An Accident of Hope

Changes coming down the pike

2007-02-13T12:18:00.000-07:00

I've moved. Please come see me at the new place. And change your bloglines, feeds subscriptions and links accordingly.

Please?

Pretty Please?

Pretty Please with Sugar on Top?

Thank you.

Mysterious, Maybe Prophetic Meme

2007-01-11T10:43:00.000-07:00

From Liza...

Find the nearest book.
Name the author & title.
Turn to page 123.
Post sentences 6-8.
Tag three more people.

Since I'm at work, the nearest book to me is the one I brought with me in my bag.

Mad Ship by Robin Hobb

"He was a disaster in the making.
She was still looking at him dumbly when Keffria came into the room. "Davad!" she exclaimed."

Liza also wanted the last three books that I've read and enjoyed. Well, Mad Ship is the second book of a trilogy, and I just finished the first, Ship of Magic, last night and haven't even started Mad Ship... so as you can imagine I can't wait to find out why Davad is a disaster in the making. S, whose partner, J, blogs at Cheese and Wine, recommended the trilogy to me at the blogger bash in New York last November. It took me this long to get my hands on them. Very good, just as she said they would be, but it took me about 100 pages to get into the first book. I'm not sure I would have made it to the "hooked" part if a) I hadn't truly believed S when she talked about how good the books are, b) I hadn't been home alone all weekend with nothing else to read, and c) I realized that I was having a hard time getting into the book because the author is so good at her craft. The book starts out with a great deal of despair and frustration and powerlessness on the part of the characters we are meant to sympathize most with. The point that I realized that I was not enjoying the book simply because I was so drawn into the plight described as to make it feel personal, was the point that I realized how amazing this author is and how great the trilogy is going to be.

Before that I read The Eye of the World by Robert Jordan. It was a gift from a co-worker this past christmas. She had paid attention to the fact that I often bring in Sci-fi and fantasy books to read, and so had asked her son (another fan of the genres) which book she should get me. When she told me that her son had recommended the book I was a bit... apprehensive. Her son is a teenage boy. But, I like books written for young adults, and the book sounded interesting so I read it. And then I found out that this isn't a book written for young adults, and it's the first book of Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series and that it has a VERY strong following, and I don't know how I could have called myself a fan of fantasy without at least being familiar with the series. I devoured the book, and then found out that the series is to have 12 titles (11 of which are published already) and that the 12th title isn't due to be published until 2009 due to Robert Jordan's being diagnosed with a rare (and in many cases, fatal) blood disease. I told this to Kristin and she muttered, darkly, "I hope this doesn't turn into another Farscape or Firefly thing." I have already received the next 4 books for free through PaperBackSwap.com. I haven't mentioned PaperBackSwap yet, but I found out about it from Hope and I am really loving the service. You list books that you're willing to send to other people, and you can browse other people's books. The more books of yours that you send out the more credits you get, the more credits you get the more books you can request. Check it out, it's really cool.

And before that I read Moon Called by Patricia Briggs. Good. Not great, mind, but very promising. I'm excited to read the next book in the series and see what Briggs does with that promise.

Well, since I wasn't officially tagged, I'm not officially tagging anyone. But... Faith? Want to chime in? Anyone else? Cali?

Getting through the 2WW without losing your mind

2007-01-10T10:58:00.000-07:00

Drink.

I'm serious. Drink. Not a lot. Not to excess. Not more than you normally would. But if you're used to having a glass of wine with dinner, or if you go to a party and want a beer, go ahead.

And while you're at it, why don't you have some brie and sushi, too?

I am not of the school of thought known as Pregnant Until Proven Otherwise. Oh, I used to be. It seemed the only way to be. I mean, how can you consider yourself a good mother if you willfully put your child in danger? And everyone knows how dangerous brie and wine are.

Ok, I'm being funny. But here's the thing: it seems to me that we lesbians who are trying to get pregnant (or are already mothers) try to overcompensate for the strong cultural belief that we are unfit as parents. And so, to that end, we try to be the Most Perfect Parents Ever. Faultless. So we can use our perfection as a defense, a rationale for our desire to parent. There's nothing wrong with trying to be the best parent you can be, unless you're letting someone else define what that best parent you can be looks like, and when that being starts.

