So after pushing for two ungodly hours…

Side note: Thanks so much, Doc, for letting me push that long even though I kept telling you that I didn’t think things were progressing (and I imagine that you could definitely tell that things weren’t progressing, but didn’t respond to my comments). Oh yeah, and super thanks for following up my frustrated pleas that I just wanted the asshole baby out of me with: “Well, it’s all up to you.”

Really, lady? I think everyone in the room, included a pee- and poo-covered YOU, can attest to the fact that I literally was pushing my guts out. How I managed to not utter a big “Fuck you, you stupid mother fucker” at that moment is beyond me. Who knew I could maintain somewhat of a filter in such a time of stress?

So the doctor had just told me that we could try yanking Bug out of my vagina, but if that didn’t work, we’d have to do a C-section.

Awesome.

After a very light tug, the doctor decided that there was no way that the baby was going to come out my babyhole as intended.

People have asked me if this is when I totally freaked out. Surprisingly, no. Like I said before, I just wanted the dude out of my goddamn uterus. I’m pretty sure that if the doctor had suggested letting a pack of vampires gnaw the baby out of me, I would’ve ushered those sparkly douche bags in to the birthing suite with a smile.

I gave a quick goodbye to my family (who I guess were freaking out way more than I was) and was wheeled to the operating room. Mr. Bee was taken aside to get dressed in some ridiculous Hazmat suit. I’m guessing it was just a precaution in case Bug turned out to be radioactive?

I also got to wear a hawt shower cap, which was pretty considerate figuring that I had taken the time to flat iron my hair before we left for the hospital. Who knows what kinds of junk would be flying around when they cut in to me?

As Mr. Bee donned his hard hat and eye protection, I was wheeled in to the OR and thrown on to the table ER style. Doctors and nurses started prepping for surgery by counting all the instruments (which I kindly reminded them to please not leave in my abdomen unless it would somehow ensure me a free tummy tuck later) and the anesthesiologist settled down at my head to get me nice and numb.

See, friends, all this time, I’ve still been having contractions. I’ve just been completely without my support system to deal with them. So while I’m being laid out on the table with the big blue sheet up so I can’t see the God-awful things that they are about to do to me, I’m contorting about trying to get through contractions without hitting someone.

After 30 minutes (THIRTY MINUTES) of suffering through contractions and having to declare “Yep! STILL FEELING THEM!!!!”, the anesthesiologist finally got me numb enough for doctors to slice me open. Oh, and during that 30 minutes, I also got “prepped”. And by prepped, I mean that some poor nurse who totally doesn’t earn enough had to shave part of my…region.

This is where I sincerely apologized for the 1970’s porn-esque bush I had been maintaining (or not, as the case may be). She assured me that she had seen worse in her day and I felt obligated to explain my “I can’t see it therefore it doesn’t exist to me” pubic maintenance policy.

Honestly, I can’t believe that I’m allowed out in public most days.

At this point, I am laid out Jesus-on-the-cross style, with the big curtain up, and my right arm hooked up to a blood pressure cuff. Shockingly, I was tied down completely because, girlfriend, I was fucking seizing around from either shock or the fact that apparently the operating rooms were all occupied and they had chosen to open me up in the cafeteria’s freezer.

Seriously, I half-expected to see a piles of Drumsticks and ice cream sandwiches on the tables that surrounded me. Maybe the nurses had been counting plastic cutlery instead of operating implements? I swear to God if I end up getting sick because someone left a spork in me…it will be the most awesome thing EVER! I mean, how many people get to say that?

To recap, I’m so cold that I’m having shivers so severe that my entire body is shaking AND I’m still suffering through contractions AND THEN I notice my right hand. Remember, my right arm is hooked up to the blood pressure cuff? Well, apparently I was suffering some weird calcium deficiency that would cause my right hand to contort up every time the cuff filled with air.

That’s right, folks. Every few minutes I got Palsy Hand.

Also referred to as The Claw.

So, yeah, I was a fucking mess. And the baby wasn’t even out yet!

