Mrs. Flinger: A work in progress

UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015

Because the Universe has a wicked sense of humor, after this delcaration, my blog threw up all over my last upgrade.

So I'm starting over using Craft. Turning 40 and kid entering Jr High next year, sometimes it's just time for a change. These archives will still exist in the way the last child goes off to college and their room is the same for 20 years, but it's just time to move forward.

Thoughts on God Aug 31, 2006

#Getting to know me#Depth and Faith

I’m not as poignant as Anne Lamott and as much as I’d like to be her when I grow up, I know I will not be writing wonderful, powerful thoughts on God and faith and my fucked up life and making a best seller. For starters, I’m not that fucked up. And also, I’m not so sure about God. So, pretty much, there goes that book.

I know God is a hot topic. I hate hot topics. No, wait, actually I love hot topics because why can?t we all just agree to have a lovely conversation and say what we think in a nice way and know we?ll never come to terms and agree and that’s ok? Why can’t we just be honest about stuff like how much we pay in taxes or why are we embarrassed to admit our new mortgage on the condo is more than half our income and that after losing one job I?m up all night, most nights, playing with numbers? Why can’t we just SAY, “Hi! I’m Leslie. I like yummy martinis, blogging, and I fed my child with a bottle. ALSO, I stay at home but I want to work from home because I just think I’m that damn good to have my cake and eat it, too. Bring it on, Internet. No! WAIT! I also caved and let her keep her a binki. So take THAT.”

So, God, Yes. See, I used to believe. I believed and believed in my heart and I said the right things and I prayed the prayers and I went to bed knowing I was “saved”. Then I found out Santa was fake, the Easter bunny was fake and all these other religions had their own god and everyone else thought they were right and HOW would we know? Maybe there is one God, the ONE God but everyone drives a different car there? Maybe he (or she) has different names like Buddha, Allah, Macintosh (for us nerds and I?m totally kidding here. See? Sarcasm! It’s fun. Try it.) Anyway, my point being, why is it that one person is more right than the other if we’re all preaching love and kindness and Jesus-ish stuff? Oh, right. We’re not.

So then the conflict starts because SO-AND-SO thinks this and SO-AND-SO says that. And we’re more right and you?re more wrong. And you’re going to hell because you don’t have a star on your belly like these sneetches and we?re going to heaven because we do. And I got so confused that I quit the race, got married to the person I loved for who he is, not what he did or did not believe, and had a child.

Then I got fuckedup.

See, Anne Lamott says, in her book Operating Instructions, upon considering how much she suddenly stood to lose, now that she had a son to lose, she wrote, “Now I’m fucked unto the Lord.? I couldn’t say it better. So I won’t.

I started praying again because I was pregnant and what could I do? The chord could wrap around her little neck. I could die in delivery. She could stop living in my uterus and I?d be helpless. So I prayed. And I prayed after she was born because she was so tiny and so small and I was so helpless and overwhelmed.

I seem to pray only when I feel helpless and overwhelmed and I know what kind of a friend that is: A needy, snotty, shitty friend. “Hi God! Sorry about your issues. See, I’m having this hard time…” So I stopped doing that because who wants to be called only when there’s a problem?

And then there was a problem.

So I tried God again and prayed because I was pregnant again and I needed work and how the hell was it supposed to work out? Isn’t that the thing about god? This big master plan? Well, if he (or she) has a master plan and I’d like in on it, I figure I better pick up the phone again ‘cause ain’t nobody shelling out information without asking. So I asked. And I thought I had an answer. “Hi, Leslie. This is God. I heard your request and you’re in. YEA BABY! You’re IN! You got it all, hon. The baby. The working from home. That’s right. Who’s your daddy? Uhhu.” And me and God smacked some high fivers and smoked a joint. Ok, we didn’t inhale. Still. We celebrated. And I prayed for truth. And I prayed in earnest. And I believed again.

Then I pissed him off. I’m not sure where I went wrong. But I think it was the “tell the Universe thanks” because if there’s one thing the bible is clear about is that God doesn’t like it when you go messin’ on someone else’s turf. He?s all in to lettin’ people know who’s behind the scenes. Like the credits on a movie, only the ONLY credit should read, scrolling… “Main Contributor….................... GOD.”

