shut-those-kids-up-I'm-trying-to-sew-my-vagina-closed" Carrie.  Well every year on our girls' road trips Carrie has the good fortune to hear all about what's a normal color for kids poop and sit through six hour discussions of what plastic surgery we'd most like to have to fix the annihilation of pregnancy.  I consider her lucky - no one warned me about my boobs turning into sand bags. 

Well I asked Carrie to share the story of our annual girls trip from her perspective.  To tell everyone how blessed she is to have such good, open and honest friends who bond through tale after womanly tale.  To share with her a wealth of priceless information that she can someday take and use when she has a family of her own.  Year after year she sits in her seat, silently absorbing a wealth of information showered on her like a beautiful waterfall of bodily excretions, thanking god she's lucky enough to have such wonderful friends.  You're welcome, Carrie.  You're welcome.   

So without further adieu... here she is.     

Have you ever had that feeling of being trapped? Looking frantically in all directions for the nearest fastest escape? Like an animal in a cage who would rather gnaw off its own limb than die a slow painful death. This weekend was our Annual Girls Trip. That animal was me. And the cage was an SUV packed ass to ass with myself and 7 moms.

My idea of a girls trip still resembles that of 1998. With $5 all you can drink, ending with synchronized puking and wondering who the hell that guy is passed out on the pull out couch. But after receiving email #832 the week before the trip, about who’s packing what, I’m reminded that things are very different. Shit, until that last email I had almost forgotten we were leaving in just a few days. Sure, I packed. Friday. 30 minutes before Laura came to pick me up.

Things have certainly changed. Before we even pulled onto Hwy 40, those oh-so-familiar tales about mommyhood commenced. I should start by saying, I’m no rookie. As Hannah said, this trip happens every year and we get together as a group on a semi-regular basis. I am also a devoted reader of Hannah’s blog (devoted, forced, threatened…whatever). I know stuff. Mommy stuff. No, I’m not a mom, but damn, give me some credit.

So as most single girls would do in a cage, I played with my phone. As they yammered along using words like potty training (I get it. She peed on the potty. Riveting.) Oh your nipples are leaking? (Sooo not the first time I’ve heard that.) Uterus, yea yea…yawwwn…wait… what? It’s where? How in the… Why in the… WTF?

These are the little gems I like to refer to as the Mommy Bombs, WMDs Weapons of Mom Destruction. Verbal mom grenades where they pull the pin, throw and then watch the carnage that is my brain explode from the shrapnel of words. I mean seriously, warn a bitch.

Labial cyst.

The size of a softball.

My only defense? To yell things like, “You gotta be fuckin kiddin me. What the… ? Nuh uh. No. Please make it stop”. I can’t exactly share with you these “grenades”, because honestly I spent the last two days watching the first four seasons of Sex and the City to scrub my brain clean and salvage any hope for a normal sex life.

Personally, my favorite part of our trips is the night out. A few hours of showers, primping, watching them pile on layers of Spanx and finally heading off to very familiar territory. You know, the single’s DisneyWorld.

The Bar.

Where my friends think this happens:

Where this is what REALLY happens:

As we enter the bar, I feel like The Ghost of Christmas Past, but with better skin and hotter shoes. Welcome to your past, I’m Carrie and I’ll be your tour guide through the land of your forgotten youth.

As I suck down my cocktail and throw back a shot, I secretly laugh as I watch the shadow of disgust creep over their faces as they see “that guy”. You remember “that guy”, every bar has one…or two…or three. The one who dry humps his friend, dances like Elaine on Seinfeld and insists on spraying the table with drunken spittle as he tells us (screams at us) how hot we are.

Silly Mom, you thought this species of male was extinct? No, you’ve just been hibernating. Hannah honey, please don’t bang on the glass, it only excites them. And for fucks sake DO NOT make eye contact, they consider that an act of aggression…ahem…an invitation.

By 4am the second cab was racing away from the curb squealing its tires. Leaving the Moms clinging to each other hoping they are paid up on their life insurance premiums as I asked the cabbie to turn on my jam, threw my hands up, stuck my head out the window and yelled weeeee!

How did I get them to stay out until 4am you ask? Easy, I told them it was the cure for stretch marks. Shit works every time.


