Ass-capades and Thanks...

Guess what! I'm special. Wanna know why? Do you have the feeling I'm going to tell you? Yes? Jesus, what are you people? Psychic? Or am I really just that predictable?

Anyway. I'm special because of my butt. "Yeah, yeah, who isn't?" you might be asking yourself. And you're right, in a way. Everyone's butt is special. But, mine? Is REALLY, REALLY special and I'll tell you why. Because it travels. It travels far and wide. It never seems to stop. In fact, it is venturing further and further from the command center as we speak and to be honest, I'm a little proud of it. It's like a space shuttle exploring the furthest recesses of space! Daring to go where NO BUTT HAS EVER GONE BEFORE! Whee!

What's your butt up to? Oops. I guess that's kind of a personal question, huh? Oh well. Screw it! Is your butt a traveler, too? You should be PROUD! Seriously! We should CELEBRATE our nomadic asses!

In fact, I think this is just the kind of thing that CLUBS were invented for. Instead of Hair Club for Men, we'll be Butt Club for Ass-Capaders! Our slogan would go something like, "Our Asses Are GOING PLACES! NYAH!"

Who's with me???

Also, I'm feeling even MORE special today because PaintingChef nominated this post for March's Perfect Post over at Petroville. How fucking cool is that?

Thanks, girlfriend. Really and truly.

Wherein I Can't Shut My Pie-Hole

Oh my GOD! How could I have been so STUPID as to overlook the OBVIOUS? I'm ashamed of myself, really. You see, even after having three miscarriages, it never ONCE occurred to me to explore the possibility that having surgery on my cooch ten years ago, namely an abortion, might affect the current shortcomings of my uterus. I mean, one would think that I, having proclaimed time and again how fucking smart I am and all, would have at least looked into it. Fortunately, for my sake, the Know-It-All Fairy descended upon this blog of mine and thwomped me upside the noggin with her/his Thirty-Year-Old-Studies-Decree-That-the-Miscarriages-Are-YOUR-Fault! Wand. Well, DAMN! Does that mean that if I hadn't ever HAD an abortion, I wouldn't be having these problems? Hmmm...

Pfbt. Whatever. Before any Pro-Lifers out there go parlaying for an all out victorious conversion of the Zube Girl, it's not gonna happen. I've been there, done that. I WAS Pro-Life. I argued until I was red in the face that having a BAYBEE would be HEEEEEALING for a rape survivor. Then I got raped. And found myself pregnant. And I wasn't really finding that healing crap to be very true for myself so I opted to have an abortion. Exercising my right to choose kind of made me think that maybe it wasn't my place to go around denying others that right. So don't go convincing yourself I'm on the edge of conversion or anything.

Without further ado, here is what the Know-It-All Fairy, cloaked in anonymity because I imagine that Fairy's of ALL sorts must protect themselves from crazy-ass magic wand seeking stalkers, had to say:

Anonymous commented on this post:

I'm sorry for your losses. This might explain more...

Women who had one induced abortion had a 17.5% miscarriage rate in subsequent pregnancies, as compared to a 7.5% rate in a non-aborted group. Richardson & Dickson, "Effects of Legal Termination on Subsequent Pregnancy," British Med. Jour., vol. 1, 1976, pp. 1303-4

Women who had delivered their first pregnancy had (in the second pregnancy) the "best reproductive performance." Those who had a spontaneous miscarriage on the first had "the highest frequency of an early loss." Those with induced abortion on their first had "the highest frequency of late spontaneous abortion and premature delivery." Koller & Eikham, "Late Sequelae of Induced Abortion in Primagravida" Acta OB-GYN Scand, 56 (1977) p. 311.

(Bolding mine)

First off, I find it difficult to believe that you are sorry for my losses. Given that the thirty year old research you've quoted can be found on every Pro-Life website from here to kingdom come, I get the impression that you're anti-abortion. And that's fine. Good for you. I'll fight ya tooth and nail if your goal is to outlaw abortion, but I support your right to feel how you feel about it. Though it seems like, rather than feeling any sort of sympathy for my losses, you're rubbing them in my face and you could say that I don't fancy that so much. Let's not keep up with the facade that you've got any sympathy for me, allrighty?

I do find it interesting that these studies are so damn old. Really. So old that they took place not long after the legalization of abortion in Britain and the US. Which, at least to me, means that the subjects involved in the studies just might have had illegal abortions. And illegal abortions are often not done properly and CAN lead to damage to the reproductive organs. Just for fun, here is a link to a site where the findings of those studies are disputed.