Since this post is ridiculously long, stay tuned for Part Four: Why I’d Rather Shoot A Baby Out My Vag Hole Than Have It Cut Out of Me. Shit, that’s a long subtitle…

Song title: The Birth of… by Imperia

When we left Part One of Bug’s Birth Saga, the nurse was just heading out to fill an order for Pitocin to get things a-moving. The peanut gallery (aka: my mom, dad, sister and best friend) had all arrived at that point and we all waited impatiently to get transferred in to a birthing suite.

I was just chilling out, dealing with mild contractions, and trying not to punch Mr. Bee in his face while he sarcastically encouraged and supported me.

See, when Bee was born, I think Mr. Bee was in a little bit of shock. And I say this with the utmost respect and admiration for my husband, but you seriously could have replaced him with a cardboard cut-out of himself. In fact, I’m pretty sure he hardly uttered two words during the whole experience.

So this time around, I encouraged him to be a little more vocal, with the caveat (of course) that I could tell him to shut the fuck up whenever I choose to. I just didn’t think that time would come before we had even moved in to a birthing suite!

Before we could even get to our suite (or even get hooked up to that lovely Pitocin), my body decided to kick things in to high gear. Suddenly the question of whether or not these were “real” contractions went out the window. Mostly because they fucking huuuuuuuuurt.

Once we got to our birthing suite, contractions had really ramped up and thank God for Sissy, my gold medal birthing coach! It wasn’t too long before the contractions got too painful for me – I ain’t no hero, people – and I asked politely for an epidural (read: I’m pretty sure I screamed at the nurse for drugs of any kind. I mean, come on. I was in Renton, for Christ’s sake. Crack or Meth should have been readily available…).

Now, when I imagine asking for an epidural while in labor, this is what I think the response should be: “Of course, ma lady. Regular or super-sized? We will get you a fuck-ton of pain meds post haste.”

What did I get instead?

“Oh, so the anesthesiologist is in a procedure right now and then he has a C-section and then we’re up. So we’re third on the list.”

What. The. Fuck.

This is where I cried for the second time during my labor (the first was when the contractions started getting really bad and we were still in a tiny triage room). The only way to describe how I felt was if you can imagine the nurse reaching in to my body, grabbing hold of my soul, wrenching it out through my eye sockets and smashing it to smithereens while simultaneously peeing on it.

Needless to say, I was crushed. Also, I thought I was going to die. So that was really fun.

Luckily for me and my sanity, the drug doctor was able to sneak me in between procedures and I soon had a very mild epidural, which really? When I ask for an epidural, I want to be able to shove a fork in to my leg and not even blink an eye. This epidural? Barely took the edge off of the contractions. Grrr.

I probably could have asked for more drugs, but immediately after giving me the epidural, the nurse checked my cervix and guess who was totally dilated and effaced?

Are you fucking shitting me? I just went through that whole painful labor without an epidural but now I can’t tell people proudly that I did it au natural? Jesus Christ.

Even though the doctor, upon checking me, said I was a “sloppy eight”, she let me start pushing anyway because, well, I wanted to. So for the next two hours, I pushed my heart out.

Well, not literally my heart. My pee, poo and god knows what else? Yes.

Did you know that you can pee all over your doctor while in labor? Well, I can apparently. Jealous?

I even asked Sissy at one point if I had pooped (not that I really cared. I poo’d all over the place with Bee; for some reason I just wanted to know if all my bodily fluids were shooting across the room at that point!). Her response was “No, I don’t think so…” Later I found out that Arla-Shay approached Sissy and was all, “Uh, why did you lie about the pooping? She poo’d EVERYWHERE!” Sissy assures me that she hadn’t witnessed said poop at that point but Arla-Shay guarantees that the room looked like a poo-throwing monkey had a fiesta in it. Nice.

So, approximately two hours later, Bug was finally within an inch or two of the world when the doctor noticed that he was sideways.

That’s right, folks.

Not face down. Not sunny-side up.

Fucking SIDEWAYS.

Oh, and guess what else? Every contraction was also paired with Bug kicking the shit out of me. My family could actually see him kicking against my stomach from the outside.

