Kind of like a party being busted by the cops...but the complete opposite.

Hey! Its PaintingChef, I've hacked Zube's blog so don't tell her because she would probably beat me up. Well, you know, except for the part where she sort of told me to post this.

So. Update on the Turtle...

Zube had a doctors appointment and an ultrasound and first thing first, the baby looks great. Everything is fine, it is measuring just right and hosting quite the kegger up in Zube's inner sanctum. The fetal football team are all congregating around the bar doing flaming shots while ogling the chicks and there are a couple of drunk sorority fetuses (fetii?) passed out in one corner but nobody is paying them any attention because those bitches can't hold their liquor anyway. Although I do think that someone drew a moustache on one of them

The not so great news, however, is that the party is quite full and threatening to be busted by the cops a little earlier than expected so Zube is having to have a small procedure called a cerclage to make sure everyone stays all tucked up in the house until the party has run its course.

So Zube and family are living it up at the hospital for a night while things get all squared away. She wanted me to let you all know what was going. And now I have.

~PaintingChef

This and That

-I am fine. The Turtle is fine. So far everything, save a few bumps in the road, looks okay.

-Work is really working me over. How appropriate. So, on top of the utter exhaustion I've been feeling as the Turtle sucks every spare and non-spare ounce of energy out of me, I've been working six days a week here and there. Fun stuff.

-The Episcopalians returned. I still love them as much as ever.

-I've been spotting for the past five weeks. It's kind of shut me up about this whole pregnancy thing. It is disconcerting to say the least, but totally explainable, so try not to worry. I've got worrying covered. I have a 'marginal anterior' placenta. 'Marginal' apparently means that my placenta is low and partially covering my cervix. This, I'm told, usually corrects itself as the pregnancy continues. But before it corrects itself, spotting is bound to occur. 'Anterior' means that instead of attaching itself to the back of my uterus, the Turtle implanted in the front. Which doesn't mean much at all except that, unfortunately, I won't feel those reassuring kicks and such until later in pregnancy because the placenta adds yet another buffer between the Turtle and my nerve endings.

-Yesterday Zube Boy and I went to dinner.

Z-Girl: Honey, do you know what's coming up?

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: Well, January 8th is our six year dating anniversary.

Z-Boy: Ooooh. Six of the best years of my life.

Z-Girl: Aw.

Z-Boy: Down the drain.

Z-Girl: Bastard.

-I'm 19 weeks and 6 days today. You know what that means? I'll be 20 weeks tomorrow. And do you know what that means? I'll be about halfway there. That's been astounding the shit out of me, to be honest.

-I really want a brownie.

-With ice cream.

-And chocolate syrup.

-And whipped cream.

-I'm going to go have one.

-Now.

Sorry I left y'all hanging, YET AGAIN. I've just been plodding along trying not to count days, and that's meant I've kept myself really busy in both totally meaningful and totally meaningless ways.

So, I Married Prince Charming...Or, Maybe Not...But At Least He's Not An Ax Murderer...

The Scene: Zube Boy is cleaning up his work shop. Putting all the big tools in their places. Kind of like how I feel when I'm checking people in at the front desk sometimes. Heh. Anywho...

Z-Girl: Honey, it looks really, really good in here!

Z-Boy: Thanks...

Z-Girl: What's this?

Z-Boy: Oh, it's just some notebook...

Z-Girl: Awww, honey is it your diary?

Z-Boy: Yeah. It's my diary.

Z-Girl: *Grabs notebook from its position high upon a shelf*

Z-Boy: You should read it. It's filled with all of the happy memories I've had since we got married.

Z-Girl: *Opens notebook*

Z-Boy: Heh.

Z-Girl: You're a dick. It's empty.

Z-Boy: There's still plenty of time to fill it up.

*************************************************

The Scene: Zube Boy and some buddies, including our roommate at the time, Zig, went to Vegas for Zube Boy's bachelor party. Whatever happened there, stayed there...for the most part. There was one photo of two gentlemen, and I use the term gentlemen loosely here, sporting boxers, well, one was kind of not sporting them so much, that involved a Holy Bible, but other than that no evidence of the weekend made it home. I'm in the dark as to what occurred at Zube Boy's bachelor party, and I kind of prefer it that way. Anyway, upon returning home, Zig and Zube Boy dumped their luggage on the living room floor and Zig regaled me with some, ahem, 'business cards' in his wallet that he'd received from a few ladies down in Vegas. Some very fetching, and, er, naked ladies.

Z-Girl: Honey, you better not have any pictures of hot chicks in YOUR wallet.

Z-Boy: Oh, don't worry, I don't.

Z-Girl: *Opens up his wallet*

Z-Boy: *Smiles his ass off*

Z-Girl: *Sees that the only picture in his wallet is of...her*

Z-Boy: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Z-Girl: Shut up. You know, I really can't even say anything.

Z-Boy: Nope.

Zig: Dude, you kind of walked right into that one.

Z-Girl: Yeah.

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.

Rip Van ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ...

I'm SO very, totally, absolutely sorry for not updating and possibly even worrying some of you. The truth is, I've been meandering through each of these recent days in a zombie-like state. Everything is fine so far. I feel kind of in limbo because I haven't had proof that things are still okay since my ultrasound two weeks ago, but since nothing has fallen out, I'm operating under the assumption that things are still hunky-dory. I feel a little naive for it, but I'm not beating myself up or anything.

I'm 10 weeks and 3 days today. Wow. Double digit weeks. That's exciting.

I haven't been as sick as I'd like, to be honest. But my one true symptom is exhaustion. On Saturday, I retired to the bedroom under the pretense of watching a stupid Lifetime movie. Those aren't allowed to air on the living room television, at least when Zube Boy is around. Apparently, my husband found me out cold at 6:30PM. And I didn't stir until 7:30AM. With the time change. Thirteen hours of sleep. Sheesh. I am a very lame wife these days. And blogger.

We've taken to calling Odd a new name. The Turtle. I like to think of our little fetus (whee, supposedly it's gradiated from embry status) as The Odd Turtle. And seriously, in the first ultrasound? I'm totally carrying a turtle. Without the shell, of course, because that would be biologically impossible.

I don't have much to say. I have another ultrasound on Wednesday. I'm biding my time until then. The folks around Zube Boy and I seem to be getting really excited. I guess I'll let them do it for us. 'Cause we're simply not there yet. We're still living in Things Could Still Go Wrong Land. Self preservation. Sometimes the excitement in my wake makes me nervous. But other times is nice. Nice and normal, I should think. Maybe we should be getting excited. Soon enough. Two more weeks and I might be breathing a little easier.

Meanwhile, we're just hanging out. Catching some ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ's.

Take care.

Take That

A while ago, Zube Boy got his hands on my cell phone. This happens quite a bit. One day, I'll look down at my phone and where it once said 'Zube Girl' it will say 'Zubesmell' or something equally as assy. Anyway, I hadn't realized this particular time that he'd been screwing with my phone until one day, while sitting at my desk I hear, "Halllllllllllllll-lelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallllllllllllll-lelujah, halle-e-lu-jah!" After a few unanswered queries of, "Who the hell's phone is that?" I realized that, "Oh, mine the hell phone that is! What the..." I hadn't assigned that particular ringer to anyone on my contacts list. When I looked down to check the caller-ID, it said, "God." Fuck. God was calling me.

It turned out not to be God at all. Which was probably a good thing because I'm fairly certain I wasn't on my best behavior that day. Or any other day, for that matter. I'm counting on an infestation of locusts to warn me of God's next call. So I can make amends and shit first. Anyway...

It was Zube Boy. Mr. Funny Man. And since, I never changed it because sometimes my laziness knows no bounds.

