Ten days. That's what it says on this handy little app I have on my iPod that tracks the comings and goings of my monthly friend. The Red Menace. Aunt Flo. The Crimson Tide. Shark Week. I used to be like clockwork, as they say, and so I knew very, very early when I was pregnant with each of my girls. One day late and eight EPTs later? Bingo.
Now, I am a wee bit older, and the clock doesn't keep time like it used to. Thus I downloaded the handy app to see if there was any kind of pattern so I could have some sense of predictability. Turns out my cycle has just gone down from 28 days to around 23 or so. Which means I should have seen the red carpet rolled out oh, about TEN DAYS AGO.
Now, my wonderful husband is, as they say, shooting blanks these days, thanks to the nimble scalpels at Arundel Urology. We are done having kids. Oh so done. So very, very done. I am not - as far as I know - having a torrid affair with anyone. So, unless there has been some sort of spontaneous regeneration of critical tubes or it turns out that it IS in fact possible to get pregnant just from watching George Clooney be charming (Emmys!), then this must be just a product of my perimenopausal endocrine system. Right? RIGHT????
I just don't think it's healthy for a 41-year-old out-of-shape woman with high blood pressure and questionable emotional stability to have a pregnancy scare, no matter how unlikely. But it does make me consider the fact that my car troubles were entirely due to the fact that I hadn't changed my oil in over a year, and thus wonder if I've done something equally as stupid with my own body that is preventing the arrival of the Ketchup Monster. Or perhaps my own oil refuses to change in some sort of twisted solidarity with my car. Next it'll be wanting its spark pistons re-bored or something.
IN THE MEANTIME, in between Googling "spontaneous recanalization of the vas deferens" and ignoring my car maintenance, I have been working on my quilt:
It has gotten so large, it's difficult to hang it straight, and I'm too lazy to move the chair and ironing board out of the way - but you get the idea. It is, as they say (and they've been saying an awful lot today, haven't they?) pretty fucking awesome. I have still committed to pressing all the seams open and though I think this was the right choice, it is still a major pain in the ass. Every time I go to press the row I just sewed on, I realize that all the other rows I so painstakingly flattened have just closed up again. It's like they're not really taking me seriously, like I was just suggesting that they might want to lie flat, but, you know, do whatever works for you.
I know there is a tradition of naming one's quilts, something I've never really indulged in before, since nothing seemed to warrant it, but I think this quilt deserves a name. Right now I'm leaning towards I'M NOT PREGNANT, DAMMIT - but I'd like to hear your suggestions as well. I'm assuming most of you have more experience at naming quilts than I do, and can maybe come up with something that doesn't involve a clogged up throttle.