16 & Pregnant: The Hail Mary Episode

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Recently, I was talking religion with my future mother-in-law, and I explained the following: “I mean, even if I convert to Christian Reformed, I will still say the “Hail Mary” and believe she is Holy” (I was raised Catholic, but the kneelers get pretty annoying after 22 years…).  I could tell she wanted an explanation as to why Catholics believe Mary should be revered… I could tell I was not going to change her deeply-rooted beliefs… After the following explanation, I could also tell she could see it from my angle.

MARY, 01:15: Dear Diary,
Today, I woke up pregnant.  Joseph gave me the eyes last night, and I think that’s what did it.  Gabrielle said things will be okay, but Mother is going to flip.  None of my friends are going to believe me…

–TIME OUT.  If Mary had been any one of our friends, who can honestly say they would believe the whole ‘Immaculate Conception’ story from Mary?  If you honestly answered that you would, go say 2 Hail Mary’s, because you are lying.  That poor girl would be ridiculed from here to the next donkey-stop.  Mary was probably kicked off of the Bethlehem JV Dance Team, ridiculed, and never even earned her GED.
What’s my point?  I’m sure all of the above-mentioned critics were the ones who developed the “Hail Mary” prayer, after she gave birth to Jesus Christ.  I mean, it’s not like they could text Mary and say, “My bad, lol. Can we still be bffs?”  No.  They put lots of thought in to that prayer to get back on Mary’s good side… and so that they had a chance at using the Immaculate Conception alibi.

MARY, 01: 20: Dear Diary,
It seems that I am in labor.  I have a cozy room at the Manger Lounge, complete with lots of hay.  The camel keeps the suite nice and warm…
—  If the explanation of what Mary probably went through with the pregnancy was not enough to worship her, then how about the fact that she gave birth in a freakin’ manger?  No epidural.  No mid-wife to rub her back during contractions.  No sterilization.  (It is also rumored that the camel turned to the sheep and said, “Wow… That kid has a huge head! At least she’s not having a whole litter!”)

MARY, 02:05:  Back off, bitches.  You walk in my sandals for the past 9 months, and see if you survive.

—I totally understand if people do not change their ways of thinking about Mary, but I’m sure a few women out there will.  Even if I end up switching from Catholicism to Christian Reformed, Mary will remain Holy in my eyes.  I know my parents would never buy if I said I was knocked up immaculately, and that I would have taken the first magic carpet ride out of that manger.  I could never go through what she had to (I’m a pansy)! Hail Mary, and Aaaamen.

I don’t have time to go to the bathroom.

They probably all have to go to the bathroom but just can't schedule it in...

Attention Americans:  Do you find it hard to schedule time to think or breathe?

In such a fast-paced world, it’s cruel of Mother Nature to require several bathroom visits per day!  (Oh, and Mother Nature has reportedly added minutes to her day by sleeping with Father Time… Share the love, sister!)

If you find yourself relating to the above scenarios, fear not meager human; there is hope!  It is no longer necessary to waste precious minutes on #1s and #2s, when you could have made that last appointment, completed that last homework question, or even called your mother back (…Okay, that last one was a stretch, I know…).

To instantly gain 30 minutes or more per day, simply follow the suggested tactics below:
1.  PREVENTATIVE MEASURE(S): Head to your local grocery store.  Once inside, look up at the list of products in each aisle.  Pick the one that says “Incontinence,” but do so discreetly.  It is best to pretend you need deodorant or a toothbrush, so as not to appear suspicious by darting from potato chips to diapers.  Upon arriving at the land of incontinence, pick out a form-fitting, slender model.  These will be near-invisible through your skinniest work pants, while still allowing you to pee your pants during the afternoon conference.