Most painful thing I’ve ever felt.

And I don’t think it will come to a surprise you, but for some reason the doctor was surprised at the nicknames I had for Bug during labor. I think her favorites were “Jerk” and “Asshole”.

So after two hours of literally gut-wrenching pushing and the only thing born was Bug’s hair, the doctor tried reaching in and turning the baby the right way.

Um, ouch.

THEN, she tried the suction cup with a handle method to see if the kid would budge.

Double ouch.

When turning and pulling didn’t work, the doctor educated me on irony. That is, I had been going around for ages telling people that the only way that Bug’s labor and delivery could be worse than Bee’s was if I was forced to have an emergency C-section.

Well, guess what?

Stay tuned for Part Three of the Bug Birth Saga which includes freezing to death, being cut open while making porno jokes, and my weird palsy hand.

Song title: The Birth of… by Imperia

After a week and a half, after at least four or five days of truly trying to find the time to sit down with the laptop, and with baby planted firmly on boob with netbook balanced precariously on my breastfeeding pillow, here, my loves, is Bug’s Birth Story.

It was a dark and stormy night…

Nah, actually it was a clear and beautiful Thursday that began as any other, full of the Play Date. I had seen all the same women the week before and was greeted kindly with “Why the hell are you here?” and “Aren’t you supposed to be giving birth or something?!”.

After explaining that apparently a week’s worth of contractions does not equal a baby shooting out from my vag, everyone decided that as much as they like me, I was forbidden to see any of my friends any time soon as I should be giving birth.

Little did they know…

Later that afternoon, while Bee was taking a nap, I was resting on the couch in between peeing every five minutes. During one trip to the bathroom, I noticed, well, discharge.

This is probably a good time to mention that this birth story is chock full of bodily fluids and gory ass (literally) details. Basically, if vaginal discharge scares you, this blog story is probably not one for you!

Anywho, I initially didn’t think much of it but each subsequent bathroom visit, as I reached the standing position: goosh. For the ladies who are curious, it kind of just felt like “that time of the month”. It wasn’t the stereotypical Niagra/Vagina Falls that you see on television. And did you know that less than 15% of women actually have their water break on it’s own? Jealous?!

So once I realized that my vag was leaking more than normal, I called Mr. Bee to share the exciting news and tell him to get his ass home post haste.

Ring.

Ring.

Mr. Bee: Is it “go time” or is this just another pointless phone call?

That’s a QUOTE, people.

Me: Well, my water just broke so I’m gonna go with “go time”…

Mr. Bee: Oh shit! Really?! I was just joking!

Ha. Ha.

After getting all the important folks on the phone and Grandma over to watch Bee, Mr. Bee and I headed to the hospital. During the drive up, I was all “omg, omg, omg, omg, omg, I’m going to be having a baby tonight! omg, omg, omg,” while the Mr. was all “Yeah, that’s kind of how this works.”

Thanks, Mr. Wizard, for that breaking science development.

Upon arriving at the Birth Center triage, we began what they refer to as the first state of labor and delivery: The Waiting.

Well, before the waiting, the nurse wanted to make sure that my water had really broken. Makes sense, right?

So she asked for my soaked pantyliner that I had put on so I wouldn’t leak all over the car.

I’ll be honest, it’s not the first time that some stranger has asked for my used feminine products, but usually they buy me a drink or two first…

As she performed her tests, the nurse asked Mr. Bee and I how long it had been since our last sexual escapade – thinking that maybe the goop in my pants wasn’t amniotic fluid but Mr. Bee’s baby batter.

((Cue hysterical laughter))

I’m not sure of my exact words, but I think I assured her that unless my vagina was a sperm bear trap that could hold on to that junk for longer than 4 months, we didn’t need to worry that I was just oozing man juice.

After her sniff test or whatever the hell she was doing with my dirty underwear, she confirmed that indeed, my sac had ruptured and I was good to go to Labor & Delivery. You know, as soon as a nurse could get away and get me a room. In the meantime they would put in an order for Pitocin to start my contractions being productive (since my water had broken, I would be much more prone to getting an infection if they didn’t nudge things along).