Then he (or she) goes in and takes it all away. Because I’m an ungrateful little bitch? Because there’s even ANOTHER plan? Because I only call when I need something? I dunno. Or maybe he (or she) didn’t take it all away because there is nobody there pulling strings to take things away or put them back and we’re natural human beings with a body built to keep procreating when it?s time and to terminate it when it’s not. And the job thing? Well. Shit happens.

But I’m not in to that, either. So what am I? I’m nothing. I’m nowhere. I’m not blaming and I’m not praying. I?m just. Not. I’d like to have faith, but honestly? I don’t think this is the kind of “building of character” shit that I’m in to. And I’m not really big in to “letting go” because I really REALLY like to be in charge. I know. I have issues. But also? I’m so freakishly paranoid? That if he (or she) can take away this, what’s to stop him (or her) from taking away everything? My husband. My daughter. My family. His job. Our financial future. Everything? Where’s the rug when it’s being tugged? How far is the well if you trip?

God, I hope I don’t have to find out. And now? I just don’t know.

How to make me hate shoe shopping (and that’s damn hard to do) Aug 30, 2006

#Social Clutz Loveable Spaz

Everyone has a story about when their Grandma was little, during the Great Depression, they had no rice therefore their parents ate rice every night like it or not until the cows came home. Because damn if she was EVER going without rice again. Or maybe it was butter so they had butter on everything. I forget. Then I also remember one of my mom not having shoes that fit her in elementary school so she used to go to Sunday School barefoot and sit on her feet to hide them under her dress. She swore we would never be without nice shoes that fit and clothes that were new and well cared for. Even as they sat on a hefty credit card bill and changing trends from bell bottoms to ankle zippers and back, we never went without.

And so when LB was walking a bit odd last night in the grocery store and hitting her feet saying, “OWIE! OWIE!” clawing to take them off, I realized I am not my mom. In fact, I am the anti-my-mom. My poor child tore off the only shoes that (used) to fit her feet and ran in stocking feet in the store. I was horribly embarrassed. Mr. Flinger didn’t think much of it because “whatever, kids take their shoes off,” but knowing she was crying because mommy bought an elmo DVD instead of shoes this week made me feel like the BEST MOM EVER. (Or was it the Starbucks Liquor? Or the Vodka? Or the Coffee? Either way. BEST MOM EVER!) So, to make up for my Best Mom Practice, I went to Stride Rite today to buy her shoes.

Now I know why I’ve never done that before.

Holy mother of batman, people. It was insanity. The tiny tiny isles with the stacks of “reach the one you want and they all fall down on your toddler” boxes compounded with several pissy toddlers, two pissy sales associates and even more pissy moms and dads. Back to school shopping? Out after your morning bloody mary? What the hell, people! It’s 11 AM on some random Wednesday and you’re all at effing Stride Rite?

LB was at her finest pulling out all the stops. She can run like the wind in stocking feet! She can slide across boxes faster than you can blink! She can crash in to a box of freshly stacked displays and make the entire store look our way! Wheee! I’m pretty sure everyone knew I am the BEST MOM EVER.

And then I tried to make her try on the shoes. Holy hell.

Screaming. Running. Fighting. Bribing with string cheese and stickers. Trying to be oh-so-patient while people step over me, ask me to move, “Excuse me but your large crack-showing ass is in the isle and your stroller is being pushed by some wild child with one shoe on.” Yes. I know.

So we ended up with one pair, I think they fit, and ran screaming from the store right in to Carters, where I spent the rest of the money we don’t have (sans job) and made myself feel all giddy with 50% off and pissing off people because I gave up parenting.

I was shopping, damnit. And I was going to enjoy it, screaming, running child or not.

If I could have anything in the whole world, I’d have a shoe full of sand Aug 26, 2006

#Depth and Faith

Years ago, I moved to a small town where I attended college and ?found myself? in the most clich? since of the word. I was on my own for the first time in my life, I had a houseful of great roommates, I obsessed about dumb things like boys and homework and trying to balance a checkbook on a 250 dollar a month student job and financial aid. I spent much time by the water writing in my journal, on pen and paper (back in THOSE days) and being idealist and liberal and hippy.