To make you feel a little better about my current state of affairs, after my second miscarriage, one of the first questions I asked my doctor was whether or not he believed my previous abortion could have anything to do with it. He said, "Absolutely not. There is a possibility that ONE miscarriage might be the result of the embryo trying to implant in scar tissue, but if you had a legal first-trimester abortion with no complications and follow-up care, scar tissue would be minimal, and the odds of an embryo attempting to implant in that same exact spot are very, very slim. In fact, it's promising that you have carried a pregnancy further in the past. At least we know that you can." Are ya all warm and fuzzy now? Good.

Lastly, what in the HELL were you thinking making a comment like that on such an emotional post? I mean, come on! Fortunately, I'm far too self-assured to let it bother me, but I have to believe you were trying to induce guilt where none existed. What if I weren't so comfy-cozy with the choice I made? What kind of FUCKED UP ASSHOLE would you be telling an obviously grieving woman that she was responsible for the loss of her pregnancies? A CUNT-LIKE ASSHOLE, comes to mind. And not only because CUNT is one of my most favorite words, either.

And, you know what else kills me? How some Pro-Life people will go around lamenting the badness of abortion, and how they want better for women and blah blah blah and they give hugs and love and support with reckless abandon to women who regret and feel guilty and pray to God for forgiveness for their abortions and any women that create memorial websites in honor of their aborted BAYBEES get coddled and forgiven and paraded about as a reason that abortion is bad because JUST LOOK AT HOW GUILTY AND HORRIBLE THEY ALL FEEL! But show them a woman who is comfortable with the choice she made and doesn't feel guilty, a woman like me, and these same Pro-Lifers POUNCE at the opportunity to create guilt where none exists! I've seen it and experienced it a million times and I have to ask: If abortion is SO HORRIBLE because it makes some women feel guilty, well then, what does that say about you? Huh?

Need Work - Will Travel...Or rather...Need to Travel and Will Be Working...

California, HERE I COME!

Do you hear that? It's rather faint. I can't tell exactly what it is, er, cheering? Screaming? Old ladies dropping their miniature size poodles and running for cover?

Maybe. Fortunately for California, I think the state's large enough to diffuse a Zube infection. And I'll be working, so my antics will be kept to a minimum.

I'm driving there. I leave Saturday. Here's my route. Most importantly, I have a question: any of you fine folks live out that way who might be able to suggest the perfect place for an overnight stay? Hopefully with a really cool, laid back, hole-in-the-wall bar where, like, retired bikers hang out? Or something? I'd like to try to get to Nevada the first day. I know I promised no more alcohol, but I've decided follow my HCG to zero first, and since that hasn't happened, well, I'd like to have an adult beverage when I reach my overnight refuge. I prefer to steer clear of a night in Utah, what with the mess of having to be sponsored by a member of boozing establishments and all. I mean, I KNOW it's not too hard to get sponsored, especially being a single gal (meaning solo, Zube Boy hasn't run away frantically waving his hands in the air just yet) whooping it up on her own, but I really don't feel like messing with it. So, Nevada it is. If you have any ideas, please let me know.

Also, if ANYONE is interested in guest posting, please e-mail me. I know it's really fucking short notice, and my updates have been abysmal lately anyway, but I hate to leave my little on-screen home all empty and lonely for nine days. That's like a cobweb collecting amount of time, and fucking hate cleaning up when I don't have to. Anyone care to keep the windows open and the breezes flowing around these parts?

I'll probably be able to sneak in an entry or two, but there will only be like ten computers at this conference, and people always stand behind you huffing and puffing and shit if you take too long, and I HATE that. And lately, I'm not much in the mood for it either.

I really, truly can't wait for the drive. That's the part I'm looking forward to most. Just me and my brain and my car. I get to pee when I want and hold it when I want and listen to Rush Limbaugh just to get myself all fired up if I want. I can flip the channel to Christian radio if I feel like it. I always like to keep myself abreast to their goings-on. I can do all of the stuff I cannot do when Zube Boy and I take a long trip, because a pissy Zube Boy does not a good travel partner make.

I'm quite excited to get to hang out with my brain again. You know, get the kind of thinking done that only gets done when there is SHIT on the radio and you have no one to tell stupid jokes to. It'll be a reunion of sorts.

All Aboard!