Plus, there are overtones of holy suffering to the whole thing. As if, by giving up such things, you prove yourself worthy of becoming pregnant. You show yourself as a worthy vessel -- pure and healthy and uncontaminated. You deserve to be pregnant, because you have given the appropriate sacrifices. As time goes on the sacrifice becomes greater, thus increasing your worthiness and your bitterness if conception doesn't occur. The sacrifice becomes one of not only alcohol and certain foods, but also one of the normalcy of your life. All is miserable: you dangle on a hook. And the comfort you seek when confronted with the knowledge that you didn't conceive yet again (going out for a drink, or the sushi you had denied yourself) becomes another way of suffering, another sacrifice of pleasure on the altar of conception: because the fact that you are indulging is an acknowledgement that you have failed, the comfort is soured.

I refuse to make those sacrifices. My suffering does not make me a more worthy vessel. It does not make me a better mother. Especially as there is nothing yet to benefit from such sacrifices. The fact that there may be a fertilized egg floating around in me does not make me pregnant. If I have a drink, there's no connection between me and the developing cells for the alcohol to speed through and wreak havok. At this point the best thing I can do is take the long view: do what is healthy for me and my body, do what I can to keep myself happy and relaxed, and keep life flowing with as little disruption as possible. Time enough for disruption when that pregnancy test turns positive.* And since I'll be testing early, you can bet that I'll know if I'm really pregnant as soon as possible and can modify my behavior accordingly.

So, until then, I am Not Pregnant Until Proven, and I'll take another Mojito, please.

I was already too competitive, now what will become of me?

2007-01-08T22:02:00.000-07:00

Hmmm, I got an email a few days ago saying that I'd been nominated for The Lesbian Lifestyle's first Lesbian Blog of the Year award (thanks Mo!). This is unexpected and yet nice. I think. Frankly, I don't expect to win; I've been off my game and depressed for months now. But, still, if you want to go nominate me again, that would not be unappreciated. I think the way it works is that the 5 most nominated blogs will get to be voted on.

You know, this is a mixed thing. On the one hand, I love attention and approval. But on the other hand I just got to the point where I don't look at my stats counter every day to see who's reading and how many people are visiting. I just got myself to stop investing my self worth in what my technorati ranking or my TTLB status is. And now there's this.

Still, I can't deny that I got a moment of bright pleasure from the thought that someone thought I could be good enough to win a blog award. So thank you. And thank you to whoever is going to nominate me in the near future. I'm going to try not to get too wrapped up in it, though, because if I do it could sweep me away.

Go here and leave a comment to nominate me (if you want to).

Such a fine line between a bad mood and a good one

2007-01-08T09:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was hard. Kristin and Julia got bumped from their flight and so didn't make it home until after Midnight. I was very disappointed not to spend the day with my lovies, but not as disappointed as they were to be stuck in Houston all day (not that Houston is a bad place to be, but that when you're wanting to go home and you get all the way to the airport and actually get to go down to the plane only to be told that, no, they were wrong, there really weren't any seats, it's a bit disappointing to still be in Houston). Plus, yesterday was my CD 10 and we had decided to inseminate on CD 10 whether or not I had gotten my LH surge. You know, because I never get an LH surge and yet sometimes I spontaneously ovulate around day 11. So I had to inseminate all by myself.

So, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself yesterday, having to deal with semen all by my lonesome and thinking that even if the insemination would have worked (which I didn't believe it would anyway) did I really want it to work and have the story of how we concieved child #2 be one of loneliness and sadness and self-pity?

Well, apparently I do. I've been peeing on LH sticks twice a day since day 8 with nary a line to be found. I was not surprised; I never get a line. I have come to believe that my urine would be unable to make a line even if I peed in a line on one of those water zen drawing boards. Peeing on any sort of stick, be it ovulation or pregnancy, feels like an exercise in futility. And yet, despite the complete absence of a line yesterday morning, when I peed on the stick yesterday late afternoon there developed a strong surge line! Holy fuck people! I surged! And I caught the surge! And it showed up as a line on a stick! My urine CAN make sticks appear!

And that means that inseminating yesterday was great timing for fresh sperm. And if we can do it again tonight (actually, I guess whether or not we get to insem tonight)... it means that I have the second real chance of getting pregnant we've gotten in the entire 10 months we've been trying to knock me up. And in the instant that it took me to register the surge line I switched from feeling sorry for myself for being all alone during the insemination (and thinking that I didn't want to become pregnant like that anyway, not that I was really going to get pregnant) to desperately, fiercely, hoping that that insemination did the trick.

N just called. We're on for tonight, too. Whoop!

My Solitude Day 2

2007-01-06T18:27:00.000-07:00

You'd think that today would be harder than yesterday what with their absence stretching out like a vast gulf through the day. Everywhere I look they are not where they should be.

