Monkey Business

The Scene: We're watching The Omen. Damian is at the zoo freaking the fuck out of the monkeys.

Z-Boy: Honey...

Z-Girl: Yeah...

Z-Boy: I want a monkey.

Z-Girl: That's cool.

The big ass ape starts thrashing his body against the glass enclosure and Damian's mom is looking around, all wide-eyed looking like 'Dude, I totally think my kid is a fucking freak.'

Z-Girl: Honey...

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: If you had a monkey, what would you name it?

Z-Boy: Hmmm...

Silence

Z-Boy: Teresa*.

Z-Girl: Fuck you, honey.

Sometimes I wonder if the Turtle is totally bored. Doesn't seem like there's a whole lot to do up in my cooch, ya know? Oh well, at least if it's a boy he's got something to play with. And if it's a girl, I'm sure she's thinking wickedly evil thoughts like her mother and that's quite a time passer.

Did I mention to you all that we're not finding out what The Turtle is? I wonder how crazy that will drive me? And you? But really, if it drives YOU crazy, well, then, that's the fun part. Me? Not so much.

*For those not in the know, that be my IRL name. Kind of like Zube is my IRL nickname. Or something.

I'm Like a Fucking Mathematician...

Heartbeat + Second Trimester = FUCKING WOOT!

She's a Zube Girl...

In her Zube World...

Would you like to know what happens in Zube World? Well, why don't I tell you...

Firstly, somehow three cats without opposable thumbs will manage to open a childproof bottle of aspirin and splay said aspirin all over the floor while you are sleeping. The floor, which will happen to be scattered with little tiny tufts of hair. Black hair. White hair. Gray hair. No blonde hair to be found. And, if you happen to be a Zube Girl, you'll have to pull pieces of hair off of said aspirin so that you can eat one because you woke up late and don't have time to stop at the grocery store and buy a new bottle and it is entirely possible that the only reason you've managed to stay pregnant this long is because aspirin is preventing any clots that might harm your precious little fetus.

Secondly, you will live in one pair of pants. And have to wash them every other day. Because they are the only ones that fit you. Well, they don't actually FIT you, persay. Unless one could consider the use of a hair band looped through the buttonhole to the button to fall into the definition of 'fit'. And it will probably be this way for a little bit. Because buying maternity clothes? Scary. It means that I totally believe this will work out. Which, well, I would like to. But, ya know. It's just scary to throw money at the idea.

I'm hanging in. 12 weeks and 4 days. I have an appointment tomorrow where I hope to hell we'll hear the heartbeat. After that? I think I'll breathe just a teeny bit easier. Because then my risk of miscarriage will fall to 3 or 4%. Not that I necessarily trust that I'd be lucky enough to be on the heaping end of odds. But I'll try.

I Could Just Die...Or Puke...You Never Can Tell...

But the cuteness overload is, at least to me, almost too much to bear...



I like to call this masterpiece The Odd Turtle.

Heartrate - 180 beats per minute

I'm measuring 11 weeks.

Holy shit, you guys. I might just be excited.

I do want to say that I know some of my dear readers may be a tad OVER it with the pregnancy talk and hoping each day that maybe, just maybe, I'll post something about yelling at police officers or pant shrinking gnomes, but I'm simply consumed with this subject. And since, in real life, I curb the pregnancy talk, it sort of oozes out of me here.

Somebody'll piss me off soon, I'm sure. 'Cause let me tell you, these hormones? Are sure to fill a woman with a little piss and vinegar.

I mean, those clueless assholes who were strutting down the center of the parking lot to get to their car while I idled behind them have NO idea how close they came to being my newly acquired bumper decor. Truly.