This post is brought to you by a wickedly introspective passenger aboard the Why Me? train. She decided to hop aboard mostly for shits and giggles, and partly for old time's sake.

I HATE the Why Me? Train mostly. I avoid it. At least in recent years. I rode that bitch straight through from the tender age of 21 (WAHOO!) to the ripe young age of 25 (WHOA! Where the fuck did time go?), and while I was certainly navigating my way through life in some form, the view from the window was so blurry, flying by me at lightning speed, that I feel like I missed out on a lot of awesome scenery. The "Oh my GOD, it's New York City/the Rocky Mountains/a slew of TUMBLEWEEDS crossing the road!," so to speak, of my early twenties. The good shit. The stuff that happens while you're curled in a ball in the same pajamas you've been wearing for three days, in the same body that hasn't been showered in more, reading your way to SELF-HELP Land! I lost precious years, I feel like, and I don't want it to happen again.

I got off that train when it landed in a town called He Throws Hoagies at My Head!, which is a suburb of a highly populated city called My Boyfriend Is an Asshole!, and moved to Colorado. I vowed to travel the rest of my life differently, never boarding that fucking train again. I negotiated my own path, propelled only by my own two feet.

Recently, I got to thinking, what the hell is wrong with riding that train once in a while? Like, a month or a day or even an hour or so. Not long term, but for a little bit? Really? Why shouldn't I? I've earned it, I think. Hiking my happy ass over all sorts of terrain for five years has taken its toll. Especially when I'm standing at the bottom of a cliff, wondering how I'll ever manage to climb up it. My fucking legs are tired and I'm parched. Putting one foot in front of the other has gotten me this far, but now I'm watching my feet, making sure I don't fall, and that, well, is not conducive to rock-climbing, which requires looking up. I'm not ready to look up. Not yet.

Happy Villain responded to an e-mail I'd sent her proclaiming how okay I was. It reeked of optimism and, well, lies. I'm not okay. Not completely, anyway. She responded, "While I'm glad you consider yourself "fine," I also want you to know that I think it fucking sucks. You're sad, and that's awful, because you don't deserve this," and I want to say to her, "THANK YOU!" Really. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you. Thank you for saying what the battered and bruised cheerleader curled up all fetal-style in the darkest corner of my brain is whimpering through tears. THIS FUCKING SUCKS AND I DON'T DESERVE IT!

I REALLY DON'T FUCKING DESERVE IT!

WHY ME? WHY THE FUCK ME?

Why do I have to be one of the 1% (*cough* that statistic is bullshit *cough* because rape is not just some dude jumping out of the bushes *cough*) of women who get pregnant as a result of rape?

Why do I have to be the one whose body managed to maintain that pregnancy for eight weeks?

Why did it take an abortion to make that pregnancy end?

Only to have the pregnancies of an awesome and loving man fall out? Three times?

Why does life have to fuck with me? I've STRUGGLED and SOUL-SEARCHED to be carefree, happy, and relatively well-adjusted. It's been hard work.

Why do I have to do it yet again?

Why do I have to be the vase of flowers on the dinner table of a shitty amateur magician? One who doesn't quite have the tablecloth trick down yet? And is fond of Jack Daniels?

Why? WHY, WHY, WHY?

No one knows the answer. Not me. Not you. Not the deities. But can I question it? Can I pound my fist in the air and scream it? Can I? Please? Is it okay to wonder WHY ME? I'm sure it is. It has to be. Because otherwise I'm going to stow away on that godforsaken Why Me? train for much longer than if I'd just bought myself a damn ticket with an expiration date.

And then, in the midst of my Pity Party, complete with thready at the feet pajama bottoms that get stuck under the swively computer chair and countless hours of watching shitty-ass actors on Lifetime, My Belle calls and says, "Hoot and I talked and if Project - Make a Baby isn't going to happen in your uterus, it can happen in one of ours."

And she wasn't inferring that we'd find some crazy ass uterine swap thing that has yet to be discovered by scientists. She meant that Zube Boy's and my offspring, if my uterus simply isn't having it, has permission to live in one of their respective uteruses (uteri???) for nine months.

And I'm like, "Why me? Why am I SO fucking lucky? How could this be?"

And she said, "We want this for you. As much as you do. Wouldn't you do it for us?"

"Yes. I would. In a fucking heartbeat, I would."

