I Heart My Little A-Holes Read online

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  in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the author.

  Copyright © 2013 Baby Sideburns

  All rights reserved.

  Dedicated to Zoey and Holden. I write about the bad stuff because it’s funnier and because there’s so much good stuff it wouldn’t fit in a book. I love you both more than you can possibly imagine.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Five Funny Stories about Vajayjays (say that five times quickly)

  For the love of God, lady, it’s a locker room not a nudist colony

  I’d like the Brazilian in the back please

  Math-terbating and labia majoras

  You can love your pagina, just don’t love your pagina

  I’m gonna wash that gray right out of my pubes

  Bundle of Joy My Ass, More Like Bundle of Hell

  A lot of shit you don’t need when you’re having a baby

  Oh Dear Lord, WTF is that?

  Just connect A to B and N to J and L to R and V to F and K to G and J to Q and Q to B, and that’s how you put a breast pump together

  Chugga chugga typhoid

  Where the hell did the name Baby Sideburns come from?

  The serious chapter, like seriously

  Yo baby book, you can take your milestones and shove them up your you-know-what

  I Heart My Little A-Holes

  It’s all fun and games until someone shits a brick in the middle of the restaurant

  The big bang theory

  Going from one kid to two is uhhh, how do I say this, let me see, hell

  1-800-KILL-ME-NOW

  The other night I did something I swore I’d never do

  Why traveling with kids sucks ass and totally isn’t worth it but I still insist on doing it

  Don't Read This Chapter while You’re Eating Chocolate

  This one doesn’t have any pictures.

  Poop mobile

  Just a random poop story that has nothing to do with my rug rats

  Hells yeah I’m putting on my oxygen mask before my kid’s

  Itty-bitty potty party

  Five brown shit dots

  Another Holiday? Are You F’ing Kidding Me?

  New Years resolutions I plan on breaking the shit out of

  Ten things that suck about Valentine’s Day (easiest list I’ve ever come up with)

  Daylight Savings can kiss my ass

  Ten things I really F’ing want for Mother’s Day

  Twas the night before Mother’s Day

  Ten things Dad really F’ing wants for Father’s Day

  Halloween is to the Jews what Christmas is to the Christians

  What NOT to F’ing buy my kids this holiday

  The Truth, the Whole Truth, and None of the Bullshit You See on Pinterest

  How to hold a Momlympics

  Why I’m a worse mom than you

  A letter to my daughter in the future, but none of that sappy crap you see on Huff Post

  A letter to my son in the future, you know, if he hasn’t disowned me for this book

  I don’t read no stinkin’ parenting magazines

  Mom’s Serenity Prayer

  This Is a Really Short Chapter about Girl Scout Cookies because Girl Scout Cookies Are So F’ing Awesome They Deserve Their Own Chapter

  Disney and Caillou and Other Annoying Crap I Want to Crap on

  If Caillou were a real person I’d gladly go to jail for killing him

  Calling Dr. Snow White, DDS

  Someday my gay prince will come

  Annnnnd This Is What My Life Has Turned into. Awesome.

  Babies R’n’t Us

  Sometimes I think living in hell would be better than the suburbs

  Minivans are the AWESOMEST!(No that whole title is not a typo)

  Yo Rug Rats, You Owe Me $26,000 for Plastic Surgery

  Allllllll the ways my body is different (aka sucks balls) after carrying two poop machines

  Crotch and other words that make me uncomfortable

  40 is the new “I want to kill myself”

  An open letter to my vajayjay

  The End

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  This is my book. Thanks for reading it. Yeah, I could say more, but who the hell wants to read an introduction? Okay, now that that’s out of the way, let’s begin this shit with a bang.