Little did they know, I wouldn’t need any Pitocin…

Song title: The Birth of… by Imperia

Man, I miss not having enough time, energy or sanity to write posts right now. I have birth posts, posts featuring my first mental breakdown with two kids and posts about just the random awesomeness that is my life (please detect the sarcasm here) just floating around in my head!

I love that you are all still checking back for posts and I super duper triple promise that I will be back the second that I figure out how to wrangle Bee, nurse Bug and type no-handed on my computer!!

PS: I highly recommend not sneezy while sporting a c-section incision unless you want to feel like your abdomen is ripping open. Unless you like that kind of thing.

Song title: Miss You, Love You by Maroon 5

For those of you that haven’t followed the daily ups and downs of my uterus via Facebook, first of all, why the hell not?! Become a Fan of Mom to Bee on Facebook and you’ll get all the awesome updates including but not limited to these gems:

If you have been missing out on these web gems, here’s a quick update on my uterine status. Last Wednesday, at my doctor’s office (because it’d be kind of awkward otherwise) my doctor and I got pretty intimate. Let’s just say that she pretty much shook Cletus’ hand while he was still in the womb.

For those of you who actually care, my doc “stripped my membranes” which **disgusting warning** consists of her jabbing her fingers up my hootch and separating my amniotic sac from my uterine wall around my cervix. And let me tell you, it feels just as awesome as it sounds. In fact, at one point she asks, “Are we breathing?” I’m pretty sure my response was a muffled, “Mmm hmmm”.

In my head, I was thinking “NO, I’M NOT BREATHING! BUT I WILL HOLD MY BREATH FOR AN HOUR IF IT MEANS THAT THIS BABY WILL BE COMING OUT OF MY VAGINA SOON!!”

But shockingly, I tend to be able to filter myself pretty well in front of professionals.

Most of the time.

As my doctor departed, she told me that she’d probably be seeing me within a couple days, as the finger bang she just performed should stimulate labor.

::Cue Mama Bee’s brain becoming completely obsessed with labor and delivery::

Of course, losing my mucus plug and having contractions didn’t help with any of that either. In fact, at the crack of dawn on Sunday, I was 90% sure that it was Go Time. I woke up Mr. Bee and we got all our shit together and sat down to watch television until the contractions got close enough together to leave for the hospital.

And guess what happened?

That’s right. The mother fucking contractions stopped.

Just stopped.

Wham. Bam. Thank you, uterus.

Since then, I’ve waddled walked about four miles on the treadmill and through our neighborhood, I’ve enlisted Arla-Shay to press the crap out of my pressure points, and I’ve even twisted the hell out of my boobies trying to stimulate labor. And all I get are sporadic contractions that don’t even warrant timing at this point.

So if you see me walking down the street, possibly with tears in my eyes and likely clawing at my vagina to get Cletus out, please just pass me on by. Unless you too would like a flaming bag of dog shit on your doorstep. The recipient list is getting longer and longer.

It would probably help if I owned a dog…

Song title: Labor in Vain by Vanessa Bell Armstrong

Dear Preoccupied Mother at Outback Steakhouse,

First of all, congratulations on your new bundle of joy! I couldn’t help but notice when my family walked in to the restaurant to celebrate my father’s recent retirement that you have a little girl about Bee’s age and a newborn. Being 85 months pregnant, you immediately got my sympathy. But you looked like you were having a good time with Grandma so you definitely had your bases covered.

So when your daughter came over to our table to share her books with Bee, we all thought it was just pretty cute. Obviously, we made the mistake of acknowledging her existence (something you are pretty good at avoiding) and letting Bee play with her for approximately 30 seconds. Stupidly, when our food came to the table, we kind of thought that would be a clue to you to reel in your daughter and let us enjoy our night out.

But instead, we got the pleasure of babysitting your daughter at our table while we attempted to eat dinner between “No, sorry, she can’t play right now” and “Okay, we’re going to eat our dinner now…”. Little did we realize that these subtleties would be lost on a four year old.