And then I grew up.

Mr. Flinger and I have a lovely story I?ll share with you one day. It?s really very long and tiresome full of words like ?we were on a break? and ?14 years together before we got married? and ?moving away to find out we loved each other after all.? It?s a lovely story that we enjoy telling too much and never tire of hearing although I?m sure our close friends do. We?ve had one thing in common these many many years: To move back to the Puget sound, the north cascades, the rugged landscape we fell in love with during that fragile period in life called ?your early twenties?.  The water is healing, the grass is greener and the air is so fresh, you get a little high on the pure oxygen.

This, of course, is total B.S.

Reality, finally, is here. The housing market is impossible, the traffic is horrific, the taxes are killing us. You know, it rains nine months a year in Seattle? It does. Also, most people are introverts and don?t bother with the new people in the complex, in the church, down the street, at the coffee shop. I am the ?new person? and it?s an awkward and judgy place to be. The closest park on the Sound is full of sand fleas and gnats and smelly crawfish that make the ?I?ve been camping six days in a row without a shower? body smell like fresh pine. I have no playgroup. I have nobody to share the toddler thing* with and I have nobody to meet at the puddle park (where the HELL is the damn puddle park here?) or have over for dinner because I have no place for them to park.

It?s not the ?writing in my journal for hours alone? kind of place I remember because I?m not the same girl I was then. I?m a mom now. I have no such thing as ?alone time? and when I do, I do something useful, like poop. This land I remember filling my shoes with sand and walking for hours letting my feet be exfoliated by the soft rocks is no longer here.

But as I sit here and write in my laptop next to the slushing sound of Lake Washington, just miles from where my best friends from that same house years and years ago live, it?s not exactly like I remember it. But that?s ok. It?s not so different, either.

*I wrote this before I found out Kate lives about 7 minutes from our new condo! I love the blogosphere.
*** Sorry, we’re not there for ever yet. Just went up to sign papers and it hit me.. holy shit.. in 30 days this will be home.

Grace, and why I don’t have it Aug 24, 2006

#Getting to know me#Pregnancy#TTC

If you knew me in person, you’d never utter the words “graceful” when describing me. In fact, I can think of several antonyms that come to mind (klutz, uncoordinated, “trip much?”) This doesn’t just apply to my physical attributes. I’ve mentioned it before, but while I like to think I’m tough shit, I am so not tough shit. I’m more of an “all feisty and tough when the going is good and one pile o’ weepy hormones when it’s not” kind of a gal. You don’t see many made for tv movies based on that heroine.

So, when it comes to the pregnancy purgatory I’m in, it’s not a surprise that some days I feel that my body can do anything! I can grow even the most damn stubborn baby! Thy lining will thicken and the child will implant and thy hormones, they will explode into the thousands and I will be the bitchy, pukey, crazy pregnant lady we all will come to know and love. But on other days, or those minutes when the house is quiet and I have a few minutes to think, I’ll mentally curl up and drive myself batty thinking of the what-ifs. “What if it IS ectopic. What if I DO bust an ovary? What if I never bleed? What if I have a missed abortion? What the hell kind of name is MISSED ABORTION? What bastard came up with that? Must’ve been a man. Only a man OB would send me home to grow a dead baby for a week and torture myself with the hope beyond hope…” and on and on the mind-fucking goes.*

I struggled with what to post because, somewhere, people thought I was brave and ok, and handling this with grace. I am so glad I can pull the wool over your eyes so well. Grace? Not-so-much. Honesty? Too much. Humor? As a coping mechanism.

See, the highlight of my weekend away was the abundance of water and time outdoors to breathe fresh air and watch the sun dip behind the silhouette of the Olympic mountains. But the low point of the weekend was walking in to the wrong building at the doctor office (where I had even *more* blood drawn) and finding a birth class on break with ten to twelve very pregnant women walking around with their partners and me waiting for my uterus to give up what I already know: there is no baby there anymore.