On another note, perhaps, an angrier note, sometimes things get me all fired up and rambunctious. Imagine that. Mostly, it's websites I seek out for advice about being pregnant after a miscarriage. They seem to like to tell me, in a sparkly and optimistic way, "Try not to worry! ENJOY your pregnancy."

Hmph. Enjoy pregnancy my ass. That's about the most useless fucking advice I've ever heard. But, being the adventurous soul that I am, I'd be willing to give it a whirl if the advice givers would do me just one favor.

Go to the Grand Canyon with me.

And while we're standing high up on a cliff, admiring the view, I'll push them off.

And then? We'll do it again.

And? Again.

And once they're sufficiently tore up and broken, I'll suggest we head up just one more time. While we're up there, I'll saying things like, "ENJOY the view! Isn't it beautiful? Really, relax and look around!"

If they'll do just that one thing for me, I'll certainly return the favor by enjoying pregnancy and not worrying.

Somehow, I think I'll be left to my own worrying devices.

But, uh, so far so good in that department. Nothing's fallen out today. That's my mantra these days.

For Now? WOOT!

I've REALLY got to do this thing called work, but I just had to share. And I figured ya'll would kill me if I didn't do so expediently, because your good like that at keeping me on my toes. Anyway, Odd measured 8 weeks and 4 days. Somewhere along the line s/he picked up an extra day this week and is measuring ahead, which rocks socks.

The heartrate was 188. Apparently, Odd is not so chill as I thought. I asked the doctor if that was too high. He said it was fine. Jesus. I thought it was gonna burst right out of little Odd's chest cavity. Crazy shit.

And? S/he was kind of flitting about. Like a little swimmer. It was so fucking cute I almost threw up. And maybe even a tear did stir in mine eye. Anything is possible.

The Waiting Game

I didn't mean to leave you hanging, but I'm kind of waiting to hear back from the doctor's office. They said they'd call after 4PM and so, since it is only quarter 'til, I'm not gonna get my panties all twisted yet. Really, since the previous debacles, of which there were many, they've been quite on the up and up.

Anyway, the spotting stopped yesterday. And really, it wasn't much AT ALL. More like a tinge to be honest. I had a tiny bit more this morning, then nothing more all day.

The thing is, I don't think it was the bad kind of spotting. Am I totally naive? Am I in oblivious denial? Actually, I think you all know how absolutely grounded I am about this pregnancy = baby thing, and I don't feel like this is denial at all.

I'm well aware that any kind of spotting is not good. But, I'm no longer freaking out. We'll just wait and see what the doctor says. Also, given that all three of the other miscarriages were accompanied by spotting much worse than this, and cramps, and a complete and utter feeling of horror because I knew deep, down inside that it was over, this episode is different. I feel like I would *know* if something was awry. And I'm not getting that 'knowing' feeling at all.

I'll definitely keep you all updated of things as I learn them. I guess for now we just wait and see. Which is no fun at all, let me tell ya. But I don't have much of a choice in the matter.

Hang in there Odd. I'd really like to meet you someday.

Sunday, Fucking Sunday...

Or, it would be fitting to not have even changed the lyrics at all.

I'm spotting again. And again it is only a tiny bit. And it's brown. And I know that last time it was nothing. But still. I'm scared.

And the thing that really bothers me is WHY, WHY, WHY do my spotting episodes have to happen on Sundays? When I can't call the office for a little reassurance. My only option would be to go to the ER. And this is SO not an ER amount of blood. It's hardly even enough blood to warrant a paranoid patient call to the office, I don't think. But, you know, it's blood.

Up until now, things have been great. So great, I was afraid to tell you about them. Zube Boy and I have fleeting moments of, "Huh, could we really be on our way to having a baby this time?"

Ah well. We'll see what happens. I'm chillin' like a villain. Or like the laziest person you've ever seen. Take your pick. Though being parked on the couch for as long as I have does seem a little villainous. So it could be a little of both.

If it continues, I'm going to call the doctor tomorrow to see if they can get me in this week instead of next. But if it stops, which it may have already, I'll probably hang tight, crossing my legs among other things, until my scheduled appointment.

Thump Thump Thump

Because I'm remiss to leave you hanging on the edge of your seat until a time when I'm feeling all witty and compelling, I'll just give you the dirt. 'Cause that's what's important anyway.

Heartrate = 152 beats per minute

This is excellent. And sounded even better. Better than excellent.

I'm not breaking out the party hats and noisemakers just yet. But I am somewhere in between cautiously optimistic and unbridledly joyful. Probably a little closer to the 'cautiously optimistic' to be honest, given my uncharacteristic sensiblity when it comes to being pregnant.

Oh, and between you and me, I kind of don't know how to be this pregnant. We're definitely in uncharted territory here, folks.

TGI...Nevermind...

This whole business of having ultrasounds scheduled on Mondays needs to stop. I'm wishing my weekend away.

The other day, Zube Boy and I were discussing flying...

Z-Girl: I hate flying. It just doesn't seem right.

Z-Boy: What do you mean.

Z-Girl: I don't know. It's like, I totally don't get how the plane flies when nothing is, uh, flapping. Ya know?

Z-Boy: Flapping?

Z-Girl: Yeah. Like a bird. I mean, birds fly because their wings flap. So...

Z-Boy: *trying not so successfully to disguise a I Can't Believe My Wife Is Going to Say What She Is About to Say smirk* So what?

Z-Girl: I'm getting there. Geez. SOOOOOO, for flying in a plane to make sense to me the wings should FLAP. Then I would get it.

Z-Boy: Wow.

Anyway, we're idling by around these parts. Avoiding any discussion of all things pregnant. It seems the safest route. I'm really nervous. I hope with all my heart that the ultrasound will go swimmingly on Monday. But, I'm prepared for the worst.

O to the D and D

Dear Odd,

I can't believe you're still hanging in there. That's nothing short of awesome. A few minutes out of the day I've even gotten quite excited about it. But then the emotionally conservative voices in my head get all frantic and shoosh me. Sorry I'm not all squeeing and knitting you baby booties or anything just yet. It's self preservation really. And besides, by the time I learned to knit, you'd probably be learning to ride a bike. A Harley. Also? With Zube Boy's exasperating habit of poking me in the tits because he doesn't think they really hurt THAT bad and the frustration of learning a new hobby that involved knitting needles, someone would most certainly lose and eye. And it wouldn't be me. Or you. You don't quite have those yet, I don't think. And even if you did have eyeballs, far be it for me to stab MYSELF in the stomach to get to them. So, for Zube Boy's sake, we'll keep all squeeing and knitting at bay for the time being.

I've been feeling a little bad about calling you Odd, but at the same time, well, not so much. See, Zube Boy calls me honkytits and donkey legs and I call him taco head and asslips, so really, you totally lucked out in the nickname departmemt. Why, if I recall correctly, the last embryo to take up residence in my womb was affectionately called Stinky. I think we might have pissed that one off, though.

Also, I think I kind of want to make out with Bonanza for her comment about the whole fetal pole thing on my last entry. Which reminds me, you fucking rock that fetal pole, dude. Get all Zen about it and BE the pole. That's the way to go. It should be pretty easy, too, because you kind of ARE the pole anyway. For now at least.

And with the heartbeat. I so don't want to be that pushy mom. As Phil noted, I bet you are totally chill and not very excitable. Like Zube Boy. Which would drive me mad. I'm halfway there anyway, so I'll let you get away with it. Could you just boost it up a bit? I mean, I know the magic cootchie ultrasound wand probably caught ya when you just started and being brand new at the whole heartbeat thing you might've felt a little naked and all with us just storming up in there. I felt a little naked just then, too, if that makes you feel any better. I feel ya. I'll just say that I hope you've got it down, or rather up, next Monday. The low end of average would suffice. You can save going big for when you're on the outside. I'll buy you ice cream at some point in the future if you'll just do that one thing.