Every time we thought we were in the clear, your sweet daughter, through no fault of her own (this is where I‘m STRONGLY hinting that it‘s YOUR fault, Preoccupied Mom), popped back up asking yet again if Bee could play with her, which is kind of inappropriate to begin with figuring that your daughter was ALL OVER THE PLACE. In the aisles, at our table, sitting in the middle of the floor getting in the way of the wait staff.

In fact, when we finally left the restaurant, your obliviousness impressed even me when your daughter just started running around the restaurant and played in the front lounge area (you know, by the front door, where she could have easily been snatched or even worse, run out in the busy street) unattended and pretty much ignored by every person in your family.

So thank you, Annoying and Negligent Outback Mother, because you reminded me once again that, despite all my flaws, there are so many more ways that I could suck as a parent.

Oh, and PS: fellow diners are NOT free babysitters. You will be receiving my bill in the mail. Kthnxbei.

Song title: Parenting Parents by Advent

FYI: If you’d like to follow the “blow-by-blow” action that is my impending labor and delivery of Cletus the Fetus, you should “like” the Official Mom to Bee Facebook Fan page.

Updates including, but not limited to, me cussing out anyone around me and blaming Mr. Bee for “doing this to me”.

Song title: Blow Out by Vell Rob

So a while back, the family and I got invited to a child’s birthday party at the infamous Chuck E. Cheese. And by infamous, I’m referring to all of Perez Hilton’s posts about the violence and mayhem that occurs at da Cheese regularly around the nation.

Obviously, we were totally looking forward to it.

But really, we were. If only for blog fodder.

And fodder, did I find.

First of all, upon arrival, I couldn’t help but notice this…woman? Girl? Honestly, I’m not sure how old she was. Basically because I was captivated by something other than her face.

See, this approximately 85 foot tall Amazon beauty was chillin’ at the Cheese with what I would assume was her daughter. I assume it was her daughter because she was obviously borrowing her daughter’s clothes.

The issue, besides the obvious questionable fashion offense was that, you know, she was surrounded by kids.

Because she was at Chuck E. Cheese.

And kids are, how do you say, short.

Please enjoy the not-at-all-subtle photo I took of this woman’s outfit from across the game floor.

I swear to Baby Jesus in a manger that when I first saw her, her butt cheeks were ACTUALLY poking out from underneath her skirt. God only knows what the 3 foot children running around were seeing. I just had my fingers crossed that the chick wasn’t going commando that day.

I mean, really. Who wears something like that? And around children?! SHORT children?!?

But that wasn’t all.

I couldn’t get a good photo of it because of all the people and my shitty camera phone, but in the birthday party section, among the other trillion personalized balloons, was this:

In case you can’t read it (which, sorry, blame Blackberry and their shitty phones), it reads: Aryan.

Yep, you read that correctly.

Aryan.

As in Nation?

What, was Klu Klux Anderson not available?

I was assured that Aryan is actually a real name in some cultures, but fer reals? Them folks need to crack open a history book, right?

Needless to say, we came away from our first visit (with Bee) to Chuck E. Cheese with many stories, a lot of blog fodder and probably a case of hepatitis.

Song title: Chucky Cheese by Rodney Carrington

With only two episodes of The Bachelorette left, including tomorrow’s “The Men Tell All”, you know I have been licking at my TiVo remote all week in anticipation of watching of the most dramatic episode ever. With Bee down for a nap, my box of HoHos and a root beer by my side (why I don’t write a nutrition blog, I’ll never know), I’m all settled down for two hours of douche-baggery.

Let us begin…

We open on Cutie Chris talking about…wait, I’ll let you guess…

…Jeopardy theme…

…HIS MOM! Surprise!

I totally get that Chris’ mom’s death is obviously a huge part of his life, but I’d super love it if The Bachelorette editing staff didn’t splice in him talking about death every five seconds. Kthnxbei.

