Still Negotiating with James Cameron to Direct, But Since He’s Kind of a Crusty Wanker, I’m Working a Side Deal with the Coen Brothers


We used to live about one hundred yards from our current home, in a house that had one bathroom, which was located on the main floor, off the kitchen.

I got pregnant while we lived there.

The father of the baby was my husband.


At any rate, right about Month 7 of that pregnancy, I started sleeping on the couch in the living room, as the eight-times-a-night trudge up and down the staircase from the bedroom to the bathroom had begun to wear down footpads, knee cartilage, and morale. On the couch, though, I was mere feet away from the embrace of the bathroom. Plus, it was easier to sleep sitting upright on the couch, a technique that helped fight off heartburn, which was another hazard of late pregnancy. So there I was, night after night, beached on the couch, clutching my Tums, my tp, my bowl full of Moose Tracks ice cream, and my belly (third hazard of the last trimester: round ligament pain).

I wish I could tell you twelve babies walked out of me shortly after this photo was taken. But no, I was the prow of a ship thanks to only one damn baby. However, in my defense, he weighed 60 pounds.

Although I was lumbering, the system was elegant.

Then I opened the drawer underneath the oven one day and found it full of

–How you say it?–

fecal matter.

Looking quizzically at Groom, I asked, “Is there something you need to tell me?”

He avowed innocence, crossing his heart, batting his charming blues, taking me into the bathroom and providing evidence that he had made deposits in the traditional place. Recently.

My attention then shifted to Girl, then two years old. At that point, she was pretty well potty-trained. Yet she had the look of an imp crossbred with a rascal sprinkled liberally with scamp. What’s more, her rear end, in its occasional personified state, might have spotted that under-oven drawer and fancied it just the right height for some toiletual unleashing. When I showed her the problem in the drawer, she hugged my knees tightly and swore, “No, Mommy. I pwomise I awways make my tinkles in da widdle potty in da bat-room.” Ever a sucker for a knee hug (note to Groom), I bought her story.

Next, it occurred to me that I was in the grip of some pretty fierce hormones, and perhaps they were amnesia-inducing. Being generally bleary, I needed to entertain the idea that I might have wandered off the couch one night and, thinking I was in the bathroom, squatted in the oven drawer. Stranger things had happened. Like the time my bra wound up hammered to the wall of a bikers’ clubhouse in Denmark. Logically, isn’t pooping in an oven drawer a natural extension of radically misplacing lingerie in a public place?

However, with a fourth hazard of late pregnancy being reluctant bowels, I felt pretty certain the crime was not mine.


Part II forthcoming…



By Jocelyn

There's this game put out by the American Girl company called "300 Wishes"--I really like playing it because then I get to marvel, "Wow, it's like I'm a real live American girl who has 300 wishes, and that doesn't suck, especially compared to being a dead one with none."


  1. Ah, yes, the joys of late pregnancy — the heartburn, the inability to sleep in anything resembling a normal position, the frequent bathroom trips, the ligament pain. Although we did have the good luck to move from the house where, like you, we had to walk through every room in the house to get from the second floor bedroom to the first floor bathroom, before we had children. (Both of whom also weighed 60 pounds like yours.)

    I can’t wait to read Part II!

  2. my little dog spot got hit by a carrrr put his guts in a box and threw him in a drawerrrrr

  3. hm. no wonder you moved out… ca’t wait for part II..

    oh, so that’s YOUR bra!! :o) would like to hear that story too!

  4. Thank you so much foe sharing that picture! I needed to see that was not the only. Normal looking pregnant woman out there. Living I Poland where all the girls are teensy tiny they don’t get big during pregnancy either. Or they don’t go out. It very well could be the latter.

  5. Hahaha. Gosh I hope it wasn’t you. Can’t believe you actually asked the Grrom if it was him. You kill me.

  6. oh, sweet fancy moses….i was easily that huge when i had my own dear limelet who weighed in at a whopping 9.5 lbs. i also have discovered fecal matter in the oven drawer, ours was provided by the mice my darling limelets keep leaving engraved invitations for.

  7. I want to know how you managed to bend over far enough to open the bottom drawer! I didn’t see anything past my belly for months.

  8. Oh, you’re so funny!! Have you found out who did it o did you just stop looking?

    Any pets in your home?

  9. Hmm… you and your husband weren’t forced to live together in order to collect a couple million you won from a slot machine were you? (A’la What Happens in Vegas- Cameron Diaz and Ashton Kutcher) b/c in that movie Ashton pees in the sink. Maybe it’s something like that…
    Well, okay… I’ll just wait for the continuation.

  10. Isn’t it funny how most every family -with small children -has some kind of poop stories to share? My two younger kids both were “poop painters” and loved to trim not just themselves, but crib rails, walls, you name it with that fine substance. One of them however, somehow managed to put some well-placed items of poopie in the crevices of the electric wall heat unit in their bedroom. I didn’t notice it there until the weather got cooler and I had to turn the heat on. Ever smell toasted poop? It’s quite an interesing aroma, trust me.
    Now -lets get on with Part II. Love your stories!

  11. Now that is a belly to be reckoned with!

    I remember meeting a frien dof mine during my last trimester and as I walked to the restaurant, she said, “I see you’ve reached the lumbering stage.”

  12. OMG, as if you weren’t already dealing with enough crap. Yikes.

    And I knew someone–not me, not me I SWEAR–who got drunk enough to open someone’s closet in our dorm and pee all over that someone’s shoes. I felt sorry for both of them–how perfectly awful AND embarrassing–but I still think it’s funny as hell.

    So, is one of those bras hanging up at Captain Tony’s yours???
    Great photo!

  13. Well, duh, silly. The culprits were the Danish bikers who, incensed that they were not the impending father(s) of your expected child, expressed their anger in the only way they knew how since presumably, there was a language barrier.

    Apparently nobody ever told you that when Danish bikers nail your bra to their clubhouse wall, certain rights ensue. And certain penalties as well.

    Or maybe it’s trolls with too much X-Lax in their diets.

  14. Hahahahaha! Once again, no twice, I had to giggle. My husband is looking at me like I’m weirder than he already thinks.

    Only 60 lbs? Mine were all at least 80.

  15. Not a cliffhanger! Hopefully, we won’t have to wait for the new season of O Might Crisis! to start in the fall to find out.

  16. Wow! Your bra wound up hammered to the wall of a bikers’ clubhouse in Denmark, too? We so have to get together.

  17. “Isn’t pooping in an oven drawer a natural extension of radically misplacing lingerie in a public place?”

    As a Garment Removal Professional, I can attest that it is; I never attend shows without rubber gloves and disinfectant.


  18. Jocelyn, I’m just getting to the saga now (wanted to read it uninterruped)… the suspense is killing me; I’ve got my fingers in my ears going la-la-la-la…

    Nice Titanic shot, BTW.

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