I bawled as we stepped out the door and couldn’t explain why. I’m not unhappy for those women. I’m not jealous that they are a month (at most) away from not sleeping, postpartum hormones and major life changes they will question in the bathroom on the floor at 2am. I’m not even jealous of the wonderful person they get to fall in love with and watch learn how to hold his/her neck and learn to focus on objects further than his/her nose. I’m not, in any way, dreading the birth of a baby of two good friends of mine. I’m looking forward to being there, days later, when one of my best friends brings her new son home and I can’t wait to see JB grow into her roll as big sister. I have no problem aching to hold him and knowing it is not my turn right now. I am ok with that.


I think, as I sat by the water staring into the rocks submitting to the water’s ebb, I figured out that I am not as sad for the loss of this child as I am the loss of the pregnancy. I’m not interested in debates on “when life begins” because life started the day I took an ovulation test, called up Mr. Flinger and told him to get his ass (and sperm making pieces especially) home. Life started the day I told people I was pregnant, with so much glee, even more than last time, because we wanted it now. We had a plan and OHMYGOD we are just so fertile it actually worked! That, for me, is when this all happened. So what, if I’m not sad for the loss of this child, is it that I was crying for? If I am being honest, I think I am jealous that the anxiety/fear/unknown portion of pregnancy is almost over for these women. I told Mr. Flinger, “I only need ONE MORE PREGNANCY. Just one. That’s it. ONE.” I was not a calm pregnant lady last time and I attribute some of this to hormones but also, my real deep seated inability to be in control of the situation and my lack of willingness to just “accept” that someone else might have another plan for me. I have a belief that I know what?s best. I like to keep it that way. And what?’ best right now is for me to get just ONE MORE pregnancy over.

If you ask me. Which nobody did.

I want a complete family. I want to take my two children to the park and watch them play together, or even fight together, and learn to live in the same car together with all those stupid “I"m not touching you!” games and I?ll yell over the backseat, “LB! Stop torturing your brother!” and Mr. Flinger and I will smile slyly at each other because we are complete now.

I want that so much that I actually did burst in to tears at the puddle park on Friday when I saw the cutest little family with a three year old and a 6 month old and they played together and the baby drooled on her mom’s arm and the dad took the older one to play at the fountain. I want it so much that I cried, again, in the grocery store as a very ragged mom with two boys, exactly 2 years and 5 days apart, she said, but who’s counting?, tried to keep her two year old from stealing cookies and the baby cried to be held. I want it so much, that I’ll be willing to do this all over again. The fear, the anxiety, the nausea of the first trimester.

What I’ve learned is that I know what to say now, or rather, I know what not to say. I know not to tell someone to “calm down” and that “it’s because you’re stressed out that you miscarried.” Not only will that sentence cause an already vulnerable person to burst in to tears but it heaps on a multitude of guilt she already is thinking on her own. “It’s my fault! My body sucks! My body hates me! I did something to deserve this!” and simply saying it’s because she was stressed adds the “shit! I need to not stress out! How the hell do I ...” and the circle goes until she self combusts.

I will not want to remember this baby. I don’t think that makes me insensitive. I think it is how I am coping with a tragic, and unfortunate situation. I do not feel the need to personalize him in to someone I will miss years down the road. Instead, I want to fix it. I want to understand. I want answers. And I want to get pregnant again, I want to obsess all the hell much I want because I have a right to do that, and I want to feel the baby moving inside me and the hormones wrecking total havoc on my mental health until I cry because I?m in love with someone I haven’t met in the real world yet, but that I know more than any other human, aside from my daughter, and who only knows me.

I want that. And that is what I want to hear.

So, I know it’s silly, and it’s not really being brave, and it is not, by any stretch of definition, being “graceful” but I want to hope for just a few more days. I want to keep the dream alive until it’s not alive anymore. I want to not think about the “dead baby” in my uterus, but rather the child that for the rest of his entire life, I can torture with “you were SUCH a pain in the ass even before you were a full month in utero!” because that?s going to cause a lot of bills in therapy that I think would be so worth it just to have him here.