Shaggin' wagon

Few things say 'down to party' more than an endless line of mini vans parked outside a suburban home. 
Every year my seven college besties and I are allowed one glorious weekend of freedom. Three WHOLE DAYS where I don't have to smell anyone's butt and I do all sorts of crazy shit like wear earrings and move my jaw when I chew because I'm not afraid someone is going to steal my food if they see I'm eating something.
Our first girls' trip:

Aaaah memories that I don't really remember. Don't be too jealous of my righteous sweater vest. In my defense everyone dressed like they were Amish on Spring Break back in the '90s.  I think I spent half of my student loan checks on lip liner.

The more things change (crow's feet, gray hairs, overwhelming sense of despair when see naked self in mirror) the more they stay the same (using Carrie's boobs as bait to lure men in to buy us drinks).

Friday morning I had three different people ask me if Nick would have any help taking care of the girls while I was away. Seriously? Help? What the shit? I take care of three kids all day - EVERY day - most weeks 7 days a week by myself - and I have NEVER had any help!*

*Except that one time we had a live-in nanny for four months.

The answer was no. A resounding no. Hell to the nizz-o.  Mainly because I wanted him to feel my pain, realize what an amazing person I am and stop judging me when he comes home from work to find me passed out drunk on the toilet while the girls are watching Kardashian reruns.

But also because really people? It's only three days. And imma tell you everything you need to know about taking care of my kids for three days. The bourbon is next to the baby Benadryl and if Ellie grabs her crotch and spins in a circle you're too late. Oh, and whatever you do, don't safety pin the baby to the crib sheet.


Of course by the time we left at 10:00am Nick had already been at my in-laws' house for two hours.

Personally, my favorite part of our trips is always the car ride. And yes sir, a six hour car ride with eight women crammed into a car that seats seven (thanks you jerks at Budget) is juuuuust about what you'd expect.

We laugh at old stories of things we did in college that should have either killed us or landed us pregnant, complain about the side effects of our anti-depression medications and argue over whose boobs have atrophied the most.

Dont' worry she won't be mad - she hasn't heard of the Internet yet. 
Of course my single friend Carrie just LOVES all this conversation about birth and poop and nipples and poopy birthy nipples. She covers her ears and is all, “Jeez you guys – can we just not talk about what happens to your vagina in the five minutes after birth for just, like THREE MILES OR SOMETHING?”

And I'm like, “Dude – stop hijacking my story about the time I pumped like 8 ounces of breast milk in ONE sitting.”

And the rest of the weekend pretty much goes like that. We'll be sitting out on a patio drinking some beer and someone will say, “Awwww... that cloud looks just like Jimmy's placenta!”

It's a laugh riot.

What a bunch of dorks. 

Things just got dorkier. 

So deep. 
Someone else drew the short straw this year.  Drawing the short straw means you have to get pregnant and be our DD. 
I was expecting a mountain of presents and a clown, but a 'Happy Birthday' crepe paper taped to my door was good enough. 

We totally got photo bombed. 

The downfall of a weekend away from your children is that you're legally required to come back.

I had no idea what to expect when I walked in the door because every check-in call went straight to voice mail or I heard what sounded like hyenas knifing each other in the background.

I walked in the door to find him unshaven, bags under his eyes, yelling profanities at the girls for not eating their bananas. Then he kicked my friends out and stomped into the kitchen.

He's still unable to string two syllables together and has been rocking back and forth in the shower for two days.

But I've never felt more relaxed. Relaxed is just another word for liver failure. As I was running uphill wind sprints at 5:45 yesterday morning my trainer asked me why my sweat smelled like Jack Daniels and truck stop chicken wings.

I just told her it was the smell of happiness.

Winner winner chicken dinner

Okay... SO many funny captions. I even had to consult Nick for a tie breaker. This one made us both laugh out loud. Nicole... send me an email at sKIDmarking at Gmail dot com with your mailing address so I can hook you up girl. Good job everyone.

Laws are dumb. Wednesday caption contest is not.


I've always been a big lover of rules and laws.  As long as they are in some way beneficial to me or result in some sort of personal gain.  Or apply to other people that are not me.  I guess what I'm trying to say is that I hate rules and laws.  I like to think of them as suggestions, and it's up to me to use my best judgement on what I think is right or wrong.  If in doubt I just consult the Declaration of Independence.  If it doesn't tell me not to do it, it's probably okay.   

