I’m Sorry

Most blogs… or at least any blog with some amount of class and/or dignity… has a “WELCOME!” page. Assuming it’s your first time to that blog, you can click on the WELCOME link and get an idea of what you’ll be in for, should you choose to keep reading. I can tell you right now, this ain’t a blog with class or dignity… so let’s skip the Rainbow Princess Fancy Pants WELCOME and skip right to what I’ll likely be saying anyways… “SORRY”.

If you’re here for longer than two nanoseconds the odds are good that I’ll either offend you, gross you out, or accidentally hyperlink you to some sort of porn website (which I actually did once, via email. Which I sent out in mass to my CO-WORKERS including my boss. Yep. True story.).

So if I did inadvertently offend/gross you out/get you flagged on your work computer… I’m sorry.

Unfortunately, I am a tad bit bumbling. I’m the one who stubs my toe on the ottoman and ends up breaking my foot. I’ll accidentally delete important documents after spending all night perfecting them. I’ll make the inappropriate joke (with no harm intended) about dinosaurs or something, and the world’s most uptight paleontologist will probably be standing five feet behind me. I’m both the proverbial and literal bull in a china shop.

Maybe more like… Ferdinand the Bull in a china shop?

I like to think (hope) I have a good heart. I’m loyal to my husband and son, family and friends, and all my Bleeps (my blog peeps, those dear patient, TOLERANT and hilarious people who’ve read my stuff and by some miracle have come back for more). Incredibly socially awkward in person, I crave the online interaction where I can say something stupid… and then be able to delete it. (Or at least rework it until I sound almost like a normal person… or at least what I think a normal person might sound like? It’s a lot of guess work for me to be honest.)

I started blogging in 2009, after I had struggled with infertility for four years. I needed a place to inappropriately joke about a very depressing subject. Miscarriage after miscarriage, I think my “dead baby” comments were making my elderly relations very uncomfortable. I mean… just because I liked to think about creating an army of zombie fetuses to deal with my debilitating sadness doesn’t necessarily mean Great Aunt Penelope wants to hear about my plan for global domination when she asks “so when are you guys going to have kids?” (again).

The blog, named Busted Plumbing in honor of my “broken pipes”, was born and I spent the next year talking about cervical mucus, ritual fertility sacrifices (like MAYBE one or five homeless people, tops), and felony rampages resulting from hormonal imbalance. Of course, I did good things too… came up with “green” ways to reduce, reuse, recycle my used “OPK” sticks (like pregnancy tests, you pee on them to determine if you’re ovulating)… trust me, after five years of trying to get pregnant I’m pretty sure there’s a whole landfill dedicated to things I’ve peed on.

So, I put it all out there.  My first post honored Chuck Norris, and when you start with Chuck Norris… well it’s pretty much all downhill from there, right?  There were soap opera’s involving my hostile cervical mucus, and even some diversions like that time I got a fancy dancy haircut in Manhattan (spoiler alert, there was drama).  But I was trucking along–venting, laughing, lamenting.  It was all fun and games until I got pregnant.  AGAIN.  But something weird happened this time.

It stuck.  And then there was a heartbeat.  And then there was a gender (boy).  And I was all, “holy crow how do I write an infertility blog and be pregnant?”  So then it became a pregnancy humor blog.  Cue the fart posts, the poop posts (one where I even make a Hiroshima joke… too soon?),  and yes… even more mucus talk (might be my most favorite post title of ALL TIME).

And then, all of a sudden I was a mom.  Tucker graced my husband and I with his presence in December 2010.  Cue the posts about your average, every-day mom problems… you know, like my armpits smelling like maple syrup and me mistakenly assuming Tucker had grown facial hair.

But as time went on, I felt weird about talking about my life as a mom on a blog I originally intended to be about all the funny shizz that happens when you’re trying to be a mom.  So, I just crapped out.  Not in the bathroom sense (although there was lots of that too), but in the gambling sense.  I had put too much of my chips on the table, and felt bad for flaunting my winnings in front of the others.

Of course, my Bleeps were supportive.  However, if you win the lottery but all your friends are still struggling to make ends meet, who wants to be the a-hole who rolls up in the new Ferrari two to three times a week talking about how awesome it is to be rich? But after a while of not posting, I realized that I didn’t just need the blog and the community of wonderful, amazing people who went along with it, to get through infertility.  I needed it to get through life.  I’ve felt like I’ve had a big hole in my heart when I stopped blogging.

So, time to start fresh.  A place where I could give Busted Plumbing a home, without feeling like I couldn’t talk about my kid, or non-infertility things like Prince Harry’s glorious naked booty.  Which brings me to Busted Kate.