2.  HOSPITAL VACATION: To execute this step, it is necessary to be dehydrated and exhausted (for most humans, this happens by Tuesday morning).  Check in to your local hospital for Severe Exhaustion, a Mental Breakdown, or any other psychiatric condition celebrities get admitted for.
Once they begin treating you, insist on not going to the bathroom.  This will usually warrant the use of a catheter.  As soon as the catheter has been secured, check yourself out.  You may now pee anywhere you choose, so long as you are sure to hide the urine-bag in your fabulous couture purse.

3.  LAST RESORT: If you are unable to find a comfortable diaper (at this point, they do not come in thongs or boy-shorts) or successfully secure a catheter, do not worry.  There is hope with the “Last Resort” plan of action, which requires you to work from home.  It is also necessary to have a WiFi network throughout your house.  After those two conditions have been met, move a small side-table or desk in to the ‘loo and set-up base camp.  Plant your bottom on the throne and get workin’!  By accessing your WiFi network, you will be able to send e-mails, print documents and even call your mother back (again, just a joke).  *It is advised that you do not disclose the location of your new office (“Porto-office”), as it may be frowned upon by the small percentage of un-stressed Americans.

 

Hopefully these tips have helped many Americans suffering from “Don’t-have-time-itis.”  With those extra 30 minutes or so, who knows what you will be able to work on, stress over, etc!  Free yourself from your bladder, and thank me once you find a diaper model that has changed your life!
[ Disclaimer: this whole article was a joke.  However, certain tactics may help you recover the time you spent reading this! ]

xoxo,

[ L A U R E N   A.   M C H E N R Y ]

Children vs. dogs; A worthy debate.

Who looks cuter performing this trick?

In the past, whenever my parents were asked who their favorite child was, they would cleverly side-step that grenade by saying: “Lauren is our favorite-oldest- girl, Rachel is our favorite- middle-child and Corbin is our favorite-youngest-boy.”

Now that we are all older, however, both parents agree that their favorite child is Caribou – the family wiener dog…

At first, the fact that my parents favored the hormonal house-pet (which sleeps between them in bed) left me hurt… I cried myself to sleep for months on end thinking, “I know cool tricks, too! I am house-broken! LOVE ME!”

There came a point, however, when I had an encounter with a newborn child… I had the opportunity to hold it, and I optimistically did.  At first, I thought the creature was trying too hard to be cute, what with all the squinty-expressions, noises and movements.  Instantly, I hiked my voice up a few pitches and asked the little thing what it was doing.

The kid did not respond, of course, as it had not learned the trick called “Talk” yet, but its mother was a pro.: “Ooooooh she’s pooping!”

… Now, I’ve never been too quick in games like “Hot Potato,” but when a mother coos at her child for taking a load in my arms, I have found that I have lightning-fast reflexes!  I had the stink-machine out of my arms in no time.

Perhaps I lack the maternal-nurturing-trigger that switches on in most women at some point, but the only thing I could think was: Even as a puppy, my dog never crapped on itself… Maybe obedience school could work for human puppies?!
—AND THEN IT DAWNED ON ME!!— *Gasp* My parents were RIGHT! Of COURSE they love their pet more than us (they may have pretended to be joking, but we all know it’s true)… The rationale is shocking:

1.  Puppies are always adopted from surrogate-dog-mothers. While babies can also be adopted/born from a surrogate, most women prefer the bonding experience of having their own child.  To me, this does not make sense.  We work so hard during our twenties to get that killer-hot body, and in nine months, a mean little creature destroys your hard work with cravings, stretch-marks and a pushed-out bellybutton!  *Heidi Klum is the only exception to this process, as apparently she has a rare condition of being allergic to fat in general*  As I am not Heidi Klum, though, I want nothing to do with this child-bearing package.

2.  First, puppies are replaceable.  Children, I hear, are not.  Secondly, to my parents’ dismay, you cannot ‘return’ or ‘swap-out’ human spawn at the local Kids-Depot. Little Johnny with his biting problem and “terrible-twos” will be yours to ride out, while my faulty Fido will be welcome back at the Pound!