Next we chat with Smoking Hawt Robert-Oh. Man, he’s a fine specimen of manly manliness. I would write more about what he spoke about, but, to be honest, I was totally captivated by his cute butt chin and his biceps. Sorry, Mr. Bee (I just assume that Mr. Bee sees a Bachelorette post and skips it – let’s all go by that assumption, shall we?)

Last up, we have Nerdy but Adorable Frank the Tank. I really think that if Frank wasn’t two minutes away from being a totally douche knuckle, Ali would totally have chosen him.

Of course, as we’ve told by the magazine articles over the last few months, Frank might still be in love with his ex-girlfriend, Nicole. Before heading to Tahiti, Frank heads to Chicago to see if the flames of love are still ignited with this other chick.

Anybody else wonder why they broke up in the first place? Things that make you go “Hmmm”…

Even though I’m sure he’s going to be a total asshat, I’ve got to give Frank props for getting all this shit taken care of before the finale. Of course, he might have thought about this shit before going on a television show to fall in love, but you say potato, I say what the fuck.

As Frank knocks on Nicole’s door, she feigns surprise, “What is going on?” but as we enter Nicole’s pristine apartment full of camera-men, I’m guessing she might have had some idea that Frank was on his way.

Side note: Uh, I’m not a huge Ali fan, but Frank’s ex-girlfriend kinda looks like she’s fallen out of the ugly tree and hit a few branches on the way down. Just sayin’.

Once the two of them sit down, Frank begins the most drawn out and awkward conversation ever. Just get to the point, Frank! Jesus!!

After about 20 minutes of silence, we get the best Frank comment ever: “When I lay down and go to bed and I’m thinking about Nicole. Why aren’t I thinking about Ali? I just had a great date with her and we have an awesome connection, why am I thinking about you?”

Was anyone else waiting for Nicole to respond with, “You are such an asshole.”

But instead, she declares her obsession love for Frank and asks him to come home. Which he quickly agrees to. Who would’ve thought that a “retail manager” (aka: I’m guessing he works at Subway or the GAP or something) who lives with his parents would be so attractive to so many women?

Red Hot Robert-Oh
Soon we meet Ali arriving in Tahiti (and gag as we watch her do the flip-her-hair-out-of-the-ocean move).

The first date on the finale leg of the Tour du Fake Relationships is with Robert-Oh. They head off to tour the island in a (giggle, giggle) helicopter. Like anyone expects anything less, Ali? Does ABC have stock in some helicopter company or what?

After a quick ride, the couple land on a heart-shaped island (excuse me while I vomit in my mouth a little). Despite the fact that it’s, you know, a beach, apparently the two of them have never seen anything like it and spend a good half hour gasping and then gasping for air as they suck face in the water.

I swear to God, if I have to hear Ali say in her little kindergarten voice, “This is SO cool!” one more time, I might actually, literally, die.

Later that evening, back on the non-heart-shaped island (booooring), with Ali in a strange fake-boobage-and-might-showcha-her-chocha dress, the couple sit down for dinner of wine. Well, at least Ali drank up because during her painful convo with Robert-Oh did anyone else notice that her glass is completely empty while his still has wine in it? And when they pan back, it looks like Robert-Oh has one glass with water and one with wine, while Ali looks like she is surrounded by empty wine glasses! Lushy McDrinkyPants!

After some really obvious lip-biting from Ali, Robert-Oh obviously accepts the Fantasy Suite invitation from Chris Harrison (which, creepy, right?). Ali’s response is that she wants to spend as much time as possible with Robert-Oh…in her vagina.

I may or may not have added that last little bit in there.

Upon arriving in their Bow Chica Wow Wow Room, the couple immediately begin sucking face and undressing Robert-Oh.

::Fade to black::

Charming Chris
After opening her legs heart to Robert-Oh, Ali takes Chris on a huge, luxury catamaran, which I think is a Tahitian word for “big ass yacht.” But it was kind of the lamest boat ever because it could only take them to within 10 miles of their destination island. Luckily for Chris, he got to kiss/carry her ass through the water to the beach. Kid is making up for some lost time in the tonsil hockey department…

After spending what seemed to be 27 hours submerged in water (can you imagine how funky their feet were by the end of the day?), they continued their romantic date by savagely tearing open sea life in hopes of finding Tahitian pearls. How…lovely?