I was talking to My Belle yesterday and I told her that if you'd stick around for another, eh, eight months or so, I will TOTALLY hide that F you get in Algebra from Zube Boy. Because seriously, math loses me once letters are added to the mix, too. I rambled on about all kinds of things I'd let you get away with. And then My Belle suggested, "Odd can even be a Republican." Huh? What? Hm. Well, okay fine. I'll admit that one gave me pause, but hell, I'd really like you to stay. For the record, I'd prefer if you were a Libertarian or something. Because being outnumbered by Republicans in my own home would only fan the furiously burning political flame I have under my ass these days. But, that would probably entertain Zube Boy at the very least. And you, too, when you're old enough. Which, if you are a Republican, you likely will be. Just think for yourself. That's all I ask.

Well, rock on, Odd. I'm going to go to bed because your robbing me of all my energy. Which is fine by me. When I'm sleeping, I don't worry. And that's probably better for you.

Love,
Zube

Good News

Sort of. Or at least I should appreciate that it is good news and stop being so consumed with the negative shit. That's difficult, to say the least.

We have a yolk sac, a fetal pole, and a heart flutter. In laymen's terms, the important shit is there and fits the timeline. The heart flutter is a little slow, but the doctor said it is still very early and it is possible it will speed up.

I go back next Monday.

I don't really know what to say. I'm kind of afraid to say anything.

Odd? Would ya speed it up with the heartbeat? Pretty please?

When You See No Rhyme or Reason...

Is it reasonable to sing a rhyme?

Mary had a little lamb...

I'm spotting.

Little lamb...

I know that many women spot, but...

Little lamb...

I'm not really like many women when it comes to this being pregnant gig.

Mary had a little lamb...

It's Sunday, so there's not much I can do.

It's fleece was white as snow.

But wait 'til tomorrow. And hope it doesn't get worse.

And everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went.
And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go...

La la la la la la la...

In other news...

I pulled my fingers out of my ears and stopped furiously belting out Old Mother Goose tunes long enough to find my husband growling at our new spice rack. Hmmm...


I see nothing menacing about this do you? Eager to understand the fucked up, crazy, erm, I mean, delicate intricacies of my significant other's inner workings, I asked him what he found so threatening about our new spice rack that would cause him to puff-up all WWF-style and growl at it.

Z-Boy: GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR...GRRRR..GRRRRRRRRRR...

Z-Girl: Honey?

Z-Boy: GRRRRRRRRRRRR...What?

Z-Girl: Why on earth are you growling at the spice rack?

Z-Boy: It's the turtle.

Z-Girl: The turtle?

Z-Boy: Yes.

Z-Girl: But honey, you made that turtle when you were little. Your Mom gave it to me when we were visiting. I thought it was cute. Why don't you like it?

Z-Boy: It doesn't like ME. Look at it! It's gotta mean face.

Z-Girl: I think it's a cute face.

Z-Boy: Yeah, right. Every time I walk past I can feel it giving me the old stink eye.

Z-Girl: Whatever. I think it's totally cute and it's staying there.

Z-Boy: Fine. That's just because you hate me, too.

Z-Girl: Yup. Hey, how old were you when you made it anyway?

Z-Boy: Eh, I don't know. Eighteen or something.

Z-Girl: Nice job. Your Mom seemed really proud. Heh.



I don't think it looks so mean. But if it's getting up in Zube Boy's face, I will surely consider it an ally.

So Far So Good

That's the conversation I have with my Mom every morning. Nothing's fallen out yet. Odd is hanging in there.

A funny thought struck me just now as I was vacuuming *cough* turning on the Roomba *cough* and singing along with the Indigo Girls. Sometimes when people are pregnant? They get to have a baby at the end. Do I dare to hope? I think I've begun. I've passed my longest previous pregnancy in recent years by a week and a half. I'll take that as a good sign.

I'm 6 weeks and 4 days along according to the day I ovulated. Which, yes. I know on exactly what day I ovulated. I started charting this cycle. Charting is a quite invovled process of detecting ovulation. One which I am far too lazy right now to explain. But you can look at my chart here. I just wanted to pull out the big guns this time. I hadn't gotten pregnant by 'Not Trying But Not Trying NOT To' in six months. I paid for a full year's subscription to Fertility Friend in August to keep track of my charts. A whole year. And I conceived in the first month. So the rest of the year will, I hopity-hope-hope, be useless. It's Odd really.

On Thursday, I received a call from the OB's office.

*ring ring*

Z-Girl: Hello?

Marissa: Hi, is this Zube?

Z-Girl: Yes.

Marissa: Well, I wanted to call and make sure everything was okay. We missed you at your ultrasound today.

Z-Girl: What?! No, no, no. My ultrasound is NEXT week.

Marissa: Hm...We had you scheduled for today. I don't see you on here for next week.

Z-Girl: Okay, because Dr. D, when he called me yesterday said that he wanted me to come in NEXT week. He said he'd talk to the receptionist and transfer me over. When he did, the receptionist said, "How does Thursday sound?" NOT how does TOMORROW sound. She said, "How does Thursday sound?" And SINCE Dr. D wanted me in NEXT week, well, you know, I assumed she meant Thursday of NEXT week.

Marissa: Hmmm...

Z-Girl: And, just curious, but do you really think that with how concerned I am and how often I've been up your butts calling and whatnot, I'd just blow off an ultrasound appointment?

Marissa: Well, no. That's why I was worried that something might be wrong.

Z-Girl: No. Nothing's wrong really. Well, save the fact that I could have had an ultrasound TODAY. That sort of sucks. Because I really would've liked to.

Marissa: Well, let's see what we can do.

Z-Girl: Thank you.

Long story short. I now have an ultrasound on Monday. 11AM Mountain Time. Perty please think of Odd and I? Honestly, it was probably a blessing in disguise that I didn't have an ultrasound this past Thursday. I mean, it's entirely possible that we might have seen a heartbeat, but it's also entirely possible that we wouldn't have seen a whole heck of a lot. And that would have freaked me the fuck out. Anywho, think lots of heartbeaty thoughts for us, would ya?

And you can bet your ass that I'll let you all know what happens ASAP. You've been kind of my lifeline these days, as silly as that may sound. I read your comments over and over and I find hope in the fact that so many people out there are holding us up with their good vibrations.

Keep on keepin' on.

PS- I threw up this morning. Never in my life did I ever think I'd be so happy to yak. My lack of nausea has unnerved me a little. Though the proverbial 'they' say that many women don't experience morning sickness. It still makes me feel better to know that Odd is being all ominipotent and parasitic and getting what s/he needs from me, even if it is at the expense of my aversion to resting my head on toilets. Know what I mean?

Doctorspeak...Something I am Apparently NOT Fluent in...

Am I expected to be?

You see, the doctor called me today, proclaiming that things looked GREAT! And I, naturally, was like, "What? Are you serious? Because last week I left off at 35 and this week I went down to 33. How can that be good?"

He said, "Oh. Ah. Well, actually, your counts were 33 HUNDRED on Thursday. And then on Saturday, they were 66 HUNDRED."

33-Fucking-Hundred you say?

66-Fucking-Hundred?

Hmmm...It would have been nice if the hundred part weren't excluded because then I wouldn't have spent five days thinking I was miscarrying or having horrible diseases

My eyes sort of glazed over and my mind went stupid for just about the entire rest of our conversation. I remember such phrases as "great levels" and "more than doubling." But that's about it.

Anyway, I'm in shock. I have an ultrasound next Thursday. October 5. I suppose we'll attempt to see a heartbeat then. That'd be far more awesome than I can even describe.

Holy fucking hell. I can't believe this shit.

What in the Fucking, Fuck?!

My hcg on Saturday was 66. Doubled from 33 on Thursday. This makes NO fucking sense. I've had absolutely no bleeding or cramping. But two Mondays ago they were 17 and then 35 two days later. This still doesn't bode well, but again. What the fuck? Apparently I can't even miscarry correctly.

