Guys and Girls. Boys and Girls. Girls and Boys. And Guys.

So, there’s this guy. Named Guy. I met him when I was 21. He lived out here in Breckenridge and I met him while he was in Jersey visiting his Mom. We hung out. We were in ‘like’ with each other and stuff. After our first meeting, I visited him in Breckenridge a few times and we’d hang out whenever he was in Jersey visiting his family. When I turned 24, I got all 'Fuck Jersey' and up and moved to Breckenridge. Presumably to date Guy, but mostly because I wanted to get the fuck out of Jersey. Our 'Not on Vacation'/'Real Life' romance did not last long. About a month. We broke up. It was cool. Well, I mean, there were not cool moments. Like, when I sort of plastered his car with maxi pads in a fit of anger one night. But I called him up a couple of days later and told him I had done it. And he said, “You’re crazy.” Then he chuckled. And I said, “I know! But you suck.” Then I chuckled.

Anyway, I started dating Zube Boy a little less than a year later.

A little less than a year ago, I was like, “Huh? Looks like we have new neighbors.” And indeed we did. New neighbors. Across the street. Neighbors. You might see where this is going because that big round thing up on your neck is not just a hat rack, after all. The neighbor was Guy. Guy and his gal. Not, in fact, named Gal.

So now, my ex-boyfriend lives across the street. With his girlfriend. We say hi. It's all good. Well, most of the time anyway.

Whenever Zube Boy and I get into a tiff, he'll prance around the house shouting, “Why don’t you go across the streeeeeet and visit with you LUUUUUUUUUUUVER!”

Or, we’ll be working on the deck and he’ll go, “Honey! Look! It’s your lover over there building a fence.”

The other day he asked me, “How many lucky guys do you know that can say their wife’s ex-boyfriend lives across the street from them?” Hm. No answer.

Yesterday, we had this discussion:

Z-Boy: So, your LUUUUUUVER was riding his bike down the street the other day.

Z-Girl: Mmmmhmmm.

Z-Boy: And he stopped in front of me while I was working on my jeep.

Z-Girl: Yeah.

Z-Boy: And he said, “So, how does it feel to know that I mushroom stamped your wife?”

Z-Girl: BWAHAHAHAHAHA! Shut up. You’re insane.

You know, I don't think we'll be moving anytime soon. Our current living situation provides FAR too humorous fodder.

An Introsepctive Arteest...Where the Fuck is My Beret...

I got to thinking yesterday. Like, a lot. I thought about this miscarriage business and how it relates to my state of mind these days. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself a little because I have an appointment with a professional in the arena of state of minds about just that today. But still. I figured it couldn’t hurt to make my own attempt at working things through.

I’ve decided to think positive. Now and again, anyway.

Now, before ANYONE dare utter a word of “Oh, good, you should be doing that,” or worse, “It’s about damn time,” save your breath. Or don’t. Nobody ever said I had to like you anyway. But if you’re looking to be supportive in this, please avoid that kind of talk. I’m kind of sensitive about it right now and I wouldn’t appreciate anyone implying that what I’ve been feeling these past few months has been wrong in any way. And you could do that by accident. Remember, sensitive? Just a warning.

The truth is, I don’t think it was at all inappropriate to have taken a little skinny dip in the ever so chilly pit of despair. I think it was right. It was right because it’s what I did. And there’s no turning back. And it was kind of a shittastic amount of shit to deal with. Still is. But I'm considering shifting gears.

See, I’ve decided to try a hand at focusing on having a baby rather than bemoaning the fact that I've had three miscarriages. Because having a baby is the goal, really. I want to have a baby. I mean, having a baby best occurs after not having a miscarriage. But not having a miscarriage is not my MAIN goal. Though that’s the one that has consumed me most.

I’ve shifted my thoughts since, well, yesterday. Yeah. I know. Bear with me. This shift is in its infancy. Heh. That was a horrible pun. Even for me. Or maybe not.

The reason I’m sharing all of this with you is because that’s what a blog is for, no? And I wanted to show you a cartoon I drew. My first baby step toward being positive (again, with the bad pun, I'm on a roll).

Ah, hell. I've never been one to avoid going overboard.

Heh. Someday, I may shoot myself for that. Or probably not.

PS- This post was supposed to go up yesterday but Blogger wouldn't post my goddamn pictures for me until today. So I waited. I went to the therapist. It was awesome. I got in touch with some of my selves. I'm feeling a little crazy again. Whew! That's a relief. This is going to be an exciting journey.

Sorry 'Bout That

My Dearest Husband,

I wanted to let you know that after exhaustive research and careful contemplation, I've decided to opt out of the whole Mushroom Stamp thing. See, when you presented the idea, professing that it was an act of love performed between two people who loved each other, I almost fell for, I mean, considered it. Fortunately I didn't agree to it at the time it was mentioned. The fact that you wouldn't divulge what exactly giving me a Mushroom Stamp would entail, gave me pause to heartily accept your offer. I'd like to thank my good friend, Mr. Google, for educating me on this very thing.