  For the love of God, lady, it’s a locker room not a nudist colony

  So the other day I’m sitting in the locker room at the gym leaning over to tie my shoelaces when I look up and BAM, there’s a big ole giant vajayjay in my face. I shit you not. Less than a ruler’s length away from my eyes is someone else’s hoo-ha. The last time I was this close to a vajayjay, I was coming out of my mother. And just to paint you a picture, imagine if Carrot Top never got a haircut. Yeah, like that. So two things go through my head:

  Have you never heard of a towel?

  Have you never heard of a razor?

  The truth is I have no problem with a hairy bush but you need to cover that shit up. Even Adam and Eve wore fig leaves and they were the only two people on earth. I mean they were bumping uglies (apparently a lot considering what they started) but they were still covering up their shit. So anyways, why the hell do locker rooms make people think it’s okay to walk around naked?!!! I know what some of you are thinking right now.

  EXHIBITIONIST NUDISTS: It’s a locker room. Why on earth should we have to cover up in a locker room?

  ME: Because I don’t know you. You are a stranger. We have never met before. Why in God’s name should you be showing me your vagina?!

  I apologize for using the real “V” word (insert heebie-jeebies emoticon here). But these nudists don’t use words like vajayjay and hoo-ha and I need to speak their language when I talk to them. I know a few of you are glad I used the word vagina and are totally annoyed when I use words like vajayjay/hoo-ha/pink taco/yoni/bearded clam/coochie/Rumpled Slit Skin. Kidding, I have never used the phrase Rumpled Slit Skin. I don’t know why, but the word vagina just bothers me for some reason. Oh yeah, because it sounds gross.

  Anyways, as I’m sitting there in the locker room with front row tickets I didn’t buy to someone else’s vajayjay, this is what I look like:

  And she’s blocking me in and I’m totally stuck in the corner and my Zumba class is about to begin, which really doesn’t matter to me because I hate that class because I can’t dance worth shit but still I don’t feel like being blocked in by a vajayjay. As a claustrophobe and a vagiphobe, this is like my worst nightmare EVER. I can’t even say excuse me because my mouth is filled with throw up that I haven’t managed to swallow yet, so I hug the lockers like I’m Tom Cruise on an eighty-story building in Mission Impossible and I slide out around her. I swear to God if a single pube touches me, I’m going to scream and cry like I’m on fire.

  But guess what I’m faced with as soon as I get around her. Like three other giant vajayjays. There are vajayjays everywhere I look. Agggghhhh, I have got to get out of here! As I’m running through the locker room avoiding hoo-has like they’re landmines, I almost bump smack into this chick who has a towel wrapped around her waist (thank God) but is completely topless while she dries her hair. Just because your boobs are small doesn’t mean they’re invisible, lady.

  Half-naked hair drying lady is the last straw, so I close my eyes tight and put my hands out in front of me so I don’t crash into any walls and I run for my life. “Dear God, please don’t let me accidentally grab any breasts,” I think as I blindly bolt toward the exit with my hands out in front of me.

  After
what seems like an eternity, I’m finally safe and sound out of the locker room and in my Zumba class trying to catch my breath and find an empty spot near the back of the room where no one will see me dancing. Of course about three minutes later guess who’s standing in the front of the room. Vagina lady number one. Of course. Big bush ladies always pick the front row because they have no shame and they like to show off their shit. Well, at least she’s facing forward and I’ll be staring at her ass and not her camel toe the whole class.

  Anyways, you know how the gym is. It always sucks motivating to get there but you feel awesome afterwards. Yeahhh, not so much this time. But that night getting undressed, I guess I kinda sorta feel like a tiny bit better about my own bush. Even though it’s February and I haven’t groomed it in like five months, it’s not like I haven’t groomed it in, uhhh, I don’t know, forever.

  You say vagina,

  I say vajayjay,

  You say penis,

  I say peeper,

  Vagina, vajayjay,

  Penis, peeper,

  Let’s call the whole thing off.