This is infuriatingly, uh, infuriating. I'm speechless.

Odd is certaintly living up to his/her name.

And seriously. I'm not getting all hopeful. My hcg should be in the 1,000s at this stage. In fact, after consulting Dr. Google regarding fluctuating hcg levels, I'm a wee bit alarmed that Molar Pregnancy came up quite frequently.

Again? The fuck? I'm losing my mind. Oh, and as always, waiting for a doctor to call me back. Naturally.

So while miracle voodoo, good vibes, and prayer would be nice, I'd appreciate if they were coupled with voodoo, good vibes, and prayer that this does not mean I have a complication which essentially is a type of cancer.

Hmm, How Not So Odd...

My hcg on Thursday was 33. That's not so good. Actually, it's terrible. It means that, not only did my numbers not roughly double every 48 hours, but they've dropped from what they were a week ago.

I'm having a rough time not blaming this on the dropping of a myriad of balls on the part of the doctor's office. Primarily, I'm really torqued about the fact that, despite me calling the office last Monday requesting a progesterone test, and being ignored, it turned out that on Wednesday, even though my request for a progesterone test was ignored again, the nice blood taker lady heeded my pleas to take another vial to test progesterone, and it WAS low. Only I didn't find out until Friday night when the doctor called. And it was too late for me to find a pharmacy in Chicago and have him call the prescription in. I'd like to mention here that by Friday night my tatas were already beginning to shrink back to their usual pre-porn star size and all the crazy ass blue mappy looking veins had all but receded.

As I was told, I called the office at 8:01AM on Saturday with the phone number of a pharmacy around the corner so the prescription could be called in. Lo and behold, by 4:00PM the pharmacy had STILL heard no such thing of this Zube chick, much less were they able to prepare a cure for what ailed her. So, I called the emergency line at the office and my doctor happened to be on call. He told me he'd asked his nurse to call that in at 9:00AM and he was sorry she hadn't. He called it in immediately.

I didn't get my hands on those pills until 6:00PM. That means I endured six days of low progesterone, the pregnancy kick-start hormone. Which is really shitty considering that if they had taken my progesterone on Monday like I'd asked, and been all timely and shit about getting me on supplements, I could have started it on Tuesday. Tuesday when I still happened to have porn star blue mappy tits. And felt the faintest bit of nausea. Pretty much, when I was still feeling pregnant.

I'm pretty sure that by Saturday it was too late and things had already begun to deteriorate. It's infuriating that it took almost a week to take care of this. One would think that, given I lose my pregnancies so quickly, it might've been a priority to get things figured out in a more timely manner. I don't get the feeling that the people at this office CARE about me. In fact, since my name is responded to with a knowing sigh whenever I call, I get the feeling that I bother them. And that is not the kind of bedside manner I'm looking for.

So, I'm pissed. But I'm also a little hopeful. Perhaps it IS the progesterone that is the problem. And I can take that information to my NEW doctor, whom I haven't found yet. I'm still asking around.

Oh, and to add insult to injury. I received a phone call from the pharmacy on Tuesday. They recieved a second order for the same prescription I'd picked up on Saturday and wanted to know what was up with that. I guess Nurse Fucking Moron finally found the time to call in my scrip. Three days later. Bitch.

I feel absolutely assish putting you guys through this. I really do. I thank you immensely for your well wishes and love. It means A LOT. And in the words of my most awesome husband, "I really think we're getting closer." Me, too. I hope.

Peek-A-Boo

Have you ever played peek-a-boo with a child? A really young one who actually believes that when his or her eyes are covered and they can no longer see you, that you can't see them either? It's kind of fun. Knowing that their world view does not yet take into account that they do not, in fact disappear when they cover their eyes. So you play along. "Oh my GOOOOOOOOOOOSH, WHERE is Susie? I can't see her anywhere." And when they unveil their baby blues or browns or greens you squeal with delight, "THERE she is!" It wouldn't be as much fun to get all matter of fact on 'em by telling them the truth. It'd ruin the game.

That's kind of how I feel about being pregnant. Little Odd has got her/his eyes covered, plugging away, hopefully doing the cell multiplication thing, and I'm pretending I don't see it happening. Like, if I take notice, I'll screw up the fun. And I don't want to do that.

I'd love to be excited about passing milestones. But I'm trying to be realistic. So pretty much, I've been getting by each day simply noting, "Huh, nothing has fallen out yet."

Maybe it's going to work. Maybe it's just lasting longer. Maybe y'all are wicked awesome at the voodoo thing. Whatever it is, I hope it keeps up.

For those in the know, sadly you'll probably be infertile or fellow miscarriers, here were my #'s from Monday and Wednesday last week.

Monday - hcg - 17

Wednesday - hcg - 35 - progesterone - 10.5

For those of you lucky enough to not be all pregnancy hormone savvy, I'll give you a little crash course. Hcg is supposed to double roughly every 48 hours. Which, as you can see, mine did. Almost precisely. While it's nice to know that Odd is somewhat of a perfectionist in this arena, I'd have loved to see my #s more than double, but I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The doctor said my progesterone is a little on the low side so I'm taking supplements. I've already bitched an earful to everyone who knows about that debacle and how the prescription was never called in to the Walgreens in Chicago when I was told it would be and I ended up having to call the OB's emergency line to ask them to call it in again, so I won't go on and on about it.

I have an appointment tomorrow where we'll follow up the hcg. Here's to hoping.

Chicago was incredi-awesom-fabu-tastic. I had a blast seeing my in-laws and my family. It was neat to have them all together. Good news abounds in Zube Boy's family. My sister-in-law is engaged. She's asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding next summer and it makes me all teary with honor just thinking about it. Really. We've picked out the bridesmaid dresses already. Mine's a size 8. Let's hope that I have to lose weight to fit into it. Baby weight. And I wouldn't mind if, on that occasion, Odd were to meet his/her Grandma, Grandpa, Aunt and Uncle. Pretty, pretty please, fates?

I told Hoot and My Belle while we were having a sisterly chat that I'd even pay for half of Odd's first car though I always swore my kids would buy their own damn cars. Aunt Hoot and Aunt My Belle said they wouldn't let me forget that promise. I hope they don't have to. I really hope that in sixteen some years, they're throwing that promise back in my face.

Well, I'm sorry I left you all hanging. I'm going to go find a star to wish on. I'll be back.

Up, Up and Away, But It's Not Necessarily a Bad Thing, So Don't Worry...

I've got worrying covered.

Here's the deal. I have NO news. Because my doctor's office hasn't returned any of my frazzled phone calls since Monday. They mentioned then that it might not be advisable for me to go on this trip. But never said for sure. At yesterday's blood draw, after begging the nurse to PLEASE take an additional tube of blood to test my progesterone like I've been ASKING for since Monday and like my doctor and I decided after the THIRD miscarriage to do and like they've been blatantly ignoring me about since Monday, I also told her that I'd been waiting to hear SINCE Monday whether or not I should go on vacation. She PROMISED me that someone would call me last night.

And no one ever did. So I'm going. Because let's be honest. While tracking my hormones will enable them to know if things aren't looking good, it's not going to make a difference really. Particularly if they're going to keep brushing aside my pleas to follow my progesterone. There is a huge element to this that is simply, in the words of a song from my favorite movie, Heathers, whatever will be, will be. And I think I'm okay with that.

Just so you know, whether or not things work out, I'm ditching this bunch of ass-punchers at my current doctor's office and finding a new one. I don't think ignoring patients and looking at them like they've got three heads that will disintegrate into a puddle of salty tears if you treat them like a normal person because OHMYGOD, they had THREE MISCARRIAGES! is good protocol. I mean, I'm a seasoned pro at this miscarriage thing. NOT a fucking psycho. Put away those kid gloves you're handling me with and give me some fucking INFORMATION. And maybe treat me like a normal person. Ahem.