For instance, what's so bad about leaving the kids in the car while I make a quick run into the gas station for some beef jerky and a few scratchers?  And maybe I just want to use their bathroom for a few minutes so I can eat my beef jerky in private?  And cyber stalk my ex-boyfriends on Facebook?  It's not like I leave the car running or anything, and I make sure the windows are up nice and tight so nobody can steal them.  There aren't many people out and about in this dreadful heat anyway.  And you should see some of these places we go - I had a premonition that the luckiest scratchers are sold in the most dangerous parts of town so what am I supposed to do?  Take the kids inside with me?  That would be dumb.   

And the Declaration of Independence doesn't say anything about not feeding my kids a handful of Flintstone vitamins for dinner.  I'm sure our ancestors would have been MORE than happy to have that kind of complete nutrition. 

However, there IS a set of rules that I don't want to break.  And those rules belong to Mark Zukerburg.  He's got that creepy little smile and has more money than lots and lots of scratchers.  I don't want to do anything to piss that little guy off.  And about five minutes after I uploaded the picture for last week's caption contest on my Facebook page I remembered there are lots of laws about promotions on Facebook.  I started to read all of them but that's like SUPER boring.  It makes me miss the old days at the ad agency when I would just tell an intern to read them and make her the fall guy if we got sued for anything. 

So long story longer, I'm moving our caption contest over here. 

Here's a pic from our neighborhood happy hour a couple of weeks ago:

And stop freaking out, it's just water people!  Well, except mine is Wild Turkey.  I guess what I'll do is have you leave a comment below and I'll pick my favorite tomorrow (Thursday, July 19th) at 5pm. 

The winner will receive two free passes to the Museum of Transportation, and passes for two free miniature train rides while you're there.  That's like, a $100 value or something*

*Not a $100 value 

I've even changed my settings so you don't have to register to leave a comment, so you're welcome for all the god dang spam I'm already getting. 

And, as with last time, I'll ship anywhere to the 50 states, you have to be a legal resident of the United States, you have to be 18, and my family is not eligible.  So don't call me in a snit because your comment was *SO* funny and it's not fair because you did all this work getting your friends to vote for you, BETH. 

Fifty Shades of Cheeseball

I went to snatch it out of her hands but then I remembered she can't read.
WARNING:  If your last name is, or ever has been, Mayer or Johnson, or if anyone has ever referred to you using one or more the following titles:  His Holiness, Father, Sister, Brother, Friar, Principal, President, Doctor, Officer, Senator, Dictator, Bailiff or Sandwich Artist  -  please just do me a favor and go do the dishes or something and pretend like this post doesn't exist.  You're going to read some things that you may not be able to get out of your head and I can't stomach future awkward family dinners or rightfully sleep at night knowing I may have tarnished my reputation among people who matter. 

Now, for the rest of you - on to the story. 

A few weeks ago I met my friend - to protect her privacy we'll call her 'The Sexual Tyrannosaurus' - for dinner. 

"I'm reading these books and they're really hot," she said breathlessly as she sat down.  "They're like full blown, hard core S&M porn and when (Mr. Sexual Tyrannosaurus) gets home from work I attack him out of nowhere and give it to him six ways to Sunday!  I'm actually running late because I was shopping online for butt plugs."

"Ummm... we're going to need juuuust a minute on those drink orders,"  I smiled sweetly at the waiter as he slowly backed away, his lips curled around his teeth, terrified.

I was intrigued.  "So what books are these, EXACTLY?"  I asked, leaning in.

She proceeded to give me the full description of the Shades of Grey trilogy and informed me she is one chapter away from putting her husband in traction.  And that he was loving every minute of it.

Our waiter never came back. 

A few nights later we went over to their house for dinner.  I couldn't help but notice that when her husband answered the door it looked like he had dropped weight and each of his eyes were looking in different directions. 

We all went to the kitchen to make some drinks and once Sexual Tyrannosaurus left the room he grabbed my arm. 

"Hannah - I don't have much time.  She's fucking crazy,"  he frantically hissed in my face. 


"You have to help me!  Destroy the book!  I've lost feeling in my testicles!"

"Oh God!  Where, exactly, is this book so I can, uhhh, 'destroy' it?"

"Hey!  What are you guys talking about?"  Sexual Tyrannosaurus asked as she came back into the kitchen. 

"N... nothing!"  he stammered and flinched. 

"Hey, I have something to show you... in the bedroom," she said as she batted her eyelashes and grabbed his hand.