So, while unluck runs amok, so does good stuff. And sometimes when you're unlucky, you find out just how lucky you really are. Only, you would never have known how awesome it is to hold the clean end of the stick if it weren't for the shitty end. At least I know where to hold on. At least I know now that there is a clean end. At least I've learned that flinging the shit while holding the clean end can be a little redeeming. Heh. Especially when it's aimed at asshats. Cockroaches in your hotel room MY ASS! Did you KNOW you dumb twit that cockroaches don't happen to LIVE at 9,600 feet! Take your lying refund-wanting ass elsewhere. And next time don't take a vacation you can't afford, eh.

Anyway. At least asking, "Why me?" isn't all bad.

I'll Be Popping Something

Z-Girl: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! YOU SHIT!

Background noise: Ping-ping-roll-ping-ping-ping-ping-roll-roll-roll...

Z-Boy: Oops.

Z-Girl: Dammit. They're all over!

Z-Boy: I'm sorry.

Z-Girl: WHY do you have to tickle my pits WHENEVER my damn arms are even relatively CLOSE to being up?

Z-Boy: I don't know.

Z-Girl: Now there are popcorn kernels EVERYWHERE but in the popcorn maker!

Yo Yo Yo! An Update and Stuff...

I'm so sorry I left ya'll hanging. I didn't have bloodwork done until late afternoon on Monday, and then didn't get the results until late afternoon yesterday. My hormones are continuing to drop. Albeit, they're being painfully SLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOW about it. But, that compounded with the fact that things are starting to get ugly down there...well, it's over. Or will be soon, anyway.

Thank you ALL for hoping AND for encouraging me to hope when I felt kind of stupid about it. Seriously.

There are a bunch of things in the Zube's future, after discussing our miscarriage situation with the doctor, including but not esclusive to: Progesterone supplements, a baby aspirin a day, a thyroid test, chromosomal testing (maybe, that ones still lingering on our marital discussion table), and much, much more.

There are also some things that I've decided I'll do before we try again which includes, but, naturally, is not exclusive to: acupuncture, NO caffiene, exercise, no more Happy Hour at all, and la, la, la.

Zube Boy has suggested that we ask our friend Zig to be a sperm donor, if it's true that his and my chromosomes aren't working out. Heh. He was kidding. And Zig is NUTZ, yo! So we'd have a fucking crazy kid. And if it's true that your children are worse than you, well then, Zube Boy doesn't deserve that really. Or maybe he does. Who knows. The man's a mystery, I tell ya. Anyway, we're robably not gonna go the sperm donor route.

In OTHER news! I'm an auntie, remember? Miss I and The Englishman and little Alexandria Jade AKA Alex are all doing wonderfully. And? Miss I grills one hell of a steak. Since I can't cook steak FOR SHIT, we'll surely return again and again. Here are some photos:

Miss I, Alex and I (You can probably figger who is who, but in case you're wondering, I'm the one hogging the baby!):


Oh my, how embarrassing! She fell asleep right in the middle of a good joke! YOU GUYS! I thought you told me I was funny!!!


Zube Boy (AKA - The Godfatha) and Zube Girl and Alex. Zube Boy was one of only two men besides Dad to hold her. What is it with boys, eh? Babies, believe it or not, are FAR less fragile than we fear. Anywho...Zube Boy lost his wallet that night. He's convinced that little Alex is a klepto. She's surely got the innocent look down pat. Hee.

The Regurgitating Uterus and Where the Wild Hairs Are

Zube Boy peers over my shoulder while I'm doing a bit of googlin'...

Z-Boy: Brown spotting?

Z-Girl: Yeah, honey. I'm trying to figure out what the hell is going on down there. That's ALL I've had is brown spotting, and not much at that.

Z-Boy: Would it make you feel better to know that sometimes I have brown spotting in my undies, too?

Z-Girl: Yes.

Z-Boy: Okay, then. I do.

Z-Girl: Ew. ffffff-ffffffff*

I'm still hanging out, waiting for the damn fat lady to sing her ass off already. I have to have my blood drawn again tomorrow, and I'm like GAH!!! ENOUGH WITH THE NEEDLES! Hate them. Loathe them. But, I'm really curious to know what my counts are because I still FEEL pregnant. Like, don't come within an inch of my titties or you'll lose your damn head. Which is making this whole escapade worse, in a way. I keep thinking about the fact that I was a twin, and Mom lost one of us, so maybe that's what's going on here? But, my numbers still shouldn't have dropped like they did. I don't think. This dragging on of events is keeping my hope on life support, and, well, I had a VERY strong opinion regarding the Terri Shaivo debacle. It's time to pull the damn plug already.