Flash forward a few hours and Miss Worst Extensions Ever 2010 met Adorably Broken Chris for a romantic dinner on a secluded island. Which apparently in Tahiti means that there is no pathway to the destination but wading/swimming to it. Maybe it’s just me, but I’m pretty sure Tahiti would be way better which some goddamn docks and sidewalks.

Cutie Chris definitely won me over when he confessed to Ali over wine that he could see them together forever. **swoon** And Ali quickly rewarded that disclosure with the presentation of the Bow Chica Wow Wow Suite.

“He can see us together…and I want to explore that further.” Anyone else think Ali might be misinterpreting the “together” part of that statement. I think he means marriage, you dirty slut!

And also, if you know that you’re Date #2, does it cross your mind at all that you are possibly getting Robert-Oh’s (or Frank’s) sloppy seconds in the Fantasy Suite Department? Yuck.

Okay, shit. Chris just told Ali he loves her and my heart just fucking melted in to my pancreas. Holy crap, he is adorable. I think this makes me officially Team Chris.

::Fade to black::

Douchebag Frank
Sorry, I couldn’t come up with anything alliterative that sounded as appropriate as “douche bag”.

As we see Frank disembark the water taxi, which oddly enough drops him off on a dock (I thought he’d have to swim his way to the hotel), is anyone else struck by how much luggage he brought with him? I mean, dude. You are in Tahiti for at most like five hours before your ass is headed back to the States, my man.

Oh, but wait! First, before confessing his love for his ex-girlfriend to Ali, Frank has a pow-wow with Chris Harrison.

Side note: Is Chris Harrison adorable or what? Those eyes with that turquoise-ish shirt? To. Die. For.

So, blah blah blah, Frank just reiterates his feelings and all I can think is that Frank is kind of like Superman/Clark Kent. But, you know, a douche knuckle. I think I only like glasses Frank. Non-glasses Frank is kind of an asshole. Except without the “kind of”.

After what seems like 815 minutes of Frank blabbering on and Harrison looking concerned, we finally get to see the good shit: Frank blabbering on to Ali.

“Ali, we need to talk…”

Ooooh, this is gonna be GOOD.

Well, first it would help if Frank would FUCKING TALK. Seriously, he just SITS THERE for HOURS like he did with his ex-girlfriend/girlfriend/fiance/whatever.

But Ali doesn’t seem to need words because before Frank even gets to the juicy part, she’s already in tears.

Okay, this is actually more sad than I thought it’d be. Whodathunk seeing Ali’s heartbroken wouldn’t be entertaining?! How disappointing.

Although, Side note: Why is Ali wearing a Lemonhead on her finger?

Honestly, I wish I could post more, but for about 20 minutes, they only say about four things to each other with the camera planning back and forth and back and forth.

After their final goodbyes, color-coordinated Chris Harrison joins Ali beachside for another Ya Ya Sisterhood moment and Frank hauls his luggage back to the airport (told ya so!).

“This always happens to me…”

Uh, really, Ali? You ALWAYS going on dating shows only to have one of the guys still be in love with his ex-girlfriend? Don’t you hate it when that happens?!

The Lamest Rose Ceremony Ever
After more Ya Ya Sisterhood with Chris Harrison, Ali decides to hand out the roses to Chris and Robert-Oh to make sure that they accept the roses and don’t pull some Frank bullshit on her.

Which would kind of be awesome, would it not?

The rest of the episode as I would write it:
Ali: Chris, Robert-Oh, Frank decided he was in love with his an ex-girlfriend.
Chris & Robert-Oh: Oh shit. Were we not supposed to do that too? This is gonna be awkward…

Surprisingly, Ali doesn’t actually give out all the deets on why Frank the Tank is no longer with us, which seems kind of lame because you know that she’ll tell them like five minutes after the cameras shut off. Then she gives Chris and Robert-Oh the roses and, disappointingly, they both accept.