So, I'll be with family. In Chicago. And hopefully things go swimmingly. But if they don't, well, I'll be with family. I miss family. They miss me. I need them right now.

I don't know what kind of internet access I'll have but I'll try to update and PLEASE know that your vibes and love and voodoo all mean more to me than you could imagine.

Gotta catch a flight. Thank you again.

XOXOXO

Zube and the resident within whose timing we shall say is odd. Maybe we'll nickname it Odd. Sounds good to me. It's already taking after me.

Love,

Zube and Odd

Look! No Hands!

Good vibes. Voodoo. Prayer. Encouragement. Gentle chastising of a clump of cells. I'll take anything. I don't discriminiate against good wishes.

Usually I wait to tell you guys because I'm deathly afraid of the jinx. But fuck the jinx. Respecting it hasn't done one iota of good in the past.

I'm knocked up again. It's brand spankin' new. Just found out. So let's curb any excitement just a little. I'm kind of MEH about it. It just is. Or I just am. Knocked up. Again. I have another blood draw today. If the news is good, I have to cancel my trip to Chicago so my hormones can be closely monitered. Damnit. But the good kind of Damnit. Even though Zube Boy and I were going to hang with his family and my Mom and sisters are planning a trek out from New Jersey to join us. This trip has been months in the making. Just my luck.

If the news is bad, we're still going to Chicago. And I'll be celebrating My Belle's 21st birthday by drinking fizzy adult beverages.

I hope we don't go to Chicago. No offense My Belle. I'm sure you get it what with wanting to be an Aunt in the worst fucking way.

Anywho...

All aboard the reckless rollercoaster that is my reproductive life. The ride is free. I can't find it in my heart to charge you when I just don't know whether you'll have a good time or not.

In Memory of Del Rose Forbes-Cheatham

Name: Del Rose Forbes-Cheatham

Age: 48

Residence: New York, NY

Occupation: Cantor Fitzgerald

I joined Project 2,996 and was randomly assigned a 9/11 victim to honor today. I'll say all the standard remarks. The ones I've heard many times today. I can't believe it's been five years. I remember ever second of every hour of that day. Driving through western Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa, and Illinois, en route to my brother's wedding in New Jersey via Zube Boy's parents in Chicago. Listening to the voices over the radio theorizing, crying, lamenting, informing. For seventeen hours, I relentlessly clung to every bit of news. I couldn't tear myself away. I remember people days before telling me how silly it was to drive all the way to New Jesery to trade cars with my sister. Why not get a Jeep Cherokee in Colorado? It'd be worth it once you figured in gas money. But I was dead set on driving home. And the irony that I would not have made it to my brother's wedding if we hadn't driven has not escaped me.

What tore me apart the most was the magnitude of it all. That sounds stupid. It's what tore us all apart the most, I think. The individual stories. Imagining that a few thousand people, people like me and Zube Boy and you and my sisters and my brother and my aunts, cousins, uncles, parents, friends...it's exhausting. What drew me to this project was the ability to get to know just one a little better.

Del Rose Forbes-Cheatam.

I've stared at her picture for hours. She's beautiful. Her smile. The way even her eyes smile. The way she can pull off red. I've always wanted to be able to pull off red. And a hat. I love her hat. It is so her. And I don't even have to know her. I've tried to figure out what kind of person she might be. I'd toyed with the idea of finding her brother, mentioned here. I wish I knew how he thinks she might like to be honored. How he would like to see her honored. I want to tell him that I am so sorry for his loss. That she was beatiful. IS beautiful. But I googled Christopher Forbes and New York City, assuming that is where he lives, and there are just too many. I don't even know where to start.

I wonder, too. I wonder if she suffered. I wonder if she was scared. I wonder if she was comforted. Maybe by a coworker. Or a friend. Or a stranger. Or if she found peace in comforting someone else. I hope. I hope it all. Because I can't even imagine.

Every year on 9/11 I light a candle and take a minute to think about all who were lost that day. And this year I'll send my love to Del. And her brother. And all of those I'm sure are missing her brilliant smile, too.

They say Never Forget. And I Never Will. And, Del, I will never forget you.

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.

I'm at a Loss...

For words.

I've been afraid to tell you that. Or couldn't figure out how exactly to tell you. Words used to be my best friends, but now they're, well, letting me down. I can't find the right ones or the right ones can't find me. And that sort of sucks.

I'm not too sad or too happy or too busy. I'm just...hmmm...too trying not to be introspective. Have you ever felt like if you stopped and thought about things, you just might cry? For a really long time? Because it's all too much?

I didn't really want to say anything, because I hate to be anything but the 'little engine that could' but, I just...I'm off track. And I've got every engineer on my payroll working to get me on course again. It's just taking some time. Because that's how I roll.

I'm alive. And I'm okay. But I'm hibernating a tiny bit. Some call it self-preservation. I call it...indescribable. Or, the failure of words. Eether, Eyether.

I hope I haven't worried you, and I hope this post doesn't make you all, "OH, POOR ZUBE!" That's not what I'm looking for. At all. I just had to say...something. However unfunny, unprofound, and un-Zube like it is.

Uranus and Fist-Pumping Like It's My Job

-You know what? Sometimes, when I'm sitting at my desk avoiding thinking about the contracts I need to write, my mind wanders a little bit. And ya know what I think about? Uranus. Like, I wonder if Uranus has Butt-Biting Spiders with Ass-Swelling Venom, like my little area of the galaxy. See! It's always been about YOU. You and Uranus. Don't you feel special?

-I've decided to tell the next person I check into the hotel, "Now go to your room," when I'm finished with them.

-I am a dork. I know. But you can be my friend. Everyone needs a few dorky friends under their belt. Or, uh, I didn't really mean it like...nevermind. Just know that if you'd like to befriend a dork, it's nice to send a message first. Because even dorks don't go around accepting friends all willy-nilly and stuff.

-It's cool when you're at work and half the power goes out. Like, the half that's responsible for the phones and the fax and the copy machine. But the half that doesn't go out keeps you up to your eyeballs in internet and microwaveable burritos. I have to admit, I pumped my fist a little bit and hissed, "YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!"

-Did I ever mention that I'm quite fond of pumping my fist? And hissing? No? Well now, don't you feel in the know?

Again With the Humping of Legs...Will It Ever End?

In a word? No. Not in a million years. Or at least not for as long as I'm on this planet, swilling beers. Or folic acid. Potayto, potahto. Kylei, you are TOO damned sweet. Fer real. Just in case inquiring minds want to know, Kylei nominated me as an inspirational blogger. One who says 'fuck' a lot. Heh heh. Kidding. About the 'fuck' part, at least. Anywho, you can find her nomination over yonder. The post she was referring to in the comments is right here. I kind of dig it, too, to be honest. There are some choice naughty words therein that I'm rather proud to have strung together.

Thing is, when ya'll give me props about the stuff I write here, it kind of, I don't know, makes me want to hump your leg. Which isn't all that unusual, sure, given my penchant for humping the legs of those I adore. But it's a compliment nonetheless. Most of the time I feel like just sum beetch with a screwed up uterus who can't manage to shut the hell up about it. Forever and ever, amen. But when I learn that these little rants and goofy dialogues actually mean something to people sometimes, at least maybe something good is coming out of it. As much as I'd like something good to come out of my CERVIX or a big incision in my tummy, hell, I'm not picky, I'll take just about anything good these days. Shit, I don't care if something good comes out of a damn beak (HELLO, STORKS! The hell? Where are you? Just wondering, 'cause the parenting skillz? I am willing to acquire them.)