And yet today has been easy. I slept better than I expected and woke not too late in the morning (9! My pre-baby self is laughing at that meager sleep-in!) I did two of the self-appointed tasks and moved a massive quantity of boxes out of the basement. I read some and I uploaded a major portion of our music collection into iTunes. It's been peaceful.

Plus, Kristin called and Julia could tell it was me on the phone and demanded that the phone be put to her ear, and when Kristin told her to "say Hi to Mama" she DID! I can't tell you how many times we've put the phone to her ear and told her to say hi to whoever was on the other end only to have her breath heavy, look confused, and say nothing. This time she said hi and then Kristin took the phone away and she demanded it back and when I told her that she should take a nap for Mommy she laughed at me. That's more interaction over the phone than she's ever exhibited before. And it was for me!

So that felt good. I think I am missed - though Kristin says that most of the time when Julia asks for me it's not in a woebegone way, but rather a I-don't-like-what-you're-doing-where's-mama kind of way. So I'm missed, but not like you miss your best friend or puppy but like you would miss your secretary or private chef or Chief Bottom Wiper and Mistress of the Wardrobe.

I've planned out all the meals for this week, and done the grocery shopping. Now I'm going to watch Pirates of the Caribbean and fold laundry as I eat my salad and sandwich for dinner. I was going to take advantage of Kristin's absence to make Creamed Tuna over Rice, but I decided that the recipe makes too much for just me, so a salad and sandwich it is.

Wow. Depite my wildness last night (two beers, a cigarette, and home by Midnight) I am pretty damn domesticated. At this moment I don't feel sad about it, though, it just feels right. Ask me again around my 32nd birthday, though, I might feel differently by then.

Live Blogging Through My Solitude

2007-01-05T08:50:00.000-07:00

Kristin and Julia are leaving me...

for Houston. Kristin's brother (who used to live in Hawaii) has sold his house and bought a boat and he and his wife and kids are going to go drive their boat (look at me! all nautical and stuff!) to the Carribbean and live the good life. But first they stopped to visit Kristin's sister in Houston, so off Kristin and Julia go to bid them fare-thee-well (plus he's never met Julia). I can't go. I don't have any time off to take. So I have been abandoned.

As this is the first time I've spent any time away from Julia (more than just overnight as on Grandparent's night) and as this is the first time I've been away from Kristin overnight since June of 2002, I thought I'd live blog this unique experience. Lucky you!

4:30 AM: Just got home from dropping Julia and Kristin off at the airport. I tried to get Julia to give me kisses goodby, but she said no. Obviously she has NO IDEA that I will be gone from her life for over 48 hours. I hope she remembers me when she gets back. I hope she gets back. I hope that the plane doesn't crash in a fiery fire ball of flame depriving me of the two most important people in my life...

There are only 2 hours before I would need to get up and go to work anyway, and the bed is too big and cold. Besides, I would just fall asleep and then have a hard time waking up and then wish I could just take the day off and mope around, but OH! That's right. If I could take a day off then I wouldn't have been abandoned! So I think I'll just stay up. I've got some volunteer work to work on, I'll just sit at the computer and work on that. Yeah. Then I'll leisurely get ready for work. Maybe I'll even put on makeup and perfume. Maybe I'll even do my hair.

5:35: I didn't get a call. They must have made it on the plane. They were flying standby, and there's always a chance of getting bumped while flying standby. Crazy to fly standby with a baby. I'm just hoping that the flight isn't like the last flight we took with Julia... but this time we packed plenty of dramamine and chocolate and chocolate-covered dramamine. This is to be the trial flight to see if drugging Julia with dramamine results in the desired outcome (a sleepy and non-screaming baby contentedly resting and drowsing through the flight) without any unwanted outcomes (such as the turning of our little angel into a dramamine junky) because, frankly, we're not sure how we're going to get through the three flights to Kauai if we can't sedate our child. We're bad parents like that.

So, I didn't get a call. They must have gotten on. They must have gotten through security with that dangerous bottle of milk. It is out of my hands now.

7:35: Shit! I'm going to be late for work! And yet, here I am, blogging! Why, you ask, am I going to be late for work? Because I decided to clean the house. I don't know what's happening to me. I used to be the biggest slob. Still am a slob. Still. But yet, now, whenever I'm nervous or depressed or anxious all I want to do is clean. As if the answer to all my problems lies in a shiny glass table-top. Or an immaculate floor. So I clean. Or I sit around feeling frustrated because everything's so messy and I can't clean. So this morning I emptied the diswasher, put all Julia's toys away, cleaned up the garbage shreds left over from the dogs getting into the kitchen garbage can (damn dogs figured out that if they step on the pedal the lid will open giving them access to the treasure of treasures) swept the floor, vacuumed. Basically I did everything I could do to make the house look good without actually going so far as to clean the bedrooms where my beloveds should have been sleeping. That would have been too jarring. Hell, I should have just gone to sleep. Oh me, too late now.