And if he’s not here, and if it’s not my turn, I’ll be ok. I can promise you this, I won’t be graceful about it. But I will be ok.

*Thanks to Nicole of Sitting Still for the reminder to stop mind-fucking myself. Best. Advice. Ever.
** Thanks to Dee and Jenny for the wonderful compliments.

The hope is over Aug 18, 2006


Now we need to just cross fingers/pray/beg/hope for a natural miscarriage. Numbers after 46 hours: 65. I’m now so low in my level, there’s no chance I can carry the baby to term. Instead, they’re talking ectopic vs. natural miscarriage. The best I can hope for is to start bleeding soon and have everything pass (how I hate that term).  I need to convince my body it’s over. Because it is.

I appreciate all the well wishes and hopeful thoughts. I appreciate people who said, “so and so had low levels and everything is ok!” I think now, though, I need to deal with reality. I can’t believe there is going to be a full term baby when my chances are now less than 1%. It’s time to help my body face what is happening and let go of my April due date. Right now I’d like my own body to heal so I can have another chance.

But I’ll ask you. From someone who never had this, who always says the wrong things, who is hopeless when it comes to the right words, what do you want to hear if you’re in this position? What is the best kind of words you can receive? What would make your tears a little less or your face break into a small smile? ‘Cause until this point, I never really knew what anyone would feel like. And y’all. It sucks.

Because this is what I’d say if I just met you on the street Aug 17, 2006

#Pregnancy#got pee sticks?#TTC

Here is the kind of information you would get from me if you saw me on the street today.

Yea. I’m almost five weeks pregnant. Yea. So it’s not going well. Yasee, I peed on another stick today. And, well, it’s not darker and I KNOW they say it doesn’t matter but it has to, right? Doesn’t it make sense if your HGC went up it would get darker? Yea. I thought so. So anyway, I had another blood work lab today because the nurse isn’t pleased with my score of 47 on 17 days past ovulation. Oh, we know when I ovulated because I took this ovulation strip. Oh, it’s so neat, it’ll tell you when your egg is about 48 hours from being released. Crazy, hu? Anyway, so I had to go back in and now they’re saying things like “miscarriage” and “low HCG” and “if you make it to 2000, we’ll do an ultrasound.” So now I’m totally freaking out because, yaknow, I’ve told people and people read and came, and commented. Cool people. People I’d want to be pregnant at the same time with. Or share stories of my vajaja with or about discharge and my big boobs and puking. I mean, they’re all counting on me to stark puking. Yaknow? And we have a name for him.. yes it’s a him.. and I’ve already cried several times today over the low HCG levels and well, my boobs don’t hurt nearly enough…

And that’s about the time my inner sensor FINALLY kicks in and starts beeping loudly at me to SHUTTHEFUCKUPALREADY. Did I mention I have a malfunctioning inner sensor? Seuss and I were talking about this tonight. That little red light that should blink when you’re on the phone with the financial consultant and instead you blurt out the above paragraph, in its entirety, and she pauses, says, “well, perhaps we can fiddle with the numbers a bit” and you lock your rate just a tad lower. Or when you’re discussing the contract with the seller and you begin said paragraph, again, momments after kicking yourself from the first phone call and yet, YOU DO NOT STOP, you actually say out loud, “I can’t believe I’m telling you this..” followed by an awkward pause….  “....  .......  ........  .... Yes, well, anyway….”

And that, ladies and 2 gents, is why I didn’t post today. Because I told the real-estate gal, the financial consultant, the seller of the condo, two nurses, the lab lady, some random stranger in the library, Erin and all our family my entire pregnancy history, all four weeks in its entirety, and I can’t bear to repeat it again.

Or else I might cry.

Beyond the Blog *added* Aug 16, 2006

#Good News

Hi. Did you know I have a life? NO! I DO! I swear! One that takes place after I click the little ‘X’ on the browser window that involves things like poopy diapers, making tacky (and very very bad) dinners and some sort of work. And now, I’d like to share some things about that life. My life beyond the blog.