Z-Girl: It's OVER! Okay. OVER. Not gonna happen.

Hope: But, the last TWO TIMES your symptoms disappeared before everything went awry. This time they haven't.

Z-Girl: I know, but could you please SHUT UP already! PLEASE! Could it just be tomorrow? I need to know what the flip is going on with my uterus. If it's going to regurgitate, I'd like for it to get on with it already.

Hope: There's still hope.

Z-Girl: Shut up. For real. It's not that I don't like you, Hope, but things are dire. And you're making it difficult for me to accept that.

Hope: You can still hope.

Z-Girl: Meh.

Hope: Hope-ity, hope, hope?

Z-Girl: GOD you're annoying.

Hope: You, too.

Z-Girl: I know.

Regardless of all this inner turmoil, Zube Boy and I are sprouting wild hairs in the oddest of places. Our respective asses. There has been talk of running off to Mexico. Preferably the Yucatan. Not permanently. No, no, no. We're far too responsible for that. But for three or four weeks. Just to get away and do some version of the 'Nanny-Nanny Boo-Boo' dance on Project- Make a Baby. What could be more fun than getting jiggy on a beach without peeing on ovulation predictor sticks first?

I'd like to enjoy the gift of the time we've been given. Just the two of us. Shit. Is this a bright side? Am I going soft on ya'll? No. I'm trying to deal with this crap on my terms. You know? Suffice it to say that if any of YOU told me that maybe this was a blessing? I'd kick your ass. And I'm sure you'd expect nothing less. Because you're geniuses like that.

Anywho, I'm okay and I'm not okay. All at the same damn time. It's like duplicitous is my middle name these days. One minute, I'll want to crawl in a hole and die, and the next I'll be thinking, "Why don't you just crawl up your uterus? That seems to do the trick." And I'll laugh. The laughter of a very sick individual. Which is comforting. Because at least it means I'm still in here, among all this chaos. Being a big old bitch. As usual. Heh.


*That's how sound when I'm trying to be annoyed, but laughing despite myself.

Fuck the Bright Side

That crazy ass sillhouette chick up there? The one I daydream about hanging out with over frothy adult beverages? I still wager that she makes a kick ass margarita. Well, I stared at her for a bit wondering if her girlie parts worked properly. After deciding that they did, I stabbed her repeatedly in the cooch with my little cursor arrow. It was cathartic. And she didn't even get mad at me because she's got my fucking back like that.

The weird thing about this whole Miscarriage Mess I'm experiencing these days is that some folks want to look at the bright side of it. And, well, I don't. Not yet. Forgive me if I can't seem to find solace in the fact that at least it's happening early or that now I know I can get pregnant. Well, actually, I have to laugh a little at my fertility. I guess Zube Boy CAN glance my way and I'm pregnant. Three times in seven months. It's just that the little buggers fall out. So, laughable maybe, because not much escapes my scathing humor. But, comforting? No. Not in the least.

This 'looking on the bright side of things' got me thinking about rape. When people say to me something to the effect of, "Well at least blah blah blah...It could be worse," it makes me want to say, "Would you say to a rape survivor, 'Well, at least you didn't get pregnant?' or, 'Well, at least you weren't kidnapped and raped repeatedly?' or, ad nauseum?" No. At least, you shouldn't say those things. Rape is fucking horrible no matter how you spin it. So is this miscarriage business.

I'm not saying that people don't say all the wrong things to rape survivors. They do. I know. The moral of the story is this: People don't like to see other people sad and they try sometimes to look on the bright side of things in the hopes that the person hurting will feel better. Which, well, their intentions are good, but you know what they say about good intentions and the road to hell and all. What people don't seem to realize is that sad is just one step on the journey towards healing. And if that step is taken away, or if the journeying person skips it because they feel undeserving of sadness? The journey will be incomplete. And I've been there, done that. The journey CAN eventually be completed. It's just much tougher when you have to go back to square one years after you thought you were on the verge of HEALED.

I was talking to Hoot the other day and I was explaining this to her. She said, and I've never felt prouder, "One of the millions of things I've learned from you is never to judge someone's sad experiences. Whatever is their most sad thing at the time is their most sad thing at the time. Just let them be sad about it." Aw.