At any rate, welcome to those of you venturing over here via Club Mom. WARNING: Sometimes I write about my husband's flatulance. And our ridiculous conversations. Mostly when I want to be a member of your club so badly, I can't bring myself to be all introspective about it.

Bubble-Butt

Zube Boy has this week off in order to tie up loose ends at the new house. The renters move in on Saturday and I know for a fact that he's trying to finish up the installation of the new bathtub. So I decide to call and annoy him.

Ring-ring!

Z-Boy: Hello.

Z-Girl: Hi, honey.

Z-Boy: Oh, hi.

Z-Girl: Are you at the new house?

Z-Boy: Yup.

Z-Girl: Are you playing in the bathtub?

Z-Boy: Yup. I'm blowing bubbles.

Z-Girl: With your mouth or your butt?

Z-Boy: Both. I'm having a little competition.

Z-Girl: Heh. Heheheheheheh.

After a few snorts and slobbering a little bit, I hung up. Seriously? Where does he come up with this shit? I have no idea.

PS- Dude. I can't. Believe. I. Spelled. Turd. WRONG! Thank you to junebee and Rich for pointing that out. Of all people, one would think I would know the proper spelling of 'TURD' what with my pottymouth and all. Sheesh. I'm ashamed.

***********************UPDATE************************

Ring-ring!

Z-Boy: Hello.

Z-Girl: Hi, honey. Where are you?

Z-Boy: Walmart.

Z-Girl: Oh. So, I have a question for you.

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: I was wondering who the winner of your little competition was.

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: Your butt or your mouth, DUH! Your little Bubble Blowing Competition?

Z-Boy: Oh, yeah. There is no winner yet.

Z-Girl: What do you mean? You're at Walmart. I figured it was over.

Z-Boy: No, it's ongoing.

Z-Girl: What, like a marathon or the Tour de France or whatever?

Z-Boy: Yeah.

Z-Girl: So you get to take breaks and stuff?

Z-Boy: Jesus Christ, of course honey! You have to take breaks. Otherwise I'd, I don't know, start bleeding or something.

Z-Girl: Oh, okay. Keep me posted.

Z-Boy: Will do.

Z-Girl: Bye.

Z-Boy: Bye.

You Can't Polish a Terd...

The title of this post has absolutely nothing to do with the post itself. It's just, like, one of my most favorite sayings is all.

The house we just bought is right down the street from the house we live in. Which is fortunate for us because we've been doing a lot of back and forth. I drove over to the new house where Zube Boy was replacing the bath tub so I could get the broom for our house because when you have two houses, one of them is sure to be neglected at some time or another and I needed something to foist out the fur that is COVERING our floor. Seriously.

Z-Girl: Honey, do you know where the broom is?

Z-Boy: Why? Do you need to fly somewhere?

Z-Girl: *exasperated sigh* Honey, I’m SERIOUS! I have to sweep the other house. Where is it?

Z-Boy: I don’t know.

Z-Girl: *frantically searching* AH! Here it is! Bye!

Z-Boy: Have a nice flight!

Z-Girl: Shut up.

You Know What's Stupid?

Pulling a little metal fragment out of your foot and throwing it back on the floor. In front of you.

You know what else is stupid? The fucking weather. But not me. Oh no. I'm not stupid. In fact, I have found the SOLUTION to drought. No, really. I have. I'm like a one woman scientist/spy/model/wet-hair-putter-on-the-shower-waller fucking ARMY. I am. See, the weather up here in los montañas has been pretty shitty. Well, it's actually been really fucking beautiful out, but apparently the trees are parched and they need some rain all up in their asses. Or roots. Which is kind of a bad situation when there are trees every-damn-where. Surrounding big ass million dollar second homes with numbskull rich-bitch owners who refuse cut down the trees in the line of fire, quite literally, to their homes because they don't want to ruin the AMBIANCE of their 'little cabin in the woods'. Bitch please. With ten god damn bathrooms and an indoor sauna? I think not. I'll show you a little cabin in the woods. Where you can take a nice undisturbed shit in the little outhouse about thirty feet away. It's the kind of place where people actually used to LIVE but now we only go there for a brief foray and romp in the forest so we can return to our REAL house and take a damn shower already.

Although, true to the nature of a little cabin in the woods, you do only visit YOUR abode briefly. Once at Christmas. And then maybe once in the summer. Because SUMMER? It EXISTS in the mountains? My GOD! HOW COOL! There really IS a Breckenridge in the summertime when the ski resort isn't open! As is evidenced by the ASSLOAD of cars that turned my typical five minute commute home yesterday into a half an hour one. Yes! Summer in the mountains. Wow. Well, just a quick gaperish kind of question for you. How much less do the mountains WEIGH in the summer without the snow? Actually, I'm not joking about that question. Zube Boy was asked that. By a teacher. Who wanted to tell her students. He, after a moment of silence, told her that the scale had been out of order since he started working there. Jesus H. Where's my I Digress MUCH wand? I'd like a cape, too, while you're at it...

I was sayin'? Ah yes. Fire. And danger. There's a little Smokey the Bear sign we see upon entering town that keeps us abreast to the current Fire Danger level. Right now he's sportin' a VERY HIGH warning.

But not for long. Oh no. You know why? Because we have brought on torrential rains since, uh, Friday I think. And it didn't even require dancing naked on Main Street wearing only a big red clown nose. All we had to do was SCRAPE and PRIME our house! Easy peasy. Now? We're stuck with an even SHITTIER looking paint job than what we started out with. Chipped gray with streaks of bright white. Yum. I bet the neighbors love us. They'll love us even more when they find out we rented it out to three dudes. Heh. But that's a whole 'nother post.

Peace out. I'm gonna go dance naked on Main Street with a clown nose to make the torrential afternoon rains go the hell away. Or maybe I'll just watch a parade. And have a beer. Happy Fourth.

When Pigs Fly...Or Knock on the Damn Door at All Hours of the Night...

Sometimes, the best way to sum things up is to scream, "Mother-fucking FUCK!" really damn loud.

I think it would be a good idea, at this point, to have my hand surgically replaced with a paintbrush. That would be SO useful to me as we're painting the new house. Inside and out. Ourselves. Actually not ENTIRELY by ourselves. Zube Boy's most awesome Dad is helping us. I'll show you before and after photos when it's all done.

I'm burning my candle at both ends, ladies and gentlemen. And the wick? She is getting short.

The other night, Zube Boy and I were awakened at 1:30AM from a much-needed post painting pass out by a BANG-BANG-BANGING on the door across the street. Where The Dudes live. After a half hour of the nonsense, I poised myself up on the bed and shouted out the window, "WHY DON'T YOU JUST FUCKING GO IN ALREADY!" assuming that it was a drunk friend who wanted to crash on their couch. I assumed wrongly. After my little outburst, I laid back down only to see a VERY BRIGHT flash light shining in our window and up on the ceiling. In a hushed tone, Zube Boy chided, "Honey, those were COPS, you idiot!"

"Oh shit."

I propped myself up on the windowsill again and saw one of Breckenridge's finest staring right back at me. He didn't say anything at first, prolly 'cause he was so ASTOUNDED by my resemblance to the Swamp Thing that he forgot for a moment he woke my swampish ass up at 1:30AM. I stammered, "S-s-sir. I am SO sorry! Really. I thought it was just one of their drunk friends trying to find a place to crash or something."

He laughed. And I was relieved. I'd imagine they don't like to make a habit of bringing Swamp Thing Lookalikes down to the station, so he let me off easy. Cops are kind of guarded about their donuts and I think I heard something about Swamp Things eating, like, a gazillion donuts a day. Or, whatever.

He actually apologized to me for waking us up and asked if we knew whether or not the owner of the black jeep cherokee lived in the house across the street. I said I thought it was a friend of theirs. Apparently the jeep was suspect in a hit and run. And I was no help at all. But they stopped knocking after that. And I was kind of mad at myself because The Dudes and their dog that they like to put outside at midnight and 6:00AM who barks incessantly have been pissing me off to no end and I'd kind of liked to have seen one of their cohorts handcuffed and shit.