This week a few things started coming together. First there was the positive pregnancy test (then the negative test, the slightly positive test, and the positive test. But you’ve already been through that story..). There was the new design job, the offer from an amazing company, the news that I get to keep my current job (and telecommute) and the offer, finally, from the online university I’ve been waiting to hear from. Apparently, I got four jobs. And a baby. And a house.

And it’s only Wednesday.

I’ve had to make some tough calls. Calls in life that are the toughest kind to make. I’ve turned down people. I’ve had to decide to leave one of my dearest friends (and LB’s bestest friend ever).  We’re having to decide if we need to lock an interest rate and get our finances started or hold off on the contract and pray the rates go down. We’ve made tough calls about our possessions, our “treasures” (read: the big bachelor TV), and position ourselves to pay a mortgage that is half our total income (ohmygod, it is HALF OUR INCOME). But we’ve paid off the cards, the cars, the mob and we’re starting fresh with no debt, a new house, a new baby, a new job and crappy ol’ shitty cars that may or may not last.

But we’re ok. Y’all. We’re doing ok.

So I’m sitting here with good friends, new and old, a child, new and old, a wonderful husband, wonderful people I will miss dearly, people I will get to enjoy again, and a new home to watch LB grow with her brother or sister in. I’m not saying I am not sad to see some changes, but I also think I’m so insanely blessed, I’d like to enjoy it a while.

Someone drink a beer on my behalf and toast the Universe for me. I’ll be here with my decaf. :: sip :: Ahhhhh.

**Y’all run over and wish Oma a Happy Birthday!**

Did I tell you ‘bout that time I went on a girl date? Aug 16, 2006

Well, that was fun.Now, did I tell you about the time I went on a girl date? No? Pull up a seat. It’s really not what you think…

So, last Friday, Traci and I went to a Paperboys concert in the Big Town to meet up with Cole. Traci met me (sans kid and husband) at the Borders to park a car, share a ride, and take our two pregnant asses out on the town. We had a nice chat, found a place to park in the shady area of town, and walked into what we assume is the right venue.

“Here for the show?” some young, obviously drunkish dudes ask us. “Well, are the paperboys here?” Traci is shaking her head in apprehension while I make friends with youngboy1. “Er. Paperboys? No. But you wanna come to this club. COMEON. We’re cool.” I don’t know if this is a hittin’ on (it’s been a while) or a sad attempt to make ten bucks for more booze. We decide the place we want is a few blocks down and as we leave, younboy2 shouts, “come back and visit!” while I run smack into a sign, “Tonight! Exotic Dancer Tanya!”

I think I was just picked up on at a strip club?

So we’re a block away, giggling about the strip club incident and discussing the prostitution on the 800 blocks when some other youngboys shout out, “You don’t want to go there!” We take a minute to figure out what they’re talking about. “Excuse me?” “Don’t go in there! We were just there. Some guy puked ‘cause the food sucks.” They are pointing to Traci’s shoes where, apparently, she was standing on some guy’s vomit. Yum. Then younganddrunkboy3 runs up to Traci, “This one! How YOU doin’? Nice to meety’a” and puts his arm around her all gross like. She shrugs him off and slips past the crowd and we make our way inside.

Traci was picked up on NINE MONTHS PREGNANT. Yes. She’s that hot.

We tell the people at the door we’d like to just look at the band area, seeing as how we’re pregnant and the one due in four weeks and 3 days (not that she’s counting) doesn’t want to stand the whole time and if there’s no room, we’ll be leaving. The ticket man reluctantly agrees. Luckily we find a seat at the bar and start ordering Shirley temples (raur) that get refilled for free for three hours. We totally forgot about the whole sneaking-in-for-free thing until we went to leave. “Oh, shit! We never bought a ticket!”

And that, ladies and gent, is how I went on a girl date, got hit on while pregnant, stepped in puke and spent no money. Whatsoever.

Turns out, I’m a damn cheap date.

Because the second kid isn’t getting off paranoia free *a running commentary* Aug 15, 2006

#Pregnancy#Social Clutz Loveable Spaz#TTC

This post turned in to a running commentary as I wait for more blood results. Feel free to obsess with me. Or laugh and point. Or mock. Whatever. Just hit refresh and let the good times roll.

