Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar are pregnant again. For the 18th time. I found some interesting facts on them at the Discovery Channel. They actually titled the page “Fun Facts”. I personally don’t see anything FUN about changing that many diapers…but to each his own:
Michelle’s been pregnant for 135 months of her life.
Average number of months between Duggar births is 18.
Estimated number of Duggar diapers to date is 90,000.
The Duggars do approximately 200 loads of laundry each month.
The Duggars feed their entire brood for less than $2,000 per month.
The only person in the Duggar family whose name doesn’t start with “J” is Mom — Michelle.
Every Duggar child learns to play both violin and piano.
The family organizes their household chores by assigning “jurisdictions,” so everyone knows exactly what their daily responsibilities are.
The Duggars estimate all the family members combined have worked approximately 39,000 total hours building their new house.
The Duggars are debt free.
Now, I don’t pretend to understand WHY anyone would want to have so many damned kids. It seems you would never get to spend enough time with any of them to have any sort of real bond. Further, I don’t understand HOW they are even able to find the time or privacy to MAKE all these babies. And 18?? The poor dear probably is at the point where she breaks wind and one just falls out. I hope she keeps up on her Kegals. They should give her a free Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation—because Im betting it looks a hot mess down there. I suppose I should offer my congrats to the happy couple–they clearly have more sex (which probably is otherwise hard to come by for a woman with a mullet and a man named Jim Bob) and money than most of us.
Last week you might recall that I offered some predictions for my mother’s visit. As I know that everyone has waited with baited breath to see how correct I was, here are the results:
1. She will hint at least twice that she wants to move in here. I nailed that one easily. There were TONS of said hints.
2. She will have some issue with the fact that there is a picture of my late sister in a collage frame that also has a photo of my stepmother in it. She didn’t seem to notice that one…very surprised.
3. She will further recognize that there aren’t enough pictures of HER around. Not only did she notice, but she vowed to have a new set of Glamour Shots done post haste so that I would have appropriate photos of her around.
4. She will complain that the house is too cold at night. No, it was too hot. But how was I to know that her doctor’s had changed her hormone prescription?
5. She will recognize that the house is clean and proclaim that housekeeping is a trait I inherited from her (despite the fact that you literally can not walk through her house) Partially right on this one. She recognized my house was clean and tried to sucker me into coming up to her house for a weekend to help her “get it in order”
6. When we go shopping for the new sheets I promised her for mother’s day–she will hint heavily about at least four other things that she “needs”. I was right on the money with this one.
7. She will complain about the driving of whoever is behind the wheel. Surprisingly, I missed this one.
8. She will engage a complete stranger in a conversation about any or all of the following: A. whatever illness she is suffering from this week, B. my sister’s death, C. the rising price of various commodities. Oh, I was quite right on this one.
9. She will provide amusement and embarassment with her complete lack of political correctness. Did she ever! More detail later…
10. She will attempt to do the laundry. No, but only because I made sure there was none before she arrived. She did say she wanted to “Try out” my front loading washer.
11. She will inform me that I don’t use the right body soap, the right laundry soap, or the right cleaning products, and suggest the nearest dollar store where the correct items can be purchased. I nailed this one too!
12. She will, on no less than three occasions, suggest the she be allowed to smoke in A. my car, B. my garage, or C. in my house if she “cracks the window”. Having been told no to all of these, any trip of more than 20 minutes will have to include a stop in a parking lot so she can light up. Surprisingly, she only mentioned smoking in the garage.
All in all, it was a nice weekend. I’m sure it was good for Mom to get away for a few days, and overall, I enjoyed myself. But my psychic abilities fell short in being able to predict the following gems from the visit:
On Friday night, she regaled us with tales of her glow in the dark dildo. Apparently, that makes the multi-speed model easier to find at night. She went on to tell us how one of her former gentleman friends wanted to tie her up and “then run to Kroger’s for Pepsi!” Then she started in on her list of things she should be entitled to–which includes anything of value that my Grandmother might leave when she passes away. (”I should get that sewing machine because I hid under it when I was little! I should get that ring because I went to the library and the internet says tradition dictates that the first born daughter gets it!)…anything that ever belonged to or had anything to do with my sister…(They should give me the funeral guest book because I had her! I’d like to know what happened to her diamond earrings..those should go to me! I should get to pick out her headstone <even though she isnt contributing a red cent to it> because I’m the one who carried her for nine months!) When mom saw the 30th birthday collage my dad put together for me, she was aghast that it didn’t include any photos of her. (Why, exactly, should it? “Well I carried you!” As if someone who divorced you 26 years ago still has photos lying around?)