He turned, and with crazy eyes mouthed the words, "Call the police!"

And that was the last time anyone ever saw him alive. 

Of course now I was more intrigued than ever.  But unfortunately all of my free time for reading has been monopolized by the monthly selection of my book club.  I have a list of books I'd love to read but between the book club book and all my other household duties like napping and spraying Febreeze on stuff 5 minutes before Nick comes home I really don't have the time. 

But, as luck would have it, and to my shock, last month it was announced that our book club's July selection would be Fifty Shades of Grey.  I found it shocking because five of my ten book club friends are Muslims.  And it's not that I thought my Muslim friends didn't have sex... it's just that... well let's just say that this selection was of a very different genre than our books in the past.  Also, the boudoir is usually the first (and only) topic of conversation among most of my other circles of friends, and it's never come up at any of our book club dinners, even after lots and lots (and LOTS) of wine.  We just talk about religion and life and politics and other boring stuff.   

I took a slug of wine and silently congratulated myself for chipping away at religious stereotypes and   bringing the world one step closer to perfect harmony one pornographic book at a time.  I slammed the rest of my Merlot and declared to the restaurant, "We 'bout to gets freaky up in this motherfucker!" as conversation abruptly ceased and everyone stared at me open mouthed. 

I didn't notice.  "Anybody know how The Rainbow Connection starts out?" I asked, grabbing at my friend's hand as she snatched it away and scooted her chair around the table. 

I called my sister on the way home. 

"Oh yeah they're good,"  she said.  "Very good.  Johnnie has started coming home from work wearing a helmet.  Want to borrow my copy?"

"Um, obviously."

She came to visit the following weekend and pulled the book out of her suitcase.  It looked like something that had been fished out from the bottom of a pile of tornado debris and smelled like tomatoes. 

"You may want to wipe it down with some Purel or something," she said, throwing it on my kids' activity table.

I read it immediately.  I must begin by telling you that if you're looking for Charles Dickens you're going to be extremely disappointed.  Most scenes can be served with a big side of cheeseball.  For instance, the main character wakes up in the middle of the night after a one night stand to find the dude she just banged in his parlor playing classical piano. 

I don't know about you, but I prefer my one night stand stories to stay true to form.  Waking up in the middle of the night wondering where the hell you are and why your face is painted like a jack rabbit.

And actually, it turned out to be more than a one night stand (WAKKA WAKKA NEVER HAPPENS!), and the dude seduces her into signing a legal document to be his slave.  Which at least is a little more realistic, as most of you have experienced the wondrous joy of holy matrimony. 

But it is what it is, and despite a lack of basic literary skill the book gets the job done. 

I don't want to get into all of the details but let's just say that my Mirena has a deer rifle in its mouth right now.

The one downfall is that the book uses a lot of fancy, expensive contraptions so I've had to get a little creative with our limited budget. 

"Why is there a bag of Meow Mix on our bed?  We don't have a cat,"  Nick asked as we got ready for bed last night. 

"Ccccccchh.  Jucht go wit it,"  I said, stepping out of the bathroom.

"Why are you wearing rabbit teeth?"

"Romanch!"  I say, throwing a hand full of kibble at his genitals.

"I have no say in this, do I?"



"That's 'oink' in Japanese."

"What the hell is wrong with you?  How much of that Zoloft have you had today?"

"Enough that everyone in our house is still alive."

And speaking of keeping things alive, I've got to run.  I'm taking the girls to their first livestock auction this morning.  I did some research on wild animals in residential areas and found a loophole involving waterfowl and an unfinished basement. 

We 'bout to get freaky up in here.

Little Pea


Praise God, Allah, Buddha, Zeus, Steve Jobs and whoever else was recruited to play on the divine dream team that bequested upon us the holy miracle of this blessed Sunday urine. 

I never thought this day would come.  Never.  EVER.  We started trying to potty train Ellie over a year ago, on her second birthday.  I read every book.  Every article.  Participated in every online forum.  Took a million pieces of advice.  Sacrificed a virgin chicken out in the driveway.  Nothing worked.  People just kept telling me, "Don't worry.  She'll be potty trained before she goes off to college!  LOL!!!"  :) 

I wanted to roundhouse them in the throat.    