And it's true. I remember approximately ten Februarys ago, sitting in my dorm room contemplating whether I wanted a future of custody battles with a rapist or one without the child of a rapist in it. I heard a knock at my door, and yelled, "Come in!" It was a girl from down the hall that I knew fairly well, but not well enough to tell her what was on my mind at the time. She started tearfully explaining how she was caught in a Love Triangle and didn't know which guy to choose. At first, I wanted to be kind of pissed because I had bigger and badder things on my mind. And then I was like, "What the hell good would it do to get pissed and spout of something like, 'Oh yeah, you don't even KNOW what indecision is!' That'd only make her feel guilty and why should she have? She was crying and stressed, and, well, that IS a pretty big decision." I don't know. I guess you could say I learned an important lesson that day.

What I'm trying to say, more to myself than to anyone else, and in a rather disorganized fashion, if you ask me, is that THIS is my most sad thing right now. And I'm NOT going to think about how much worse it could be. I don't need to. Because it's bad enough and if I think about it in terms of me being lucky, that'll only serve the purpose of making me feel guilty for feeling bad. And I shouldn't feel guilty about that. I know better now.

I felt guilty for feeling bad ten years ago. I thought I should be over it. Recovered. I was lucky. I was alive. I was young. I was cute and in college and had my whole damn life ahead of me. So, I pretended I was all good. I rocked my combat boots and baby barrettes and laughed and smiled and played along. Only underneath, I wasn't all good. And pretending to be all good fueled by guilt only put off the REAL healing about five years or so. Too damn long.

So, with three miscarriages under my belt, I'm going to mourn that for as long as feels right. Until I say enough with the mourning; I'm done. Until I want to look on the bright side. Because I will. When I'm ready. And not a day sooner.

PS- You guys rock. That is all.

Regrouping...

That's what I'm doing. I've worried some of you, and I didn't mean to. It's just that I started blogging because I thought I was funny, and then it turned out that the joke was on me. Heh. Life's a bitch like that sometimes.

In the past few days I've been abysmally sad. And sobbing. And maybe a tiny bit bitchy. Fortunately, Zube Boy is running for Saint of the Year. Because otherwise I'd probably be buried deep in our .1 acre backyard. Sans ceremony.

Today at work, somebody said, "I miss your laugh..."

Me, too. Me, fucking, too.

Counting Down

Ring-Ring

Z-Girl: Hi honey.

Z-Boy: Hey. Where are you?

Z-Girl: Home.

Z-Boy: What happened?

Z-Girl: My counts went down and they should've doubled.

Z-Boy: I'm sorry.

Z-Girl: Eh, it's okay.

Z-Boy: So, did they say what we do next?

Z-Girl: Well, I scheduled an appointment for a fertility consult next Monday...

Z-Boy: Okay.

Z-Girl: ...And it's with the same doctor who saw me before, and he's probably going to say that we need to get our chromosomes tested. I'm afraid that's going to be REALLY FUCKING EXPENSIVE.

Z-Boy: Why do you think that?

Z-Girl: Because when he talked about it before he warned me that it'd be expensive.

Z-Boy: Oh.

Z-Girl: And you know if a doctor is telling you it'll be expensive, well, it's probably REAL expensive.

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: But, you know, I think our chromosomes should get along and shit. I really do. I mean, well, actually, let me think about this...Maybe, on second thought...

Z-Boy: Heh.

Z-Girl: Mine are probably all WOO-HOO careening down my fallopian tube all rock and roll style...

Z-Boy: I bet they're nuts...

Z-Girl: And yours are all mellow and practical looking at mine like they're freaks or something...

Z-Boy: Heh.

Z-Girl: And then they get together and stare at each other all, uh, what the fuck kind of human are we supposed to make of this mess???

Z-Boy: Okay honey. Take it easy...

Z-Girl: Yeah, I think I might've gotten a little carried away there for a minute. Well, I'll see you after work.

Z-Boy: Okay. I love you.

Z-Girl: I love you, too.

Z-Boy: Bye.

Z-Girl: Bye.

Anywho, now you know the dirt. Thank you ALL for the prayers and vibes and thoughts. Sincerely. Reading your comments made ME feel loved, and that means a hell of a lot right now.

I hope the above conversation doesn't have you all thinking that I don't care about the turn of events here. I do. I really, really do. In fact, when I STOP caring about ANYTHING, I'll probably be dead. Because I seem to care too much about a lot of different shit. It's just that, really, what the hell else are you gonna say? I mean, shit, I actually giggled for a few minutes, and since I've been either sobbing or on the verge of tears all damn weekend, the laughter was a welcome respite. And, if I ever stop laughing? I'll probably be dead, too.