Then it was time for conspiracy theories. “I know your sister’s fiance paid someone to cut those brake lines.” Yeah, because a cut brake line allows a car to operate normally for hundreds of miles only to fail on black ice in a ninety degree turn down a mountain? I’m no mechanic but I just don’t think it works like that.
On Saturday night, I hosted a cook out with about ten or twelve friends in attendance. One friend is pregnant, and another couple there just had their first baby a month ago. When the conversation turned to breast feeding, mom offered that neither of her children were “tittie babies” but one of her ex husbands “sureloved breast milk“. She then suggested that any obstetrician would do what hers had done–”put a few extra stitches in there and you’ll be like a virgin again. That and some Kegal excersises–you’ll be 16 all over!”
Then there were the random comments about being a “Jew” when it came time to buy a new car…how she would make an excellent surrogate mother…and how her hormone shots had given her “these big titties.”
And of course there was our ongoing discussion about how a woman of a certain age should dress. “Are these ok to wear?” she asked, producing a pair of micro-jean shorts. “No!” I said. “Why not?”
“Well, I don’t think they’re appropriate for somone your age.” She left it alone, but then throughout the day pointed out everyone she saw with something similar on. “She’s about my size, and her shorts are just as short!” Well, yeah, she’s also 16 and firm. “She can’t be much younger than me, and look at her shorts!” Fair enough, but she also just walked out of a gym, she isn’t wearing that to dinner.
These minor annoyances aside, it was a fairly fun weekend, but one that nonetheless left me exhausted. I was in bed by 9:30 last night and would have slept til noon today if the clock hadn’t gone off.
My loyal readers (yes, both of you) will recall that I was complaining about my mother a few weeks back–mostly in relation to a planned visit for this coming Mother’s Day Weekend. A friend from back home has graciously agreed to be my saviour and drive mom down and return her home on Sunday. So mama’s coming after all!
I took today off to prepare myself. And as I tidied up the house, I came up with these predictions for what the weekend will bring. I’ll update you on Monday to see how many I got right.
1. She will hint at least twice that she wants to move in here.
2. She will have some issue with the fact that there is a picture of my late sister in a collage frame that also has a photo of my stepmother in it.
3. She will further recognize that there aren’t enough pictures of HER around.
4. She will complain that the house is too cold at night.
5. She will recognize that the house is clean and proclaim that housekeeping is a trait I inherited from her (despite the fact that you literally can not walk through her house)
6. When we go shopping for the new sheets I promised her for mother’s day–she will hint heavily about at least four other things that she “needs”.
7. She will complain about the driving of whoever is behind the wheel.
8. She will engage a complete stranger in a conversation about any or all of the following: A. whatever illness she is suffering from this week, B. my sister’s death, C. the rising price of various commodities.
9. She will provide amusement and embarassment with her complete lack of political correctness.
10. She will attempt to do the laundry.
11. She will inform me that I don’t use the right body soap, the right laundry soap, or the right cleaning products, and suggest the nearest dollar store where the correct items can be purchased.
12. She will, on no less than three occasions, suggest the she be allowed to smoke in A. my car, B. my garage, or C. in my house if she “cracks the window”. Having been told no to all of these, any trip of more than 20 minutes will have to include a stop in a parking lot so she can light up.
A reminder that sometimes the best answer requires us to think outside the box:
TomatoGarden
An old Italian lived alone in New Jersey . He wanted to plant his annual tomato garden, but it was very difficult work, as the ground was hard. His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison. The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:
DearVincent,
I am feeling pretty sad, because it looks like I won’t be able to plant my tomato garden this year. I’m just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. I know if you were here my troubles would be over. I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days.
Love, Papa
A few days later he received a letter from his son.
Dear Pop,
Don’t dig up that garden. That’s where the bodies are buried.
Love, Vinnie
At 4 a.m. the next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left. That same day the old man received another letter from his son.
Dear Pop,
Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now. That’s the best I could do under the circumstances.
“A Columbia co-ed wants to know how Lindsay Lohan ended up wearing her $11,000 blond mink coat - and is demanding the “Mean Girl” pay for the impromptu rental.
Masha Markova, 22, believed she had forever lost the prized jacket - a gift from her grandmother - while attending a private birthday party at 1Oak in the Meatpacking District in the early-morning hours of Jan. 26.