3.  Children are typically a high-risk, 18-year investment with no guarantee of return. You can love Debbie Do-Right all you want, but when she wants to marry Benny Badass at 18, tough luck! Children are prone to this condition, also known as “Knowbetter Syndrome” (i.e. “I know better than they do- he’s a good guy!)
On the other hand, puppies come programmed to love their owner unconditionally until their little hearts give out.  Their warranty states that every time you walk in the door, the puppy will get very excited to see you.  The slobbering mode is optional.

After all of these highly-scientific observations, I plan on having a house full of four-legged, furry “children.”  Unlike human offspring, who tend to learn tricks such as pulling their sister’s hair or screaming in supermarkets, my young will be house-broken and trained in no time! And in today’s world, as a precaution, of course, my dogs will not be allowed to play outside alone or stay out past curfew!

xoxo,

[ L a u r e n A. M c H e n r y ]

*Disclaimer: This is a dramatic comparison meant for entertainment and thought-provoking purposes only.  We did not try to return any children to the Kids Depot.

“‘Til death do us part.” …Or not.

If I did want to be buried, I would surely put these as my last words!

While many people fear death, and whatever eternity may await them, it is necessary to put thought in to which post-life housing option is right for you!

First, there are “plots,” which allow loved ones to share a patch of land and be buried next to each other.  While this was originally my destination of choice, I have changed my mind after considering several (after-) life-altering details:
*The term “plot of land” with reference to burial grounds makes me think that Farmer Joe is going to be tending to my tombstone in overalls and manure-covered boots… No thank you.
*While I love my family, we do bicker a lot.  While there are no conclusive studies of what happens to our spirits after our bodies die, who is to say that my mom will not be bitching at me still to text my dad’s tombstone and catch up?  I do not believe that death = silence, and the whole family- combined in one “plot”- would mean one big, eternal migraine.

The second method of handling your body post-life, cremation, does not sound welcoming, either.  Call me crazy, but didn’t Germany try this method way back when? I know my history, people, and I refuse to be toasted beyond the point of a nice tan!!

With those two out of the way, there is a third option (yes, there is!), which will be designated in my Will:
First, my favorite outfit will already have been picked out, along with accessories and my favorite magazines.
Second, there will be no funeral procession.  A huge, celebratory party will be thrown by me, complete with voice-tracks welcoming guests and inviting them to celebrate my life.
Next, the emcee will announce my grand entrance, upon which I will be wheeled in on my display stand after a trip to the taxidermist.
…Yes, you heard correctly. I plan on being stuffed, like they do to exotic animals, household pets and Joan Rivers (Oh, wait, she’s still alive…)! You see, instead of being buried in the ground (I may be anemic by then, and it would be so cold down there), or charred and turned in to an ash-tray, I will maintain my beautiful figure via preservation!  My soul can go on to its next destination, but it would be selfish of me to leave my friends without some Lauren in their life!  Which brings me to my next step:
My closest friends/family members still living will have a designated schedule of events to take “me” to, such as holiday functions, Jersey Shore bar night or hair appointments.

While this plan of mine may sound a bit morbid, I am only thinking of my family and friends and their hypothetical devastation after the loss of my spirit!  Hopefully, I may have encouraged you to also “think outside the box coffin,” and consider these insights when pondering the imminent.  Just remember: your eternal plans can be just as fun as your living ones!

xoxo,

[ L a u r e n ]

How to effectively use life-lessons to scare your children.

Mom didn't give us life-lessons from the Web... Oh, no. They were much scarier!

Think hard… Push aside those crossword puzzle questions you’re still trying to figure out.  Wipe-out today’s dinner debate. Go deep into the dark crevices of your brain, and ask yourself: “How did my parents, grandparents, guardians, etc. teach me about life?”