Even though I’ve “graduated” from infertility, I’m still Busted.  My plumbing, which turned out to surprise us all by carrying a baby, is still busted.  My brain… read two or three posts and it won’t take a psychologist to tell you something’s broken in there.  Also?  We recently moved into a new-to-us old home (aka ZERO improvements, updates, modifications since it was built).  When my tagline says “…because something is always broken”, TRUST ME it is.

A little bit about me:  I’ve lived in the sunny suburban desert of Arizona my whole life, born and raised to know the difference between something poisonous and something just creepy. I’ve been married to Adam since 2003.  No, I’m not THAT old… we just got married when we were 15 and 16. Just kidding! I don’t live THAT far out in the Arizona boonies.  We got married right out of college, in the early 2000’s.  Adam and I are bonded together out of our senses of humor coupled with a high tolerance for chaos and disorganization (oh, there will definitely be a post about our garage at some point), added to our mutual abilities to instantly map out a place for escape and improvised weapons in the event of a zombie attack.  And the things that make us different… well we tease each other relentlessly about.  Usually on Facebook.

But I think (hope) we agree that we’re stuck with each other, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Here’s a picture of us when I was preggo with Tucker, and we were at a football game.  Adam had decided that he was going to grow a “pregnancy mustache” because apparently we are fancy now?  Don’t get me started…

Anywhoodle.  Here’s that kid who broke my infertility streak… picking his nose I think:

I’m a working mom. I have the working mom guilt.

Last year we moved out of the city into a suburban home that’s a perfect 1960s/70s time capsule… and right next to the thick, dense desert. The carpets, walls and even the toilets were pink. The popcorn on the ceiling has asbestos, but the lead paint is quite tasty. When I’m not wife-ing, mothering, working, or writing… we’re usually working on the house. Or trying to figure out a way to get the bats to move out of our porch. And clearing four foot snake skins out of our backyard. True stories.

Oh, and we are one of those cliche infertility couples – five years and many miscarriages to have baby #1, and then baby #2 was a surprise. Well, he wasn’t THAT much of a surprise. I mean, I know how biology works. But it took two years of unprotected sex to get pregnant with him – but in my world not having to take clomid, take mucinex, stand on your head, ritual sacrifice, look at my spit under a microscope and make my husband eat oatmeal three times a day – well that absence of all that equals a “whoops” in my world. We nicknamed him “Dollar Beer Night”.

In May 2014 (three and a half years after his brother) Luke was born – a teeny tiny delicate little thing… Only a mere 10 and 1/2 lbs.

luke

He popped out looking like he was 3 months old. Yeah, really. All the newborn clothes we brought to the hospital didn’t fit. His first day on the planet, he was wearing 3 – 6 month size. He started out in size 2 diapers too. I’ve nicknamed him Beast – as I write this he is not even a year old and we’re about to switch to size 4 diapers. But he’s loving, funny, speedy, and already laughs at his own farts. Definitely my spawn.

Be warned, I love bathroom humor.  My dad, who is currently a pilot in Afghanistan, and I will talk on the phone only in the most rare occasions because it costs a fortune… and when we do, we usually use the time to fart into the phone and giggle about it.  I prefer vacations that involve shooting BB guns off the back porch of some redneck cabin in the woods.

I struggle with a dark side. Five years of infertility and loss left a shadow I’ve yet to be able to chase away, even though my days are filled with sun (son!) now. And if I’m looking for a safe place for me to be myself, well guess what, this is a safe place for you too. You don’t judge me, I don’t judge you. Except for celebrities being dumb-butts, those guys are fair game for judgment.

I use the dots (aka “….”) WAY too much).  I ramble.  I definitely need to back off on the exclamation points! I have quite the affinity for saying $@#& but bleeping it out. I do try to keep things safe for work. Despite all my jokes about profanity and vulgarity… I think just the THREAT of it is much more funny than it’s actual use. Tumblr, well no promises there… but you can pop over here on your lunch hour without much to worry about.

If you’re a Type A, organized, well-dressed spouse/parent/human-being, well I’m guessing you took a wrong turn and ended up here by accident. No worries, nice to meet ya, I reckon you’ll be moving along shortly. Sorry I linked you to my “Welcome Back Cooter” post.

If you are a spouse/parent/human/advanced primate (remember, I don’t judge) that is living in a constant state of chaos, wonders if the neighbors are talking about your weeds, may or may not have put pants on this morning that carries a stain from the lunch you ate yesterday and you don’t really even care, and/or you can’t exactly recall when the last time you took a shower… well, I reckon you’re in the right place. Relax, put your feet up, make yourself comfortable… I hope you’ll be here a while.

Hopefully this constitutes enough of a warning that I can reiterate “Don’t say I didn’t warn you” somewhere down the line… probably in court, but whatever.  I got those pre-paid attorneys.  They’ll probably be fine.

The real fun about all this is making new friends.

Or alibis.

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