The club was closed for a friend of jet-setting playboy Stavros Niarchos, Markova said.
She added that at one point, she was seated next to Lohan, and recalled putting the mink in a common bin with other jackets.
It was gone when she prepared to leave 1Oak after an hour, Markova said.
Two weeks later, Markova flipped through the Feb. 11 edition of OK! Magazine and couldn’t believe her eyes - Lohan was photographed the night of Jan. 26 wearing the very same fur coat.
“I was actually talking on the phone to my grandmother about something else, and then I flipped through the magazine, saw the picture said, ‘I need to call you back,’ ” Markova told The Post yesterday.
“It was my coat. It was no doubt!”
The pretty co-ed said that in the ensuing days, she surfed the Internet and found several paparazzi photos of Lohan wearing the distinctive blond coat hours after the birthday party they had both attended.
Also, celebrity blogs posted pictures of the actress party-hopping that night - wearing a black coat before she arrived at 1Oak, Markova said.
Club owners vowed to get to the bottom of it, but several days passed with no call back, Markova said.
That’s when her immigration lawyer, Merrill Cohen, called Lohan’s high-powered Hollywood attorney, Blair Berke, threatening litigation.
Hours later, Markova said she heard from 1Oak.
“They were very discreet, never mentioned a name or even the word ‘coat,’ ” Markova said. “They just said, ‘We’re going to bring you something.’ ”
The coat arrived at Markova’s Morningside Heights apartment two days later.
Reeking of cigarettes and booze with a slight tear in the lining, the fur coat was no worse for wear after a dry cleaning and quick patch-up.
Still, she wants answers - and Lohan to own up to swiping her coat.
“I don’t see how it could have been an accident,” Markova said.
Markova and her lawyer stopped short of accusing Lohan of wrongdoing. But they still want her to pay at least $10,000 for the unauthorized, three-week rental.
Lohan’s spokeswoman did not return calls.
A 1Oak rep confirmed that the club delivered Markova’s fur coat back to her in February.
“I am not the coat keeper. I’m not sure where the coat was,” said club spokeswoman Lisette Sand-Freedman.
Tomorrow is/was/would have been my sister’s 26th birthday. (I’m still not sure what tense to use, so forgive me if this post makes you feel like you’re inside the mind of a schizo). She passed away on Valentine’s Day of this year, after several days in a coma following a car accident. My last moment with her was in her hospital room, holding her hand and whispering “You’ve gotta wake up and get better before Mom drives us all crazy!” She squeezed my hand–I knew she could relate. I left the hospital that afternoon and came back home, a 9 hour drive from where she was, thinking that she was at least stable and would pull through, even if her recovery would be long. The next morning I awoke to find a message from an uncle that the pressure on her brain had grown through the night, and there was little hope left. Before I could get back, she was gone. But I swear this won’t be a weepy post. I’d rather remember the laughs and fun we shared.
Last week, my mom said “There’s a bird that’s been waking me up every morning at 7 AM singing outside my bedroom window, do you think that’s your sister?”
“Hell no, she wouldn’t be up that early.” And it’s true. She was not at all a morning person. I remember the morning routine of getting ready for school. It would start out with a gentle “Its time to get up” and escalate quickly into a shouting match that would end in her stomping through the house with a scowl on her face. The only time I recall her eagerly hopping out of bed is when I once went in and told her that Santa Claus had come. She rushed to the living room, and realizing my lie, called me a few choice words. (That it was October might have been her first clue, but who thinks clearly when they are half asleep?)
Of course, she was always a bit dingy, but that was part of her charm I suppose. A few years ago, she called, frantic because she had lost her purse and she and her scuzband-to-be needed to get home from Alabama where he had been working. I agreed to Western Union her some money for bus tickets, but found that Western Union required a password if the recipient doesn’t have photo ID with them, and of course she wouldn’t because of the aforementioned lost purse. So I have her on the phone and tell her “I’ll just make the password the street we grew up on.” to which she replied “Ugh! Just make it something simple like my dogs name!” I guess recalling the street she had spent more than a decade on was too taxing for her. But she’d always had a soft spot for pets, so I guess the name of her boxer was easier.
