After a grueling morning of appointments then ultrasounds scheduled in completely separate cities we now know two things:

1) My cervix is closed

2) The Sausagebryo has a heart rate of 122. The US chick said it looked a little small, but it’s pixelated heart was merrily beating away.

Thank you to everyone who rooted for me throughout this. I couldn’t have done it without knowing The Internet was marching behind me. Seriously.

Now I need a nap.

I have an appointment tomorrow morning with the OB. The same one I saw last time I was in the office for my miscarriage. The same one who broke my water with Alex.

Since the initial spotting, I’ve felt not much at all. No more spotting. My uterus feels non-specifically weird. Could be the Crohn’s. Could be the start of the miscarriage.

But I’ve given up completely. I hold out absolutely no more hope at all. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t blindly hope for the best anymore. I’m tapped out of hope, of well-wishes, of happiness. I’ve been struggling mightily before now, and now that this is following a familiar path, I’m just at a loss.

And I’m just so tired of this; so weary of it all.

If this is the beginning of the end like I’m pretty sure it is, I’m done with the idea of a third child. I simply cannot do this to myself again. I can’t go through the worrying, the anguish, the stress again.

I’ve planned what I will do when this fails: I’m leaving town for awhile. By myself. I will tell no one where I’m going, and I will be alone for a couple of days. I’ve not had a chance to properly mourn anything at all; not my beloved Steph, not my two previous miscarriages, nothing. I’ve been too busy being forced to be something for someone else.

I can’t help but feel that tonight is the last time that the Sausagebryo and I will be together. And I want to tell it how sorry I am. I’d really have liked a third child. Even if it meant a mini-van and more stretch marks. I’m so sorry ickle one. I’m just so sorry.

I’d say I was comfortably numb, but there’s nothing comfortable about it.

I’m spotting.

I’m extending my middle finger to The Universe right now.

I will be going to the doctor tomorrow morning to follow up on all of this. While the spotting has stopped for now, I have little faith that things will be well. It’s either self-preservation or just “knowing something isn’t right,” but either way, I’m resigned to losing this pregnancy.

And I literally do not know what I’m going to do.

Like me or not, I’ve never been known as a hateable person. Sure, the random person now and again decides that they hate me, but usually there’s a reason. Even Molly, the man-hands girl who had The Sex with my boyfriend had been nursing a long-time grudge waaay back from when I’d dared go to homecoming with a guy she was stalking er, trying to date.

That said, I was hated from the moment Amanda laid eyes on me.

It was an odd situation for sure, I was good friend with her boyfriend Mikey, who hadn’t exactly told me that he was dating anyone, so I literally had no clue why this chick was glaring at me the moment I walked in the room. I’d never been super popular with the ladies, so that maybe wasn’t a huge shock, but she shot me the hairy eyeball for so long that I began to wonder if I had a boogie on my face or she thought I was someone else.

But no. Turns out she was glaring at me because she hated me because I took the male attention away from her (there were a number of dudes there the night I met her, that were my friends). From that point forward, she was my own personal enemy. I was strangely flattered.

That is, until she set about ruining my life.

While it sounds dramatic and all, she didn’t try and kill me or anything, she just waged war on me. At any opportunity to make me look bad, she took it and ran with it. It was always about one-upping me with whatever was going on, whether or not I was even trying to compete with her. She was dying to get me gone.

Things came to a head when I was about 6 months pregnant with Ben. Faithful readers (that I pay heavily) will remember that I was unmarried, 20 years old, and unhappy as hell with my Baby Daddy Nat.

So Nat had a lady admirer, Megan, who I’d always kinda poked fun at. She was a nice enough girl, I suppose, incredibly irritating, and known to get drunk and command that everyone near her listen to her talk about her horribly abusive childhood and how she’d sometimes “cry in the shower.” It wasn’t so much a cry for help as it was a cry for the party to pay attention to her.

But for some reason, Megan thought Nat (who is not an attractive man. What was I thinking? I WASN’T.) was just the bees knees, and at any party we’d go to, she’d glom onto him and hang around him all night. I thought it was hilarious: this chick was obviously annoying, pathetic and stupid, but I never raised a stink about it. Why would he go for her?

For months, though, anytime Nat would see Amanda, she would tell him about how much better off he’d be with Megan, how Megan liked him, and she’d make sure to arrange any time that the two of them could be together without me. Hoping for some sort of reaction other than laughter (the girl was REALLY annoying) Nat would always tell me about this, and become sort of annoyed when I didn’t get jealous.