Maybe you will be able to remember the assuring notion that your parents were open and honest with all aspects of growing up. Maybe you have vowed not to make the same mistakes your parents’ made when raising you. In my case, I have no fricken’ idea how to do anything but laugh at the lessons I was raised to believe… Dear Lord, here we go…

-The Birds and the Bees: “Sex” was a dirty word, performed by “dirty people,” and not discussed. We had “wee wees” and “private parts,” up until the 3rd grade.  During that educational year, my mother worked lunch duty at the private Catholic school I attended.  One day during recess, a classmate decided to share details about how her older sister got knocked up.  The “sex” bomb was dropped, but did not detonate, as apparently getting pregnant involved more “boobies” than “private parts” (3rd grade, people, humor me!).  Coincidentally, Mom was patrolling (gossiping) on lunch duty that day. When she arrived at my classroom, she was greeted by me and a friend, each wearing appalled faces. “Mom. That girl just said that sometimes people have sex to get pregnant & have babies. But that would mean you’re a ‘dirty person.’ ARE YOU?! IS THAT TRUE?!” Completely and utterly thrown off-guard, lunch was promptly ended and I was told the whole, “We’ll talk about it when we get home!!”
(Thank God things were clarified a short while later.  Otherwise, I probably would still be wearing a padded sports bra to avoid getting pregnant.)

-Santa Clause: The fat, bearded man who delivered yearly to my house was always very gracious.  My parents, as a way to keep us believing until we were married off, would fervently tell us: “If you don’t believe, you don’t receive.”  Well, crap, did that trick work.  As greedy kids, we would go to school and ask what the other kids got from Santa.  Little Johnny would say, “Eh, I got a pair of roller-blades, but I know my parents are Santa.”
“There’s your problem, Johnny,” I said, shaking my head sadly.  “You got crappy gifts because you don’t believe in Santa. Duh! If you don’t believe, you don’t receive! Your parents are wrong.”
Two days after Christmas, my siblings and I would find the stash of wrapping paper in the basement, which happened to be the same kind Santa used. We were always told, “Kids, come on.  Santa told me to go to Target, and grab his favorite wrapping paper.  You know how Mommy is always rushing? Imagine how busy Santa is! He swings down here, wraps all the gifts, and then leaves them under the tree, of course. Oh, and next year, we should leave Santa a can of coke and Pecan Sandies, because he left a note saying those are his favorite.”
(Even though we kept believing in Santa through high school practically, Mom was merciful enough to not let her full-grown kids put reindeer food on the lawn…)

-Road trips are for sleeping: Whenever the family decided to drive down to Florida, or take any car trip that was more than 3 hours, Mom would say, “Okay kids… Since you’re all sniffly, and you don’t want to be sick on vacation, I’m going to give you allergy medicine.”  Benadryl, as it turns out, renders small children not only quiet, but in such a deep sleep we would wake up not knowing how the heck we got there so fast!  This trick was my favorite, since unlike the previous two, it did not make me look like an idiot at school.  After all the Pavlovian-car-trip-conditioning, Mom is sure to carry Benadryl with her on plane trips, still, as all of us grown kids prefer to travel unconscious to this day.

-A lesson from Grandma on sleeping: Perhaps one of the most disturbing life lessons we were told as kids was by my dad’s mom. Whenever we slept over her house, she would make sure we had the covers over our feet, or that we at least slept with socks on.  “If you have your feet sticking out of the bed, the little people will come and drag you down the vent.”
(…While my brother, sister and I like to bring this story up anytime we’re together, all of us sadly admit to sleeping with our feet covered at all times to this day.)

Hopefully, these very-real childhood scams of mine have either made you laugh, or appreciate your parents’ alternative methods a little more. As for me, I am off to write my list to Santa…and then possibly call a therapist, haha!

xoxo,

[ L a u r e n ]

Seeing is sexy, no matter how you do it.

See? Glasses are sexy, too!

In a recent Cosmopolitan section, entitled “Surprising Factors That Make a Guy Eager to Meet You,” the following advice was listed for women: “A University of Warwick study found that people who wore contacts instead of glasses had more sexual success, since they felt more confident.  Bonus: Your peripheral vision with contacts lets you spy all the hotties prepping to approach.”

