This is the end. Sorta.

Feb 1, 2014

I've been putting off this post for over a month now (actually, more like 6 months now, but who's counting?) but it's time! There will not be anymore posts on this site and in a few months from now, I will be taking it down completely.

The decision to stop my blog isn't entirely that I've ceased to enjoy writing, but rather because when I began this blog in 2010, it was meant to be a collaboration blog of various women's stories of how funny and/or horrible it was going through puberty and their early 20s. That never happened. I got a surprisingly low response of women that wanted to share their stories, even anonymously, so I just began writing all of my own stories. Although I was quite the dumb skank, even I only had so many stories to share. After inserting a variety of posts about other topics, I found that my original intent was pretty much gone.

It's not that I am quitting Adventures in Estrogen, but more like it's just complete, and I am proud of what I've accomplished here in the last 4 years, as well as treasuring the friends I have made because of this.

I love you!

The reason why I will be taking it down in a few months is another story all together. It seems as even though I still get about 1000 page views a day, 995 of those seem to be from fucking pedophiles thinking that my stories of my (very) young sexual experiences will somehow turn them on. It's so fucking horrific and never did I ever even consider this to be a possible side effect of my writings, which are 100% meant to be cautionary tales for girls and/or parents of young girls and nothing fucking more than that. I guess I was naive. My blog search term results used to be hilarious and a constant source of entertainment, but in the past year, it's mostly just turned my stomach & I cannot even bear to check them anymore.

I want to thank all of you that have supported, laughed, cried, commented and connected with me over the last 4 years. As you are probably well aware, I'm always on The Twitter and my website LadyE.me has its own independent website now with some of my favourite posts permanently residing there. I'll also have a Tumblr (yeah, I love Tumblr and I don't fucking care who knows it) where I will post things that are longer than 140 characters. I also hope to write for In The Powder Room again someday, but that won't be until Baby E lets me near a computer for longer than 5 minutes.

PS. Buy our book. Woot! 

See you on the flip side, hookers! Muuuuuuuuah.

Lady E, signing off.


Savvy Suckers

Dec 14, 2013

My husband and I were watching TV (as usual) when one of my favourite cheesy commercials came on -- the Durex Savvy Lovers. Since according to the television people, I shave my hoo-haa, so therefore, I DESERVE the best sex ever. Well, doesn't that just go without saying?

Ahem.

Anyway, this time it aired — having been only 8 weeks since I gave birth and had my tubes tied (WOOT!) — I snorted and attempted to be funny by mocking them...

"Ha! They have to use condoms like suckers!"

My husband raised his eyebrows and rebutted with a tone of snark while he pointed to Little Miss Fussypants, who I was currently rocking on my chest...

"THEY ARE THE SUCKERS? ARE YOU SURE?"

Humfph.

Jerk.





Smooth Operator

Nov 27, 2013

It had been 3 weeks since I had Baby E. She already had a cold and because of her stuffed sinuses, we hadn't slept for more than 20 minutes at a time for the past 3 days. The boys were being their typical 4 year old selves in the morning, which consisted of completely forgetting what needed to be done in order to get ready for school. Boots? Hats? Jackets? Apparently, I might as well be speaking fucking Greek. No day seems to be better than any other, but they can always get worse.

I had just returned back to the house after dropping the boys off at school after what I commonly describe as "Thing 1's nuclear meltdowns". And the cause this time? Who the hell knows; I can't keep track anymore.

I was fucking exhausted.

Baby was actually sleeping in her carrier when I took her out of the car to go into the house. I noticed my neighbor's 18 year old son across the street, sitting in his car and smoking.

Cigarettes.

Now, I hadn't had a smoke for 9 months -- my last one being about 45 minutes before I peed on a stick.

At least it wasn't 45 minutes AFTER I peed, so whatever. Shut up.

Ahem.

Maybe it was my exhaustion that was driving my decisions, but I swallowed my pride and went over to the kid, "Can I get a smoke off you?"

"Sure. They're menthol though."

MENTHOL?! Things have sure changed since I was in high school, but beggars can't be snobby bitches, I guess.

I lied, "That's fine." All I knew is that I wanted to hold that stick between my fingers and hold it between my lips, so a pansy-assed mint flavored cigarette would have to do.

As the boy handed me the cigarette, he pleaded with me, "Don't tell my mom, okay?"

I backed away from his car and just smiled, "No problem. Don't tell my husband, okay?"

He nodded and laughed.

As I touched a flame to the end and inhaled, despite it being a tad minty, it was so goddamn glorious.

Smooth and satisfying, as if I was living inside a cigarette poster from the 40s.

I haven't had one since that day, but let's not discuss the 2lbs of M&M's I've had instead...

That's me, can't you tell?


She's here!

Oct 24, 2013

Although a slightly belated announcement, I thought it was time I got my arse into gear
to post something about my new bundle o'joy -- Baby E (a.k.a. Hiccup, a.k.a. Squeakers).

Born October 9th, 2013, weighing 9lbs2oz -- via c-section. 
No pushing was required.

Thanks so much for everyone's well wishes on The Twitter & emails.
Love and hugs to you all!

What the shit has my mommy put on me?



The final countdown — it is on!

Oct 1, 2013

OK, I've officially made it to October so it's go time, baby! 
In honor of my last few days of pregnancy, I wrote this song. I thought I'd put forth some extra effort, especially since this might be the last post for a couple weeks. Please note my seesawing, hormonal affections towards my husband, mostly based on whether or not he's giving me food at the time, obviously. 

------------


On the final day of pregnancy, my jerk face husband gave to me an extra load of his laundry.