Oh well. I learned my lesson. From now on I'm going to stash donuts by the bed at night and I'll offer them some if I'm ever lucky enough to have them staking out the neighbors again.

And. As soon as the police left? While I was staring out my front window in my black as night living room? The Dudes lights started coming on. Fucking assholes. That guy was clearly trying to avoid having to take a breathilizer. I'm certain of it.

Oh How I Wish...

...I worked at the hardware store.

Z-Boy: I have to pick up some plumbing stuff for the new house.

Z-Girl: Okay. I'll go, uh, look at the hammocks I wish I had somewhere to put...or something...

***A few minutes later and Zube Boy is checking out some black plumbing pipes***

Z-Girl: Honey, is that where the poo is gonna go?

Z-Boy: No honey. That's where the curlies will go.

Z-Girl: What?!

Z-Boy: It's for the tub, not the toilet.

Z-Girl: Oh, okay.

This conversation would be inconsequential if it weren't for the hardware store employee rounding the corner and looking at us all funny-like at the very end.

Zoey is BACK!!! Thank you ALL for wondering and wishing and cajoling her home. I can't even begin to tell you how devastated I was when she disappeared. I don't HAVE babies, you see, so she IS one of the only babies I know. That was the longest she's ever been gone. And I'm so glad she's home. I never thought I'd strain my lips kissing a cat. I'm kind of a loser. Heh.

My Head Hurts...

If any of you are vying for the crown of Worst Blogger in the Blogverse, you'll have to pry that tiara from my cold dead fingers.

It's mine, bitches.

Would you like to see our walk-in closet?


Yes. That's a toilet.

The master bedroom is tore up. We've hired a friend to fix it. The master bath is now, uh, our closet.

We close on our second house on Wednesday. Did I mention that I feel like a total money-grubbing asshole buying a second house? Like I'm fucking up the local real estate Sitiation? Well, I do. The bleeding heart? Maybe sometimes I do have it. Though I profess not to be that kind of liberal.

Anyway, closing costs are $6,000. Ramen, anyone?

We've put an ad in the paper to rent it out. The most promising response we've gotten so far has been, "Are you negotiable on the rent?"

I've been working like a bitch. 'Mud Season' is officially over and now we're entering upon 'Wedding/Family Reunion" Season. I'm swamped.

Last but not least, my little Zoey is missing. That's the first time I've admitted that to myself. I kind of don't want to believe that she's been gone for longer than three days.

With all of this happenin', I'm trying to avoid the spontaneous combustion dealymabob. Bear with me. Or don't. Your choice. This blog-bustion has been a long time coming. I'm over being sad and dwelling and shit, but I don't have anything amusing to report. In fact, all I have to report is some relatively overwhelming shit.

I've had a hard enough time keeping up with We 3 Bitches. See, I don't want Bonanza and P-Chef to think I'm all sucky bitch, so The Adventures of Zube Girl is playing second fiddle.

I really miss blogging, but I certainly miss my sanity more.

I've Submitted My Letter to the Editor

On Friday, June 30th, Planned Parenthood clinics across the state will be giving out free Emergency Contraception (EC) as they did on July 1st of last year. This is in response to Governor Owens vetoing House Bill 1212 – Colorado's Prescriptive Authority Bill. This bill would have enabled Colorado pharmacists to prescribe and dispense EC to women without a doctor’s prescription.

I urge my fellow Summit County residents to participate in this event. Some of you may think you have no need for Emergency Contraception. When I heard about the event last year, I thought it was a great idea, but didn’t think I’d actually participate. I’m married and planning a family. Why would I need Emergency Contraception?

The truth is I should know better. As some of you may remember from a previous article in the Summit Daily, I am all too familiar with the scenario EC could prevent. Ten years ago, I was a twenty-year-old college student. My car was broken down, and I accepted a ride from a friend of a friend to the grocery store. At the end of that evening, I was a survivor of rape. A month later, I discovered I was pregnant. Ultimately, I terminated the pregnancy. Had I had access to Emergency Contraception, I might not have become pregnant at all.

I encourage you to remember that emergencies happen to us, and people we love, without the benefit of foresight. Though young women are at higher risk of being victimized, rapists don’t necessarily discriminate based on age and marital status. You can bet that I’m going to make the effort to get to a Planned Parenthood on the 30th. We just never know when and how an unwanted pregnancy might occur. I know I didn’t.

I Want. To Touch. The Hiney.

Z-Boy: Honey, shoosh, this is my favorite commercial.

Z-Girl: I don’t know what it is with you and tampon commercials.

Z-Boy: They just, I don’t know, make me wish I got a period.

Z-Girl: Why?

Z-Boy: Because it looks so fun. Those chicks are always going to parties and running in fields and riding bikes and doing yoga.

Z-Girl: Heh.

In other news, I was meeting with someone who wanted to sell me some advertizin’ and shit at work the other day and my mind started to wander a little. I confess. It happens. Anyway, sometimes during those meetings I’ll start imagining really odd things I could do to mess with their salespersony asses. Like, when they ask me if I have any questions, what would they do if I said, “Yes, as a matter of fact. I'd like to know if I can touch your hiney?” Or, I wonder how they’d react if I leaned over and kissed their cheek right in the middle of their shpeel. Is ‘shpeel’ even a real word? It’s not recognized by MS Word. And MS Word’s not giving me any other suggestions. Oh well.

The only bad thing about this 'mind-wandering' thing I get is that I'll be all smirking despite myself and I probably look a little loony.

Hope you’re having a fantabulous day.

Back in the Day...

My yearbook photo (note the NOT so high bangs...or at least they were not so high as I wished they would be...THANK GODDESS!):


My yearbook blurb (I don't think I've changed all that much, to be honest):


Random photo yearbook page that happens to star yours truly twice:



Can you find me? I'll give you a couple of hints:

1. I'm, erm, I mean, I WAS flexible.

2. You won't be able to recognize me by my ski slope nose. Or at least not by the tip of it.

It's a Groovy Kind of Love

Dude, my elbow is fucking GROOVY!


Jealous much? How groovy is YOUR elbow, huh?

And also, the worst picture of me EVAH! And see that bottle of vino behind me? I didn't even HAVE any. I have no excuse.



Lastly, it's kind of ASTOUNDING how many people search for Ass Adventures and find themselves here.

He Said, She Said

or...

A Memoir of A(nother) Year in the Marriage of One Zube Boy and One Zube Girl

or...

The Verbal Olympics of Second Year Veteran Marrieds

or...

Random Snippets Involving Cookie Crisp, Chipmates, and Heaps of Other Stuff

He Said (50 Times): You're going to blog about this, aren't you?

She Said (5 Times): I don't really GET what makes Cookie Crisp SO much better than store brand stuff!

He Said (105 Times): Woman, you're gonna drive me to drinking.

She Said (3 Times): Honey, I'm knocked up.

He Said (365 Times): Honey, where's my hat?

She Said (3 Times): Meh, I'm not knocked up anymore.

He Said (3 Times): I'm sorry. We'll try again.

She Said (1 Time): So, I know you're driving to Mississippi to buy a truck and all and this is kind of a bad time, but I can't wait to talk to you when you get back because I need to make a decision now. See, there's this rally and Planned Parenthood called me because I forwarded them a letter to the editor I wrote about Gov. Owens and Emergency Contraception for rape victims in the ER and they've asked me if I wanted to SPEAK at the rally. And, um, it's OKAY, honey, if you don't want me to, really. But, I don't know, I kind of think it would help me.

He Said (1 Time): You do what will help YOU. Don't worry about me.

She Said (A Gazillion Times): You rock so hard.