I care and I laugh. That's me.

Oh, and I cry, too. And I think I might just go do some of that now.

Thank you again for being the rocking readers and commenters that you are. I may take a hiatus from blogging. Feel free to e-mail me if you like. I'm never one to shy away from exploring dark shit, but most of the dark shit I explore is WAY, WAY back in the Dark Ages of Zubedom, and I've pretty much got my feelings on it sorted out. This, however, is very fresh, and I feel like some things are best left to culture in a petri dish for a bit before being tossed under the microscope for all to see. You know?

Who knows how I'll feel about it tomorrow, though. I may not want to take a hiatus. I may want to whip out the damn microscope and share the culturing. Really, I'll do whatever I damn well please. I don't want to commit either way. I guess I've got some commitment issues going on. Much like my offspring, it would seem.

Here We Go Again. Actually, Again Again. Or Maybe Not.

So, how much do ya'll think the above gear might weigh? Care to venture a guess? Eh. I know. It's kind of tough to know for sure, and I wouldn't have had a CLUE how much it weighed until I went to the doctor yesterday. Now, I'm certain. The above garments, I hereby swear, weigh 18 pounds. They must. I mean, check out the clunky shoes. They're at least five pounds each.

That's the story I told Zube Boy, anyway. See, the scale at the doctor's office said 148. And I do declare that that is just plain WRONG! I KNOW for a fact that I weigh 130. Granted, that's five pounds heavier than what my license says, but the way I see it, if they don't ask me when I renew my license, if I've gained weight, I don't have to offer that information up. I think the Motor Vehicles people should be doing the investigatin' and shit. Besides, maybe I LOOK like I weigh 125, which is really the salient point of having your weight listed on your license, right? Right? I thought so.

NO WONDER I'm exhausted after work. Who the hell wouldn't be after traipsing around the office all day wearing 18 pounds of clothing?

You may be wondering why I went to the doctor in the first place. Or you may not be. I'm going to tell you anyway, because it's important and stuff and may explain a lot. Like my blog hiatus.

As much as I'd like to explain, all I can really muster is to say Here We Go Again. Well, maybe.

Do not read further if you're squeamish...

We've got weirdness going on down in the nether regions, which doesn't fare well since I got a positive pregnancy test a week ago.

I came home from work yesterday morning to rush to an appointment.

Z-Girl: Hi honey.

Z-Boy: What are you doing home?

Z-Girl: I have to go to the doctor. I don't think Stinky is sticking.

Z-Boy: Oh no.

Have I ever told you how wonderful he is? Yes? Well, it bears repeating. My husband is too awesome for words, really. He's said nothing but the perfect things and I'm not going to share them with you because I love being the special person who gets to know how truly thoughtful and caring he is. Neener!

I've been, shall we say, gassy, lately. Hence nicknaming the offspring-to-be (or not-to-be) Stinky. If that's silly, fuck it. We only get to be pregnant for, like, a week anyway, so whatever. I'll take all the liberties I feel like in that damn week.

I can say a lot without having to say much at all. Here are some words and phrases that have been pounding in my head since yesterday's appointment...

...Spotting can be normal...brown...old blood...red blood would be bad...it's not red...cramps can be normal...ectopic...blood test...HCG should double by Sunday if everything is okay...things may be wrong...but they could be okay...IF you have a third one, that's the magic number where we start taking things really seriously...la la la...

Sticking my fingers in my ears and singing Mary Had a Little Lamb at the top of my lungs isn't making those words go away. I can't stop obsessing. I just want to know.

I've stopped bleeding. And it really wasn't much at all.

I've stopped cramping. But they were VERY crampy and very scary.

My cervix is still closed and not tender. Which is good, I've been told.

I threw up this morning. It would be nice if THAT would go away if I'm not going to remain knocked up much longer.

The tatas, they are still hurting. That's how I knew for sure that something was wrong the last two times. Even before they went REALLY wrong. The tata pain abated. Not this time, though.

So, I'd like to be hopeful, but I'm finding it tough. I've looked in every corner of my mind for a little hope and found only a few glimmers. I'll work with those. If ya'll have hope to spare, please send it this way. I'm like a Hope Whore right now. I've used up my stash and now I'm eyeballing other people's.

As always, thank you. I'll know for certain Monday. Or sooner if things go wrong.