8/14/2006: 10PMI’m currently freaking out about how much my boobs don’t hurt. Hi? I’m not pukey enough. Hi? Someone tell me why I have to feel miserable to feel pregnant?

Right. Because I did last time. I rememer all too well.

I’m still tired and cranky and hungry (all the time). But I’m just not miserable enough.  Not that I’ve heard that somewhere before.

Please remind me of this post when I’m crying about being miserable and pukey and tired and my boobs hurt too much. I’ll need a nice kick in the ass later. (but a gentle kick. watch for those pregnancy ‘roids.)

**updated** 8/15/2006: 6:37AM
I just had a negative home test. WTF? I’m seriously freaking out. Has this happened to anyone? Seriously? Freaking. OUT.

**updated** 8/15/2006: 10:15AM
So, the test I took this morning was the dip test. It was OH, SO FAINT. As in, “I *think* there might be another line?” And so, off I ran to the doctor for my blood work. I should find out tomorrow at the latest.

Until then, you’ll find me in the corner rocking and hugging my knees mumbling, “grow baby grow baby grow baby” and also, “omgomgomgomg”. If I start drooling, just hand a tissue my way.

**updated** 8/15/2006: 11AM
Just took another test of the same kind. Someone please tell me to stop peeing on random shit. These sticks are doing nothing but PISSING ME OFF. Ok. THank you. I’m off to get a real one.

(still in the corner mumbling)


**updated** 8/15/2006: 1:21PM
Thanks for all the people praying I’ll feel like shit. I’m feeling a little more peace now that I walked into the kitchen and the smell of the running dishwasher made me gag. Also? I’m going to take a nap now. I’d love to freak out some more but I’m just too damn tired. I’ll resume freakage at 1500 hours. (It sounds much more official in miliatary time, doesn’t it?) Also, I just picked up two EPT and two First Responce. Because that is how *I* roll.

8/15/2006: 4:25pm
Well, it’s faint, but at least it’s there, right? RIGHT? Now, I gotta stop peeing on things! Word is spreading that I’m a pee stick whore! :: ahem ::


8/15/2005: 5:30PM
She called. I’m at a 47. So, she said YUP, YOU ARE PREGNANT! and then had to listen to me go on about how paranoid I am. “Is it going up enough?” and “What should it be at now?” and “See, my Mom…”

She says, “You are not your mom.”

I said, “Yea, that’s what my Blog people said.”

“Your who?”

“Nevermind. Thanks.”

There ya go. It’s positive.  (she says in a small voice: HIPHIPHORRAY!)


#Rants and Raves#Social Clutz Loveable Spaz

(Thank you to everyone for their well wishes for a lasting pregnancy. I’m four weeks. And I got two weeks “free.” Only 36 more to go (oy)!)

I’ve only had bad experiences with ebay. I don’t get ebay. I think I’m a competent person with a good head on her shoulders and a nice knack for shopping. But when it comes to ebay, I ride the short buss. And y’all, that’s just PURCHASING. Now I need to sell our crap and I’m like the novice poker player sitting in a room of smoke and beer saying things like, “Uh. I have a bunch of red. Does that win something?” Damn clueless.

For starters, we have to sell our 36 inch flat screen TV, our sofa, a washer and dryer set, a full mattress and frame. We have a computer, 156 CDs (all listed in Excel per Mr. Geeky Flinger), and a ton of books and Mac World magazines.

We take Visa. We’ll take anything. Anyone want some?

So, friends, countrymen, fellow Internet peeps, what should I do? I refuse to by “ebay for dummies” because 1. It costs MONEY to buy and 2. I am NOT a dummy. Well, I am, but come on. It’s EBAY. I’ll list my local stuff on Craig’s list (I am so not paying shipping on this TV) and make everyone else pay shipping on the CDs and such. But is there a better website for cds? What do I ask? What about all our little crap?

Oh my god, I’m going to have a hernia before this moving deal is over, aren’t I? Do they sell preparation H on ebay? Maybe that would be a nice investment.