Okay, so let me get this straight.  Contacts = sexual success? This may make sense if you plan on hooking up with the “hottie” from the bar in his VW Volkswagon, which leaves little room for optical interference.

Personally, the bonus info. presented about being able to use your peripheral vision to scope out approaching predators really made sense… I mean, if I don’t wear my contacts, I typically grab my post-cataract UV glasses and wear those with a trendy outfit. My friends get sick of me after a few hours, though, as I tend to say, “Damn, I wish I could use my peripherals!!”

…Really, University of Warwick? Who did you base this study off of, and what contacts were they wearing? Please mail me a trial pair of Sexual Success Contacts and I promise to provide you feedback from my great adventures that are sure to ensue.

In the meantime, I plan on wearing whatever I’m in the mood for, whether those are contacts or glasses, because there is one thing far less sexy than glasses in a bar (Eww!): being blind as a bat.  In order to save myself the embarrassment of trying to use Sonar to find my drink, I think I will rock my glasses, thank you very much!

xoxo,

[ L a u r e n ]

Turksgiving with a side of Karma

Grocery store gluttony is common practice for Carrie (my mother)!

Carrie approached the checkout lane in a hurry- her usual pace- and found herself behind an older woman.  As the lady finished unloading her rather petite load of groceries, she left a large gap open.

Carrie, my whipper-snapper of a mother, eyed the lady’s grocery gap suspiciously. “Pssh, I need all the room I can get on this belt!” she jokingly said to the woman (although, to be honest, that is not a joke).

“Oh yes… I’m leaving that spot open for the turkey, to see if I have enough,” she said before resuming adding all her items up mentally, making sure to account for every penny.

My mom, used to three extremely loud kids (four if you count my dad), paused mid-loading to register what the lady had just said. “Wait, you’re leaving room for the turkey? Do you not have enough?” she asked honestly.

“I’m not sure,” the lady replied sheepishly, glancing at the cashier who was about to give her the total amount due.

Carrie, without thinking, slid a $20 bill to the young cashier as the older woman dug for change in her wallet. As the cashier refused to take it, the woman-realizing what my mother had done- insisted she could not take the money.

“Please take this, it’s not a big deal!” my mom pleaded, as she continued unpacking her cart. “You can’t be driving around without some cash on you, and this will help with the turkey!”

It was obvious the lady was 1-part embarrassed and 2-parts grateful as her eyes welled with tears. “What are you, my Guardian Angel?” she asked my mother.

“Haha, no, definitely not!” she said, as she denied taking any change from the woman. “It’s the least I could do! Happy Thanksgiving!” Carrie- who is not much of a talker when she is in the middle of rushing- turned back to the older woman, who was still standing there gaping at her.

“Okay, fine, I will take a hug!” Carrie said, and in her own words, later told us, “I mean, she was still standing there, and I didn’t know what else to say! I was like, come on lady, please don’t make a scene!” (Mom has always had a hard time accepting praise or thanks for her earnest deeds.)

As Mom eventually told us this story, it was clear that she did not realize the impact she probably had on that whole family.  She said, “It was the least I could do, since I was buying hundreds of dollars in groceries for my family, I couldn’t just let someone not enjoy a turkey…”  Several hours later, however, while watching the news, my family received a bite of the old woman’s turkey.

Turns out, Dad’s number came up in the lotto.  As he double-checked his numbers, my boyfriend said to everyone, “You know, this is good karma for helping that lady out at the grocery store.”  After Mom had given away $20 to a stranger, Michigan State Lottery gave about 100 times that amount to my family…

Now, in the past, “karma” (according to Carrie) was when I would stub my toe after making fun of my brother, or small instances like that.  I never believed in the “bigger-picture” karma, until this recent turkey-giveaway.  While PETA may not be happy that Mom helped someone devour a turkey, it seems that someone “Upstairs” appreciated the innocent gesture.

With much turkey,
xoxo,

[ L a u r e n ]