Hopefully, you won't hear from me until Monday.

Leaving Notes on Cars

Dear Dickhead,

So, what's it like being a dickhead anyway? I figured you should know. Oh yeah. Thanks for TOTALLY cutting me off and swiping the parking spot I'd been waiting for patiently for five minutes. Must be nice to be an asshole and steal spots from people.

Sincerely,
Zube

PS- You're kind of lucky. I stood by your car for about five minutes and ultimately decided that instead of keying it I'd leave a note.

Something Smells Funny

I've been lounging on the couch reading a book and eating Starburst for the last hour. It's kind of nice. It must've looked kind of nice, too, because three cats decided to join me. The only problem is, I got kind of carried away in my own little world and started farting without giving it a second thought. And now, Jesus H! Now the living room stinks like the bowels of hell and Zube Boy is due home any minute. And I'm not sure if the cats are just in a REALLY deep sleep, or, uh, comatose. Oh yeah, and the dog's sleeping in the hallway instead of on his bed in the living room. If that tells you anything.

Well, I'm off to light some candles that will hopefully dissipate the Ass-Rot that is currently wafting through our living quarters. I think the odds that I'll get any nookie tonight are slim to nil.

And She's Off...And Running...Is It April Yet?

DAYUM, I'm busy! Babies born, honey's birthday's had, marital un-bliss, and sweaty, drunk college kids. Don't mind me. I'm just farting around March and neglecting my blog.

Little Alexandria Jade was born and she's 5lbs 13 oz of beautiousness. Love her. And Miss I and The Englishman are just going to ROCK at the Mommy and Daddy thing! I know it. And I am going to be the best fucking Aunt Zube EVER!

Speaking of birthdays, Zube Boy's was yesterday. We went to our favorite bar and ordered our favorite meal (cheesesteaks that are, like, REAL cheesesteaks, but in Colorado...and I'm from Jersey, I know a real cheesesteak when I see one). After cheesesteaks, we went out for ice cream at Coldstone. Zube Boy made fun of me because I wanted the Cocoa Banana Cabana, and was all embarrassed ordering it. I asked him if he would order it for me, but he pulled out his "It's My Birthday So I Don't Have to Order My Wife's Embarrassing Ice Cream Named Dessert" card. You know. Similar to the Get Out of Jail FREE!" card. Yeah. Anyway, we had a ton of fun.

Let's see, what else. Oh yeah, Zube Boy and I are having marital negotiations right now. We're kind of fighting. But don't worry, it's funny. Well, at least it's funny if you're not me. After five years of pretty much sleeping on specific sides of the bed, I want to change. But Zube Boy's not digging it. He calls bullshit on my, "But MY side is the GHOSTY side of the bed!" whining. I'm working on him though. Seriously. One night I accidentally fell asleep on his side and I got THE BEST SLEEP EVAH! I didn't even have to wrap my head up all burrito-like in the comforter and I didn't wake up ONCE in the middle of the night worrying about ghosts touching my nose. So, I concluded that my side of the bed is haunted. Logically, since Zube Boy doesn't believe in ghosts, AND he loves me, the conclusion I came to was that he should sleep on my side from now on. I'm not getting very far.

So, it's March. Or rather, it's SPRING BREAK 2006!!! Which means that I am swamped yet again by various church groups and college groups and a commute to and from work that somehow manages to extend from six minutes to twenty. Just know that if you are fond of visiting the Zube, she will be sure to disappoint this month. But, not to worry. She'll be back in April with a vengeance. Work is going to be insane for the next few weeks, and I'm going to be doing my best to keep up with that. Which means I'll likely be doing my worst at keeping up with my blog.

Well, PEACE OUT, homies!

Canine Flatulympics

You know Mom and Dad, it's not very nice to laugh at another's misfortune. Is it MY fault that sometimes air comes out of my butt while I'm sleeping and it freaks me out and wakes me up and makes me run away from my bed? I really don't get the air leaking out of my butt thing. It's weird. AND to top it all off it smells kind of funny. And then you guys make me feel all stupid and hold your noses and shoo me away. I mean, it's not like I'm doing it on purpose. You should really be nice. Okay?


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I feel MUCH better now. Thank you all! And Miss I even asked her doctor about cold-havin' folks coming to the hospital and the doctor said babies have incredible immune systems, so I WILL be going to the hospital OHMYGOD, TOMORROW! Whee!

And, I'm not even sick anymore, save a coupla sniffles.