The one night that he cheated on me–while I was pregnant with Ben–it had been carefully orchestrated by Amanda. Now, of COURSE it was Nat’s fault. Of COURSE it was. But, Amanda was most pleased by this, after nursing such a high resentment towards me for years and years.

Finally after months and years of plotting, that stupid bitch had gotten under my skin.

I still see her now and again out and about, and she’s still equally pathetic and sad (she dated pretty much all the guys in one group of friends-my friend group–and they all dumped her). I’m sure if you were to confront her she’d deny any sort of anger, any sort of hatred.

But she’d be lying.

Stupid assed-bitch.

*claps hands happily*

Your enemy stories?

Happy Father’s Day to the man (Mr. Aunt Becky) I didn’t know I could hope to marry. Sure, you dragged me, kicking and screaming to the alter by my hair, but you know now how lovingly I look at you as I grab your hand, shove your wedding ring in your face and say, “You see THIS RING? It means I OWN YOU.” See, it’s because I love you so very much that I perform such acts of idiocy.

You’re a good guy, The Daver, you always are. No matter how many orphans (or cute cuddly kittens) I rescue from burning buildings (current tally: 0. But I have faith that I’ll do some rescuing soon), you will always be my better half. I can’t top you on that one, even if I can possibly beat your ass. You wouldn’t hurt a PREGNANT LADY would you, Daver? I didn’t think so.

You told me this morning that Ben was going to be a great dad, as he played with his doll Seth the same way you were playing with Alex. And you’re right, Ben will be a great dad. He learned it all from you. Those boys are fortunate to have you, and maybe they won’t always recognize it or think you’re especially “cool” but in their hearts they always will. They’ll always know that the lasting damage was caused by seeing their mother breastfeed, not by you spraying them with the hose.

I love you, and I’m happy to have you in my life. Even if you never change the toilet paper roll. Or manage to place your laundry IN the basket (It PUTS THE LAUNDRY IN THE BASKET). Or notice when I get my hairs did. Because maybe *I* won’t notice when I dump 5 gallons of bleach onto YOUR CLOTHES.

I’m just sayin’.

So, Happy Father’s day to all of you dudes. Your wives (and Aunt Becky, in a purely platonic way) love you.

My old friend Morning Sickness, more medically termed “Nausea/Vomiting of Pregnancy,” (which I like it better, actually, because since when does Morning Sickness occur only in the morning? NOT OFTEN) has reared it’s ugly head once again.

While this makes me happy, because it means I’m still with Sausagebryo, I’m having a touch of a hard time trying to make it better.

Any suggestions for good remedies?

Aunt Becky: “I *so* don’t get this song.”

The Daver: “Wait, isn’t this ‘America’?”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah, I think so. Or maybe it’s ‘Chicago.’ The 70’s had a lot of bands named after cities. Either way, what the fuck do they mean-’25-06-24?’That makes no sense.”

The Daver: “What are you *talking* about? It’s ’25 or 6 to 4′!”

Aunt Becky: “….”

The Daver: “You know, like 3:35 or 3:26 AM?”

Aunt Becky: “…..”

Aunt Becky: “It is not! There is no way!”

The Daver: “What the hell did you think it meant?”

Aunt Becky: “I don’t know!..maybe a combination to a lock or something? No, I refuse to believe this song is about a time of day.”

The Daver: “And a locker combination makes more sense to you?”

Aunt Becky: “No! That’s why I *said* that I don’t get this song, dumbass!”

The Daver: “It’s about smoking dope, Becky.”

Aunt Becky: “I refuse to believe that in all my years being a pothead that I never could figure out that this is a drug song. I have a sixth *sense* about this crap! I mean “Lake Shore Drive? LSD? GET IT?”

The Daver: “Are you still bitter that you couldn’t do the “Dark Side of the Moon” “Wizard of Oz” thing?

Aunt Becky: I cannot discuss this with you. You wouldn’t understand. Goody-goody.

The Daver: “FINE.”

…..

…..

(three days later)

…….

Aunt Becky: Is it really 25 or 6 to 4?

I have two tattoos. You know this. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you don’t even care. And here I am, taking away from you REAL posts to show you some pictures. I should be ashamed of myself.

Let’s ignore my obvious need for a pedicure, which was actually on The Almighty Schedule for the weekend. With extenuating circumstances being what they were, the prospect of paying someone to touch my foot was ridiculous at best, recockulous at worst (oh yes, yes I did).