And God forbid that they stay in one place for longer than a day, next week they will travel to Bora Bora to meet Ali’s family. But before then, we have to get to watch the Men Tell All, including but not limited to Rated R, Tori Spelling’s Husband, Kermit and, dare we hope for an appearance from Frank?

With only a week left before the finale, it goes without saying that Cletus the Fetus has a week to come out of my comfy elephant-sized womb because if he spoils the season finale with his pesky birth, I’m going to be so irritated…

First of all, can we please talk about The Bachelorette from last night?!

Just kidding, I haven’t watched it yet. But I will today so LA-LA-LA-LA-LA DON’T TELL ME ANYTHING!! But I figure that Frank is a total douche wad, am I right?

Now for something completely different…

So I hesitate to write this post because I really don’t want to offend anyone out there in the Intertubes.

Which is kind of hilarious when you consider my “typical” writing style. If my vagina or exploding ass posts offend you, I could give a shit.

But I personally know a lot of people that may fall in to this category now and again and I want you to know that I’m not writing about you. Duh.

So here it is…

I hate coupon clippers.

Don’t get me wrong, I totally understand why people clip/use coupons. I think recently Sissy saved like $80 on her groceries just by clipping coupons in the local paper. I personally don’t have the ambition or memory to use coupons. We do actually own a little coupon wallet that Costco coupons end up in, but I don’t think I could tell you how many times I’ve remembered to bring it along on a trip.

Oh, wait, yes I can. Never. None. Zero times. Poor thing is as untouched as pure-as-snow Justin Beiber.

Just kidding, I don’t even know who the fuck that Justin Beiber kid is. She could be a total slut for all I know.

Anyway, back to the Haterade. See, the other day I was at Target purchasing some much needed items (if by “much needed items” you mean I was walking aimlessly around the store exclaiming every 5 seconds “Oooooh! I NEEEEEED that!!” and throwing it in to my ever overflowing cart), when I finally cut myself off and headed toward the cashiers. There was only like one cashier open so I headed toward that line and started to unload my treasures on to the belt.

Quickly, a line formed behind me and it took a minute to realize that the women in front of me were…wait for it…coupon clippers.

It became clear that there was some sort of horrendous, catastrophic technology meltdown occurring that was not applying one of their coupons to all five items it should apply to, it was only attaching to two items for some reason. This, of course, was cause to bring every fucking cashier/manager/Target lady within a 25 mile radius a-running.

The other cashiers opened up additional registers and the line behind me scattered like my parents when I start telling a story about my vagina. However, since I am about 11 months pregnant and all my crap was already on the belt, I thought that I would just suck it up and wait out the transaction in front of me. I mean, how long could this possibly take, right?

Oooooh boy. It took forever.

I was honestly worried that I would give birth and be shopping for 1st birthday party decorations for Cletus before the women in front of me would figure out their coupon dilemma. But it was worth the struggle. I mean, they must be saving a lot of money or all this waiting wouldn’t be worth it, right?

Oh no. It was in order to save…wait for it…three mother fucking dollars.

Now this is where I may or may not offend my coupon-clipping fan base. I totally get that for some people, maybe a lot of people, $3.00 is worth the struggle and wait.

But dude.

I swear, I was a half second away from pulling out my wallet and offering them four dollars just to move along and get the hell out of my way.

But my irritation isn’t specific to coupon ladies. It also applies to check writers (because who the fuck writes checks anymore) and individuals who are incapable of using self check-out kiosks.

I mean, seriously, people. If you are (1) illiterate, (2) technologically retarded, or (3) born before there was electricity, maybe the self check-out lines aren’t for you. ESPECIALLY if you also plan on using a check! Sweet baby Jesus in a manger, I can’t tell you how many times the self check-out lines make me all stabby inside.

Eventually some nice 12 year old cashier helped me load all of my items BACK in to my cart so that I could leave the store before my 40th birthday. I swear that if I went back there today, those ladies would still be trying to work out Coupon Y2K. I just hope the five tubes of toothpaste were worth it.

Song title: Risking Life & Limb for the Coupon by Bound Stems