Sorry to decline, but I'm remiss to have a penis-shaped bruise on my forehead, what with working in sales and everything. Particularly dealing with aspiring brides and grooms and all. I'm loathe to shed marriage in any other light than wonderful and sporting a penis-shaped bruise anywhere on my person prolly isn't going to convince anyone that marriage is anything other than, well, a dick move. And hell, I like my job. I might even enjoy it. Sorry to decline your gift. But not as sorry as you, I'm sure, knowing how much you'd like to bestow it upon me. Heh. You're lucky you're funny. You have no idea.

Also, just so you know, I got a little overzealous with the laundry yesterday. Allow me to explain. Your work jacket? Was very, very, very, VERY FUCKING MUDDY. I decided to do the wifely thing and wash it. Because I'm good like that. And wash it I did. It's nearly sparkling now. Squeaky clean. And so is, well, your cell phone. Which was in the pocket. Of your work jacket. Which, did I mention, is squeaky clean? Sparkly even? Right. Moving along.

I'd venture to guess that you aren't as sorry as me with regards to the squeaky clean and also not working so much cell phone. Given your aversion to answering your cell phone whenever I have the urge to call it. Which is often. I think I'm sorrier about your phone than you will be. Which means that I'm sorry. Very, very sorry. It will suck not to be able to ring you up while you're working and ask what exactly IS free enterprise, anyway, honey? Your feelings on the not working cell phone matter will likely differ.

One last thing before I go. Last night? When you planted your ass firmly on my leg and farted on it while I was sleeping? That woke me up. As a result? You will be sorry. I have a whole mess of ice cubes stored away in the freezer with your name on them. I think freezing to death would be a horrible way to go. But that's what you get. My thighs jiggle enough these days without your exceedingly powerful flatulence reverberating against it.

Sleep tight! Asshole. Very, very tight.

Love,
Your Ever-Adoring Wife

My Name is Mud

Or, not really, but I fucking LOVE that song. And mud was an everpresent substance in my weekend. You can call me Digger. Because that's what the hell I've been doing for the past two days. I'm a dirty, dirty girl. One who is going to have a heck of a deck party in a couple of weeks. Because my deck? Is going to be bigger than your deck. 'K? But don't get all jealous. You're invited.


See, most of the time, I wasn't really using the mac-daddy hole maker. That was Zube Boy's job. I'm kind of glad, too, because digging within inches of cable and telephone wires with a bad ass machine is not exactly my forte. I had the distinct privelage of using a shovel. And it was a rainy weekend. Whee! Rain is most certainly not conducive to being a tidy hole digger. As is evidenced by the condition of my footwear.


Oh, how I wish I could say that I got this dirty four-wheeling.


I might've even fallen on my ass in the mud. I'm so work dizzy, that I can't recall, for sure. You be the judge.


My father-in-law ROCKS SOCKS! And busts his ass. We are forever indebted to him, and he can come and visit us from Chicago ANY TIME! He commented to me that we'd better watch out for the grave-diggers union. They might be looking for us. He couldn't be more right. I suppose Zube Boy is supervising. He's good at that.


I was downloading a bunch of pictures and noticed a bit of a trend. Here is one of the rental property we just bought. We painted the outside. And I use the term "we" loosely, here.


Again with the working father-in-law. And the not so much working Zube Boy. As a matter of fact, is he yawning?

Hired help:


For Hire: Muscly type dudes with a penchant for swinging a shovel. In lieu of pay, a hefty amount PBRs will be provided throughout the project. As well as handy-dandy spots to place your beer.

Adventures in Outer, Er, Uh, Rather, Inner Space

In other words, I have an appointment with a psychologist in two weeks. Because bursting into tears at work a few times a day is not something I care to put on my resume. It's probably not normal, even. Once in a while, every one woman army needs to call in for a little back-up.

I talked to my potential counseler over the phone and she sounds wondermous. She's a doula who has worked with Planned Parenthood at abortion clinics as a counseler and specializes in grief over loss of a pregnancy. She has dealt with women in every aspect of childbearing. We were meant for each other. I have a renewed faith in eeny-meeny-miny-mo-ing your way to a counseler in the phone book. Or fate. Who knows? I think it might even be a little of both.

I am so utterly relieved to have admitted to myself that I'm in a little over my head with the sorrow and stuff, I can't even tell you. And I have to thank PaintingChef for Google-talking my ass into what it really needed to do. Friends rule. Sometimes I need to be told by someone else to take care of myself. That's always been a problem for me.

The thing is, you guys, I REALLY, REALLY hope this counseler chick helps me find my voice. Because I am SO hating having lost it. Truly I am.

In the meantime, smooches to you all! I'll keep you updated and maybe someday soon this blog of mine will get interesting.