When we were kids, her pet cat, “Sammy”, a cross-eyed Siamese who always looked drunk, was her constant companion and a constant pain in my ass. I’ve never been one for animals in the house, and took every opportunity to toss his cross eyed carcus out into the yard. She had the habit of closing him up in her room every night, and was too sound a sleeper to hear his scratches at her door when he needed out, so her door frame and wall were scratched to bits by this poor animal who probably desperately needed water or a place to relieve himself. I’ve always been a bit of a perfectionist who likes to keep everything in “as new” condition, so the scratched up trim and walls were reason enough to have the animal put to sleep in my mind.
One night in high school one of my oldest friends was sleeping over. (The same friend, it should be said, who was present for the football hotdog incident) As usual, I tossed the cross eyed cat out in the yard before heading to bed. That night, a blizzard blanketed our area with over a foot of snow. My sister awoke the next morning frantic that her cat was missing. She called and called, and he never showed up. We tortured her by striking the pose of the poor feline frozen in place as he pawed at the door to be let in, and assured her that he had no doubt gone to kitty heaven. As the hours passed, and boredom set in, we even fashioned a crude cross in his memory and mounted it to the cat scratched door frame to her bedroom. It should be noted that the cat was merely seeking shelter elsewhere and returned a day or so later, but the whole episode was typical of the pranks we played on her.
Years earlier, we had tossed one of her Barbie dolls into the street, waited for a passing car to run over it, and then, after a few grueling minutes of duct tape “surgery” declared the blonde doll dead and laid her to rest in a Little Debbie cake box buried in the garden.
But our childhood was not all me being the mean big brother. Our neighborhood was a small one of about ten homes, all set on several acres, and the few kids that lived there were mostly roughnecks that we wouldn’t play with. So she and I, in the days before Wii and Playstation, dreamt of wonderful scenarios to occupy ourselves. A few appliance boxes with windows cut into them were added to her small playhouse to form a country villa that entertained us until the next rainstorm turned it into a soggy mess of disintegrating cardboard. Days inside could be passed by pretending that my bunk beds were a big van and we were on a road trip, or our bedrooms could easily be turned into big city apartments with the addition of a note card taped to the door that bore a distinguished address.
As she grew into a young woman, it was clear that she had not only inherited our mother’s brilliant blue eyes, but her taste in men as well. She began seeing a boy in junior high that we all instantly disapproved of. I once had to pick her up from his home, which was in a less than desirable part of town. As I made my way up his rutted, gravel driveway I found the way was blocked by a cow. I honked. It mooed. I edged forward. It didn’t budge. I grabbed my cell and called my sister.
“Um…there’s a cow in the driveway.”
“Well just bump it and it will move.” Picturing this beast falling onto the hood of my car as I nudged it with my bumper convinced me that was a bad idea. Suddenly, an extra from Deliverance appeared and shooed the bovine off the driveway, allowing me to pass. I arrived at her boyfriend’s home–which, from the outside, appeared to be a fairly new single-wide trailer. I walked up the steps and swung open the frame of the screen door (the screen was torn away) and walked into the nastiest residence I have ever seen. No less than three dogs had the run of the house. A fourth barged through the door frame and promptly leapt onto an unmade bed and proceded to wallow around on the sheets. Flies buzzed through the house–no doubt attracted to the five foot tower of trash and the piles of dirty dishes and rotting food that filled most of the kitchen. Every step I took on the threadbare carpet sent fleas jumping up my legs.
“Hey!” my sister shouted, “come on in!”
“Um..no, we need to get going. I’ll wait out in the car.” I got the hell out of there.
Mom did her best to keep sis away from the boy, but my sister was crafty. In order to get as much time with him as possible, she set her father and his mother up on a date. Sparks flew between them, and in short time, they married–meaning my sister was then dating her stepbrother. (Remember, this is West Virginia)
When she was nineteen, having long since moved out of our mother’s house, she and the boy were having dinner at mom’s. Throughout the evening, he kept calling our mom “mom”, which annoyed her to no end. Finally, she said, “I’m not your mother, so stop calling me that.”
“Actually, you are.” he said, and the news was broken. Months earlier, he and my sister had married in a secret justice-of-the-peace ceremony. Apparently, it was spur of the moment, as my sister revealed she had said her “I do’s” in a pair of sweat pants. As anyone could have predicted, the marriage didn’t last long. The ink wasn’t even dry on the divorce papers when sis had hooked up with another man of equal caliber–and it was with him that she spent the last years of her life.
Despite a handful of chaotic years, I always felt that she would find her way in the world and turn out OK. As it turns out, this world isn’t the one she was meant for. So…happy birthday Sis, wherever you are.