The last piece of advice I took was to just let it go and wait for her to bring it up. Which I was MORE than happy to do at the time.  I grinned through clenched teeth as her junk was splayed out on a bench in the middle of the botanical garden for every child molester to see while I publicly wiped her poopy butt.  I bit my tongue every time I filled out a loan application to buy the mega pack of diapers.  I smiled and muttered, "Good for you!" as she informed every stranger within earshot that she was peeing in her diaper in the middle of Wal-Mart. 

But my inner control freak took over and I couldn't maintain my silence.  Ellie and I are both the eldest of three girls, and I know we think in many of the same ways.  I decided to channel my inner 3-year-old and get in her head. 


Back before I spent the better part of my 30s screaming for an epidural.


Back before I spent the better part of my 20s wondering when all these men would stop acting like such ass holes and just let me baby trap them already. 


Back before my college years, where I... I... well I don't remember much from that time.  It's all just more or less one big haze. 


Back to my childhood.  Oh hey - I'm in my old room!  Hello Dolly Parton poster on my closet!  I want to look just like you when I grow up.  Now, let's see.  Why wouldn't I want to go to the bathroom in a toilet like a normal human being?  Hmmm... surely I'm above pooping in my pants.  What could be keeping me from this?  What's more important than M&Ms, suckers, balloons and anything else a parent can promise a kid? 

And then it hit me with all the force of Dolly Parton's boobs.  I remembered the three or four times we really 'tried' and thought about how the day ended with me crying frustrated tears asking her what her freaking problem is does she want to grow up to be a diaper wearing outcast as I scrubbed pee out of the carpet for the fourteenth time. 

She's scared to try because she doesn't want to fail and disappoint me. 

Ew.  What's this stinging feeling in my heart?

I decided I had to fix it. 

The next morning when she woke up we had a little talk.

"Hey Ellie!  You want to wear your Dora undies today?"


In the past this is where I gave up and Googled 'drug dealers with suburban home delivery'.  But not today.  Today I was going to make it right. 

"Hey, what if we just put them on, and if you have an accident, no big deal!  We'll just try again!"


"Look at these cute sparkly ones!  Let's throw 'em on, and if you pee in them, so what?  Who cares?  Mommy doesn't care!  Mommy loves you no matter what, as long as you go to college and get married and get a decent paying job!  And hey, maybe it wouldn't kill you to win a pageant or two along the way?  What I'm trying to say is that if you have an accident we'll just keep trying!"


And it was that easy.

The first day we had some successes and some failures, and I reminded myself to let the failures go.  Not a big deal... it's only pee.  And by this morning she was telling me when she had to go and making it there in time.   

So that should just about do it for now. 

Until our next challenge, which I'm sure will be something like why can't I just pick a therapist closer to her pre-school because there's a lot of drive time when you go twice a day. 


The culprit

As I'm sure you recall, Lila was born with two butt holes.  Or, as those in the biz call it, a "deep sacral dimple."  Of course I was worried when she was born because it was so deep that they had to do an ultrasound to make sure there were no bats or gnomes or anything hiding out up there.  But now I'm actually excited about the possibility of her making a decent living as a novelty stripper. 

So when Hadley was born with the same thing, I asked the doctor if it was genetic.  I always had a sneaking suspicion that my inbreeding would come back to haunt me when I was least expecting it.  She said that it was, and that if Nick and I went home and took a close look one of us would most likely have the same thing.  Of course Nick refused because he said some things are better left a mystery.  Which led me to believe he had two butt holes and was trying to cover it up.  Or maybe he just didn't want to go digging around my butt hole after I just had a baby. 

Or ever.     

So fast forward to this past weekend, when I was having some major tailbone pain from sitting on a bar stool for an extended period of time.  Ellie and Lila were spending the night at my in-laws' house so we decided it was time to take Hadley to her first bar.  I had to give her a quick driving lesson on the way there just in case the party kicked up and we needed a DD. 

Well bar related injuries are among the worst, and my tailbone hurt so bad the next day that I could hardly sit down and I asked Nick to take a look at it. 

Nick:  Oh ho ho ho! 

Me:  What?

Nick:  Well well well... lookie here!  You've totally got two butt holes. 

Me:  Really?  What?  No!  Are you serious?  It's me?
*tries to twist head around to inspect own butt hole*

Nick:  Yep.  I'm surprised no one caught that when you were a baby.

Me:  Holy crap - you're right.  I mean, I wonder what other weird mutant things I have that nobody has bothered to tell me about.

Nick:  I don't know, but check out these sweet boobs on your back!