  I’d like the Brazilian in the back please

  A few days ago I’m reading some funny stuff on the Internet when I stumble upon this TOTALLY AWESOME picture. And while I’m supposed to be doing a million different things, all I can think is there’s no F’ing way I can pass by vajayjay cupcakes without writing something right away. So here goes. A few thoughts I had about these beauties:

  Totally awesome pussycakes made by Amy Clites, Created by Chance,www.CreatedbyChance.blogspot.com

  1. I have never ever had a single desire to lick vajayjay. Until now.

  2. I do believe the only proper way to eat this is to lick the frosting off first. Slowly. With a lot of tongue. And look someone in the eye while you’re doing it.

  3. I mean at first I’m thinking these would be like so perfect for a lesbian party. But then I realize, nooooo, these could like totally ruin a lesbian forever. “Ummm, I’m sorry sweetie, ever since I ate that chocolate hoo-ha, yours just tastes a little off or something.”

  4. Or I could be totally wrong. I’m not a lesbian so I don’t know. Maybe it’s actually the cupcake that’s disappointing. “Blagggh, WHAT IS THIS? Chocolate?! I was expecting that awesome vagina flavor.” Kind of like when you think you’re biting into a grape but it’s an olive. Yuck.

  5. I’m sitting in Panera right now and I’ve got this picture like really big on my screen and there’s a table of old men sitting behind me and whispering. I’m so tempted to turn around and shout, “Hey, quit staring at my vaginas!”

  6. Well, I’m usually into black girls, but I kinda want a vanilla one. Is that racist?

  7. I wonder if Martha Stewart has ever whipped up a batch of these. I can only imagine how beautiful her frosted vaginas would be. “I used a mirror to look at myself and make sure I was adding just the perfect amount of food coloring to tint it a beautiful pussy pink.”

  8. Mmmm, these are soooo moist.

  9. WOMAN: Want to split one with me?

  FRIEND: Sure, pass me a knife and I’ll give it an episiotomy.

  10. Dear lady who baked these,

  There better be cream in the center. Otherwise, it’s just gonna leave me unsatisfied.

  11. I am so tempted to bring a batch of these to my next gynie appointment to hand out to everyone. Why thank you doctor, yes I would like my speculum warmed.

  12. You know that cake for Mardis Gras that has that little plastic baby inside? I kind of think these should have that too. Holy crap, there’s a baby in my vajayjay!

  13. All in favor of Channing Tatum eating one of these in slow motion, say aye!

  14. Hey, if you’re not gonna eat your clit, can I have it?

  Dear Thomas the Train creators,

  Did you seriously have to name one of the trains Percy? Because how the F am I supposed to keep a straight face when my toddler keeps saying “I love Pussy” over and over again?

  Sincerely,

  A mom with her mind in the gutter

  Math-terbating and labia majoras

  (you’re either very enticed or very turned off right now)

  I have two distinct memories of my vajayjay in childhood. Here they are.

  The year was 1981 and my friend Ariel and I were sitting in third grade Math class. FYI, her name isn’t really Ariel (no one was named Ariel until 1989 when the Little Mermaid came out), but I always change my friends’ names to keep them anonymous. Especially when I’m telling a story about their vajayjay.

  So we were sitting in Math class and Mrs. Lincoln was busy writing something on the chalkboard, so my friend Ariel decided this was the perfect time to teach me an important life lesson.

  ARIEL: Hey, if you scoot all the way over on your chair, you can rub on your chair like this and it feels really good.

  ME: Like this?

  ARIEL: No, further, so you’re half on, half off.

  ME: Like this?

  But I didn’t really need to ask because suddenly I knew exactly what she was talking about. 8 + 8 = Oh yeahhhhh.

  POCAHONTAS: What are you guys doing?

  ARIEL: This.

  And Ariel demonstrated to Pocahontas. And then Jasmine. And then Belle. And then Mulan. Until all the girls in Math class knew exactly how to rub their hoo-has on their chairs and get off. By the time Mrs. Lincoln turned back around, all ten girls were stealthily math-terbating. And by stealthily I mean obviously.

