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.