On the 2nd last day of pregnancy, my high blood pressure gave to me two puffy cankles.
And an extra load of his laundry.

On the 3rd last day of pregnancy, my doctor gave to me three Labetalols.
Two puffy cankles.
And an extra load of his laundry.

On the 4th last day of pregnancy, my true love gave to me four tubes of Pringles.
Three Labetalols.
Two puffy cankles.
And an extra load of his laundry.

On the 5th last day of pregnancy, my cravings gave to me five iced coffeeeeees.
Four tubes of Pringles.
Three Labetalols.
Two puffy cankles.
And an extra load of his laundry.

On the 6th last day of pregnancy, my baby gave to me six extra kilos.
Five iced coffeeeeees.
Four tubes of Pringles.
Three Labetalols.
Two puffy cankles.
And an extra load of his laundry. 

On the 7th last day of pregnancy, my doctor gave to me seven more goddamn days.
Six extra kilos.
Five iced coffeeeeees.
Four tubes of Pringles.
Three Labetalols.
Two puffy cankles.
And an extra load of his laundry. 

On the 8th last day of pregnancy, my whiny husband gave to me eight panicked texts.
Seven more goddamn days.
Six extra kilos.
Five iced coffeeeeees.
Four tubes of Pringles.
Three Labetalols.
Two puffy cankles.
And an extra load of his laundry. 

On the 9th last day of pregnancy, my baby gave to me nine toilet trips.
Eight panicked texts.
Seven more goddamn days.
Six extra kilos.
Five iced coffeeeeees.
Four tubes of Pringles.
Three Labetalols.
Two puffy cankles.
And an extra load of his laundry. 

On the 10th last day of pregnancy, my inner teenager gave to me ten throbbing zits.
Nine toilet trips.
Eight panicked texts.
Seven more goddamn days.
Six extra kilos.
Five iced coffeeeeees.
Four tubes of Pringles.
Three Labetalols.
Two puffy cankles.
And an extra load of his laundry.

On the 11th last day of pregnancy, my true love gave to me eleven bites of poutine.
Ten throbbing zits.
Nine toilet trips.
Eight panicked texts.
Seven more goddamn days.
Six extra kilos.
Five iced coffeeeeees.
Four tubes of Pringles.
Three Labetalols.
Two puffy cankles.
And an extra load of his laundry.

On the 12th last day of pregnancy, my fucking hormones gave to me twelve creepy skin tags.
Eleven bites of poutine.
Ten throbbing zits.
Nine toilet trips.
Eight panicked texts.
Seven more goddamn days.
Six extra kilos.
Five iced coffeeeeees.
Four tubes of Pringles.
Three Labetalols.
Two puffy cankles.
And an extra load of his laundry-eee-eee-eee.



A Mother Life

Picture this... baby!

Sep 19, 2013

I wouldn't consider myself a "professional photographer" by any stretch, but I have dabbled and I taught both digital and traditional darkroom photography when I was a high school teacher. *shudders* So, I guess it's why some forms of photography get my titties in a twist slightly more than the average person... perhaps. I wrote a while back about my angry thoughts on "Trash the Dress" bridal photography. Ugh. Even finding that post in order to link to it got me angry all over again.

I'll blame the hormones this time.

Recently, I discovered some hilarious pregnancy photos that I just had to share. It was actually my husband that had mentioned that we should probably have at least a couple shots of me "with child" this time around, since we had quite a few of me with the twins. I think I took those photos more because I felt like a freak show, if for no other reason. I was H-U-G-E.

I realize that some of it stems from not liking myself in photos, but also maybe I'm just not that sentimental. The thought of paying for studio shots of my pregnancy actually makes me giggle and slightly sprain my retinas from too much eye rolling -- as did the idea of "engagement photos". I mean, really? No thanks.

Here is the one that initially sparked my utter dismay as far as pregnancy photos go. Could you see this hanging over that family's couch? In their dining room? BEDROOM?
"I'm still not 100% convinced that this isn't actually Sacha Baron Cohen."

This one took me to a really dark place, because... how DOES a mermaid get pregnant?
And why isn't she the one that's swimming? 
Plus, the fake water line should be up around her shoulders.
It confuses me.
"Let's just assume this one's gonna be a C-section, mmm-k?"

And this... can someone explain? Gross.
"I want to expose my baby to Salmonella and Psittacosis as early as possible!
Please shit on me while I meditate."

And, oh my gawd. If you're going to commit to body painting, take off your fucking bra, seriously.
"Because Mother Earth needs under-wire support too..."

This woman is illustrating A) She's having twin boys. B) She's kinda slutty & proud of it. C) She just really likes beach balls.
"I love the feeling of all these balls around me!"

I think this one is just a subtle way to tell the baby that mommy killed daddy during conception. 
Sorry, kiddo!
"Your daddy had a good head on his shoulders UNTIL I RIPPED IT OFF."

This photo is about as close as I would consider getting a photo done of my belly, 
but even still, I feel for that dog.
"Whatever's inside there is about to ruin everything for me, isn't it?"
Yes. Yes it is.

And lastly, I'm not sure what's happening here, but it gave me a bad flash back of being taken to see 
The Famous People's Players as a child. If you don't know what that is, consider yourself lucky.
"You have your mother's hands. No really, that's all you got.
They're floating around you in nothingness."

Here are 2 honorable mentions from stock photography that I feel would be a much more accurate
 photographic representation of my personality and present mental state.

"I'm gonna sit here and eat all the food. I don't give a fuck."

And literally, this just happened...
"LICK IT UP, BABY. LICK. IT. UP."

DAMN RIGHT, VERONICA.

Mmmmm, BBQ sauce.


 
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