So, for my 22nd birthday, I done got myself a tattoo. On my right foot.

It’s a reminder, actually, to be true to who I am. The lizard DOES have a meaning, and not just “I like Southwestern Stuff!!!”

Here is My Left Foot (a.k.a. Big Pimpin’)

So this is the swollen bad foot, adorned with an adorable pink seahorse. You can kinda see the bruising and swelling. It’s kinda wicked cool. It’s also kinda hard to see from this angle.

I got this tattoo on my 25th birthday, about a month before I fooled The Daver into marrying me. At the same time, he got a tattoo, too. Actual conversation between me and the dude doing my tattoo:

Me: How’s he doing?

Tattoo Dude: He looks fine. Almost done.

Me: Is he okay?

TD: Well, shit. He looks pale.

Me: Oh no!

(I peer over at Daver who is now standing up)

Me: Hahahaha! That’s just how he looks. Pale.

Anyway.

The seahorse commemorates my single years, my Seahorse Period, if I may (and I always may) and reminds me that I was good at being single. In case, you know, I find myself single again someday.

Okay, so let me preemptively answer a couple questions before I ask for YOUR tattoo stories:

1) Did it hurt?

What do you think? I don’t have fat feet, nor are they particularly muscular, which means the tattoo needle was going over and over on my bones and tendons.

It hurt like fuck. Like worse than childbirth.

2) Why the HELL do you have tattoos on your fucking feet? That’s a dumb place to put them.

Well, sort of dumb. But kind of brilliant. See, I CAN HIDE THEM EASILY. If I want to be professional (stop laughing) all I have to do is to put on real shoes. It also is in an area that won’t stretch too much, so I won’t distort them before I’m too old to give a shit.

Okay, your turn. I want stories.

In an epic battle of Alex vs. The Lazy, Alex is the true victor at long last!

He took his first steps today, and I’m insanely excited. He’s going to be a walking machine in no time.

So, I got tagged twice for this meme that I’ve done already, and although I could just rip out my old answers and be done with it, that would be extremely boring to us all. My answers are not exciting at all. Hell, I’m not exciting at all.

I’m gonna mix things up on y’all.

1. What wasn’t I doing 10 years ago?

10 years ago, I wasn’t giving the slightest thought to my future. I was 17, graduating high school, and enjoying a life of partying and living one toke over the line. I openly mocked all the goody-goodies who painfully mapped out the rest of their lives, because at 17, who the fcuk REALLY knows about the rest of their lives?

If you say that you’re doing exactly what you said you were going to do back then, at age 17, I will personally eat my own foot. (That’s a lie. No I won’t.)

2. Five things on my to do list for today. No. Too boring. Hmm…Five Things On My Shit List Today:

1) People who complain bitterly about, well, everything without seeing any good in anything. It’s almost always a matter of perspective.

2) People who insist on parking their lazy fat butts in their cars in front of the store entrance. You know, they make their own spots there? BECAUSE THEY’RE LAZY.

3) The merry family of paper wasps who inhabits my porch every summer, no matter how much insecticide I coat them with.

4) People who are always better than you with whatever you do. No, not people who ARE better, people who ARE SURE that they’re better than you. And never stop telling you how.

5) Going to the post office. I’m so incredibly terrified of Post Office People that I kind of want to barf.

3. Snacks (and food) I fucking hate:

Celery
Yogurt
Pork
Black Olives.
Hot Pockets
Orange Juice

4. Things I wouldn’t do if I was a billionaire.

Shit, I wouldn’t give a dime to charity. I’d save it all for myself, cash it into small coins, build a giant vault and go for an afternoon swim each day in my money. Kind of like Scrooge McDuck. Except you can call me “Hooty McBoob.”

5. Places I have lived Dull. Hm. People I Hate

Flava-Flav. Do I need to explain how he makes my skin crawl? HOW do people have The Sex with him?

Wendy The Snapple Lady. Okay, so I don’t hate her. But I do hate Snapple. Bitterly. And she used to represent Snapple. Therefore…

Whomever wrote “I’d Like To Teach The World To Sing.” I’d like to shove my fist up their ass.

Evan Rachael Wood. Why? I HAVE NO IDEA. But she ruined “Across The Universe” for me.

Mr (or Mrs) I Stand Too Close To You While I’m Checking Out At The Store. Because, really? Am I the reason the line is not advancing? Unless I am having a fit (it’s possible), no. So BACK OFF BITCH.

——————-

Your turn!