He Said (350 Times): Zoobs, where's my work pants?

She Said (530 Times): Right here.

She Said (150 Times): In the dryer.

She said (50 Times): Oops. In the washer still.

He Said (90 Times): CHRIST! Is that Brad peeking in the window again? I'm really sick of kicking his ass all the time. Why do you have to be so hot, Zube? These celebrity stalkers are getting kind of annoying.

She Said (1 Time): How ironic that all this gay marriage ban shit is happening on our two year wedding anniversary. Kind of taints my celebratory attitude.

He Said (1 Time): I just don't get what people are so riled up about. Who cares?

She Said (1 Time): Because DONTCHYA KNOW, honey, that if two dudes were able to marry each other it would THREATEN our marriage.

He Said (1 Time): That's the least of our worries.

She Said (1 Time): Heh.

He Said (1 Time): Unless you suddenly start making me cookies all the time.

She Said (Probably on more than one occasion): BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

He Said (1 Time): Honey, it's really nice being married to you. Happy Aniversary.

She Said (1 Time): Damn. I'm gonna cry. That was fucking sweet. It's nice being married to you, too. If you could just lay off on yanking my pajama pants down when I'm unloading the dishwasher, I'd say our marriage was damn near utopia.

Prepost...And postpre...And Stopper...And Toppers...And, Okay, That's Enough With the What Word Can You Make With These Letters...

A couple of posts back I was wondering what made Pre-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl different from Post-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl. I think I've found something that speaks to at least part of the vast openness between that great divide.

Pre-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl had the luxury of worrying about her ability to be a parent. Whether she would suck or whether she would rock. She'd like to think she'd rock even though her future kid might be all, "JESUS H. MOM! I stayed up late STUDYING and that's why my eyes are all red, HELLO!?!?! I don't know what you're so worried about anyway. I work an after school job, get good grades, and buy my own _______________ (insert fancy pants name here), so back off!" Which, heh, stayed up late STUDYING! Whatever, kid. *snort* But see, I know that for all my concern, I'd raise a decent self-sufficient human being, if not for any other reason than, well, for ALL MY CONCERN ABOUT RAISING A DECENT, SELF-SUFFICIENT HUMAN BEING. Even if the kid smokes pot? S/He'll still be a good one. I think, anyway.

On the other hand, Post-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl worries that she'll never even BE a parent, so she doesn't want to jinx it by fretting about whether or not her sixteen-year-old will slam the bedroom door because she's just told them s/he can buy her/his OWN Land Rover. See, at the ripe old age of thirty I understand now that fighting with your parents as a teenager? Is kind of important. So long as we're talking about a functional family. And I'm aiming my arrow towards functional. That's my goal. But, taking my family as an example, 'A Little Weird' doesn't fall far from BULLSEYE! And I'll be happy with just short of perfect. Actually, 'perfect' is a little annoying.

Which reminds me, I've been meaning to tell any future embryos of mine that even though I've sworn to myself that you WILL purchase your own first car, and you WILL NOT have all the fancy clothes you want no matter how much money we have, and you WILL share a room at some point in your life with a sibling because I did, with my brother and then my sister and then both sisters, and then my brother got all sad because he had his own room and I got to share my room with TWO people, so Mom let My Belle stay in his room for a few weeks upon Bro's insistence, and he said, uh, nevermind, she cries at night, and...um...nevermind...

Anyway, I think it was good for my character, sharing a room. It prepared me for life and sharing and caring and all that good stuff, and...WOOOOOOOOAAAH! I'm getting a little ahead of myself here. Note to Self: Yo, Zoobs, let's get pregnant and STAY pregnant for at least 35 weeks, which I think is a safely viable gestational age (I haven't researched pregnancy much past the first trimester...It's all about self-preservation, people. Really, 'tis, and I can't be concerning myself with 'trimester' pregnancies when I fail to achieve even a 'unimester' one) before worrying about SIBLINGS! Jeebus. Sorry, every once in a while I have to remind myself that the dreams which live inside my head are not always the same ones that manifest in real life. Allrighty then...

...Where was I? Ah yes...I was going to make all kinds of promises to my potential children-to-be that might convince them that while I MIGHT be sort of a Bitch Mom, I'll be AWESOME. Really. You will SERIOUSLY love me. You can be WHATEVER you want!

You can...

-Have purple hair (so long as that doesn't interfere with the high school job thing...there's always tattoo parlors out there looking for high school help...I think?)

-Be Gay (Damn kid, I'll love ya more, because you'll fucking need it what with all the gay-hating going on around these, ahem, united states of ours.)

-Not want to go to college (because I didn't. I went anyway because that's what everybody else thought I should do. But I know that being all smart and shit doesn't necessarily mean that you're college material. This is one thing your Dad and I will wholehartedly agree on. We'll never pressure you to do what doesn't feel right. You'll be smart. I know that. And you'll do what's right with it. I'm sure.)

-Tell me ANYTHING. And I mean ANYTHING (*wishing right now that I had the ability to Double-Capitalize*). I promise not to go all MATERNAL when you really, really fucking need me. Life happens to people. This I know. And if something horrible happens to you? Even if you maybe had a tiny bit, or a BIG bit to do with it? I SWEAR I'll step back and breathe...only to return with a big hug and a hearty, "I'm sorry life had to happen to you THAT way, but here's how we deal with it." I'll avoid trying to fix it because fixing it never really works anyway. At least when we're talking about life and not plumbing or a bad starter.

While I'm being all random and whatnot, I'd like to thank those of you who've stuck by me throughout my weird blog abandoness. You LURKERS, too! I'm having trouble posting things because all I can think about is the fact that I bled for a month, then manhandled my boobs for the past week and a half (which OHMYGOD MAYBE I'M PREGNANT BECAUSE THEY'RE SORE!) (But they're more probably only sore because I've been manhandling them ), and I want to be pregnant/have a baby so bad it, uh, kind of hurts. And there are many other gals out there that rock the infertility blog thing so much better than I ever could. Anyway, I've been sporadic at best because I'm concerned about beating ya'll over the brow with my woes. Which makes for a VERY random, VERY sucky (in my opinion) blog, and I can't believe you've hung in there.

So, thanks.

Bunnies, Bloody Lips, and Mourners

I had the sudden impulse today to liken blogging to bunnies. Of all things. And, you know, the comparison isn't all that far off what with the rapid and rampant population boom of blogs on the internet. They're like damn rabbits. But, more importantly, I was perusing some more or less FAMOUS bloggers, and found myself in total awe. They've been doing this shit for YEARS! They're like the Energizer Bunnies of the blogverse. And lately I've kind of felt like, oh, I don't know...A Duracell Turtle. Or something. I bet you're smelling what I'm stepping in because you're a bright bunch. No dim bulbs in this crowd.

I have this NASTY compulsion to pick my lips when they're dry. All it takes is one little errant piece of epidermis on my lip and an afternoon of bloody lips awaits me. Today, I got this really weird bordering on PROUD feeling about a chunk of skin I pulled off. I sat at my desk sort of staring at it, like, huh? That's a piece of my lip. Then a coworker walked in and I promptly threw it away. I'm fucking gross sometimes.

Yesterday, I was stopped at a green light. Why the hell, you ask, would I STOP at a green light? Well, I do believe that is the PROPER thing to do when you see a hearse pass, no? With all of the mourners and their hazard lights and high beams on bringing up the rear? Methinks you allow the funeral procession to pass through? Not that I'm some kind of guru of propriety or anything, but no one behind me honked, which I took to mean that my assumption was correct and that my meager upbringing combined with my father's LOOK OF DEATH when it came to ill-mannered children, particularly those of half his genetic make-up, didn't result in too much of an asshole.

When the hearse passed, I did the sign of the cross. And then I cried. It happens every damn time. So weird.