  Can you imagine what it must have been like to turn around from the chalkboard and see ten girls all leaning to one side of their chairs rocking back and forth on their crotches trying to mask their looks of ecstasy? I mean Mrs. Lincoln probably had to stifle her laughter for the next twenty minutes until she could finally escape into the teacher’s lounge.

  Anyways, you know how it is—gotta pay it forward. So I decided to teach my friend Cinderella a little sumpin’ sumpin’ she could do with her sumpin’ sumpin’.

  It happened when we were at her house getting changed into our leotards for ballet class. Today’s lesson: how to stand naked in front of a mirror and pull down your labia majoras (or as I call it, the regular skin on your vagina) so they look like cow udders. FYI, I totally had to Google labia majora because I couldn’t remember what it’s called and now my eyes are scarred for life from all the pictures I saw. So yes, if you pull down your labia majoras you can make your vajayjay look like a cow udder. Of course not once you’re older and have hair there. Not that I’ve tried it, but I’m guessing.

  You know what cracks me up the most about this? Can you imagine turning around to see your friend pulling down her vagina skin to make it look like cow udders? I’d be like uhhhh, yeah, we’re not friends anymore. But at eight-years-old this just solidified Cinderella’s and my friendship even more. We spent the next twenty minutes dancing around the bedroom naked and singing, “Look at me, I’m a cow! I’m a cow! Mooooooooo!” And continued to do it every week as we got ready together for ballet class. I mean does that shit ever get old?

  And this is when I pray this book doesn’t sell very much and no one reads this entry.

  Note to self: Make sure daughter is wearing underpants before she lifts her leg to show Grandma her tattoo on Skype.

  You can love your pagina, just don’t love your pagina

  You’d think my daughter would have discovered her orifices years ago. I mean my son was checking out his peeper as soon as his tiny hand could handle his massive package. Kidding. His dinky is as dinky as all the other babies’. But one day, look out.

  Anyways, my daughter is three now and all of the sudden every time I turn around her finger is up one of her nostrils. Now I don’t care what other people think (total lie) but I do care about all the boogers she keeps handing me. Agggh, can you pleeeease be normal and eat it or wipe it on the furniture or something?!

  But her newfound orifice obsession gets worse. Her nostril isn’t the only hole she’s taken an interest in lately. Yeahhh, you know wh
at’s comin’. The other day I walked into her bedroom to find her sitting naked on the floor (better than the other places I’ve found her sitting naked—the sprinkler, her bike, her brother’s head), and she’s checking out things down yonder when we have the following conversation.

  ZOEY: (totally melodramatic) I’m a little sad because there’s a hole in my tushie.

  ME: You mean your vagina?

  ZOEY: Yeah, my pagina.

  ME: (trying to keep a straight face) Everyone has a hole there. Where would you pee from if you didn’t have that? (and do other shit we’re not going to discuss)

  ZOEY: It would come out of my mouth. I’d lean over the toilet and the pee would come out.

  Ummm, uhhhh, I don’t even know where to begin. Maybe we should talk about all of the things that are right with this conversation because all of the things that are wrong with it would take up the next 50 pages.

  But seriously, how do I tell her to stop checking out her pagina? Telling her to stop picking her nose is a no-brainer. I mean basically I tell her to stop and she just hides under the covers and does it.

  Whatever, if I can’t see what you’re doing and you’re not killing anyone, have a ball, kiddo.

  But if I tell her to stop playing with the beaver, who knows what long-term effects it will have. Will she think her pagina is taboo? Will she be too scared to touch it one day? Will she rebel and do it all the time? Gasp, like me in Math class?!! It’s no easy task, but I need to teach her to love her pagina, just not to love her pagina. At least not yet. WTF, did I seriously just write that? I had no idea some the things that would come out of my mouth as a parent. But not pee pee. Thank God there’s another hole for that.

  Duh, of course babies scream their heads off when they’re born. Wouldn’t you cry if you had to travel head first through your mom’s vagina?