i obsess.: Entries from February 2009

It's that time, ladies and genitals, to produce a blog poo, er, post, where I'm all hopped down on booze. So what's to stop me? Nothin'. Nobody. My fella's in bed with a sick. And the son is -- god, please -- asleep.

I am not pregnant. I repeat: Not. Pregnant.

I am sad. I repeat: I. am. sad.

*wishes there were more beer in the growler, but there isn't because she poured it into her glass and syphoned the last drops out with her mouth, she's SO CLASSY LIKE THAT*

So.

Fuck YOU, people younger than me who had your second kid already. And FUCK YOU, people who are older than me who have had your second kid already, and FUCK. YOU. if you're having your second kid now and you're younger or older or the same goddam age, to the minute, but mostly, FUCK you if you already had your second kid and you aren't broke as shit and you aren't living every minute like it's all about to blow up, like you're grasping an unpinned grenade in one hand while you wash dishes and fold laundry and work like mad with the other.

FUCK YOU.

It ain't happening up in here, up in this potentially-tapped uterus. I don't know why. I only know I have resented any of you who are not in my particular boat, this one shaped like thirty-six years, this one, with its increasing creases and its warping bow and its more misshapen shape, daily, its less attractive form, its unripening entrails, its heartbreaking, spirit-defying, maddening - ness, you aren't here, so I hate you. Not rationally. Rationally, I'm all smiles and pretense.

But inside, I hate you from stem to stern.

I'm sorry.

I don't want to.

I just -- can't help it. I can't help how much it makes me spit and fume inwardly to know that you have your heart's desire. And I don't.

I DIDN'T EVEN FUCKING KNOW this was my heart's desire until a few years ago, when I got an F on a pregnancy test, and it hurt. And since then, every single one has hurt more, where now, it's a willed mastery of all my strength to not break everything in sight when I discover my uterus is empty, emptying, dumping its stupid bloody contents into my porcelain nightmare of disposable heartbreak, FUCK YOU, UTERINE BULLSHIT.

Uteri get it so easy. They just lounge for twenty-thirty years, in most cases, then work for ten-twelve months and then another break for a year or two or three, then maybe one more go of a year, and then done.

Granted. The uterus takes on an Herculean task when it labors.

But the bitch gets to recreate forEVER after.

I envy my uterus?

I'm just so tired. I'm envying everyone. I'm envying those who are better-dressed, better-looking, better-aged (ahem, younger) or more comely in their aging (ahem, older and better-kept).

FUCK ME. For not rolling with the punches.

Punch and Debbie. That's who I want to reincarnate into.

Not that I've ever suggested they were.

I should've known I wasn't pregnant, even though I was almost two weeks late; when returning my Xmas Uggs (in a sumptuous cognac, the quasi-knee-high ones, the almost-too-cozy ones that I ordered too large and then never bothered to return until Friday, and a day in late February is obviously not the time to be ordering up more dead-of-winter footwear, ... *soft sigh*), I tried to make myself go in the direction of the "sensible footwear" section. It didn't work. I padded over to a pair of shoes that were sort of more the exact opposite of sensible.

So even though none of the other parts of me connected with my non-pregnant status, given the tardiness of my cycle, given the convincing I was doing from the top down: my laser-sharp shoe-sense knew.

The catalyst