Hey, one bonus to being left behind: I'm wearing Kristin's new white knit hoodie. It looks pretty good on me if I say so myself. Now if only I can manage not to spill anything on it so she never knows...

8:35 AM: Just got a call from Kristin. They landed safely! They're in Houston. And a full hour before my scheduled freak-out that they were crisping in a plane crash somewhere! Now I can settle down and do some work. Did I mention that my resolution (one of them) was to blog less (at work) and work more? Of course, here I am, blogging more and working less. I better nip this one in the bud! Off to work...

9:23: I'm supposed to be working on payroll. But I had a thought. Can't remember the thought now, though, that I'm here to tell it to y'all. I guess I'll go look at the payroll stuff again. I wonder if Julia has noticed that I'm missing yet. I've just noticed that I seem to be blogging once an hour, that seems strange to me. I should stop blogging and get back to work. People need to be paid, you know.

12:55PM: I have successfully broken the one hour mark: I have now gone more than one hour without begging for attention from anyone. Whoopee!

1:08 PM: Holy Shit! I hope it's not an omen! The UPS guy just came and when he was handing me that computer pad (that's heavier than it looks) to sign for the packages I dropped it and it fell hard on my desk smashing a red pen that I had casually left uncapped just moments before. Now there's blood-red spatter all over my mousepad that's decorated with this picture:

and now it looks like this...(Picture removed due to my supserstition and anxiety... just use your imaginations, ok?)

I'm really upset at this. It's more than a little disturbing to see red smeared all over my baby, especially since she's not within kissing distance. I may have to throw my mousepad away...

4:27 PM: Well, I made it through work, even though I had 2 count 'em TWO frustrating phone calls with the IRS over the same damn issue. I was getting dead-walled by one guy, so I hung up on him and called back (waiting another 20 minutes on hold) and got someone else and finally got my problem taken care of. And the whole time I was on hold I kept wondering if my recreation of my newly grotesque mouse-pad was really the bad-luck token that I originally took the mousepad to be... Is it? Have I damned myself by trying to illustrate my original damning? Omens are just so confusing...

Anyway, I'm off for home now. I'm going to go out to a pub with one of my oldest friends. Never fear, though! The live-blogging of my solitude will continue. I think this is going to be one of my longest continuous posts ever!

6:24 PM: I am wracked with anxiety. On the one hand this would be about the time Kristin and Julia walked in the door if it were a late night for Kristin at work and so there's a primal part of me saying, "Read NOW, slouch around NOW, check your email NOW! Hurry BEFORE THEY GET HOME, enjoy your alone time before they get home!" But they're not coming home. So no need to rush. No need to do anything, even though there's another part of me urgently directing my attention to the pile of clean laundry that needs to be folded, and the christmas decorations that need to come down, and the closet that needs to be reorganized, and the weatherstripping that needs to be applied... I guess I don't feel like I deserve to be lazy and slothful on my weekend alone. I feel that I must fill the weekend with Productivity and Good Works and Create a Welcoming Home Environment for my weary travellers upon their return. Or perhaps they'll realize that they really did quite fine on their own and decide that I'm too lazy and slothful to bother with. Maybe they'll come home, take one look at the messy house, and walk the other way.

Ok, I know that won't happen. But it's a very primal part of me talking right now.

God, I need a drink. Any minute now Moss will call me and we'll go out and get some beers and sweet potato fries. So I should hurry up and read NOW! BEFORE SHE CALLS! I should get my cleaning done now now now! Damn those tricky, wormy thoughts!

12:53 AM: Got in about a half hour ago from hanging out with Moss. We went to the bayou and she introduced me to the delight of a Black and Tan. Hanging out with her was just what I needed. We've been friends for 12 years now and she has a piece of my soul. We kept playing the "remember this?" game and giggling like we were 20 and stupid again. It felt good to be reminded about how far I've come since we met, how much I've grown and accomplished, just as it felt good to leave the Mom part of me at the door... though I couldn't shake the Mom all the way off, conversation turned oh so easily toward Julia and how wonderful she is, and marriage and relationship and how rewarding (and hard sometimes) it is. But it felt good to be free of anxiety and to relish in memory for once.

After the pub Moss showed me her new place (she's getting a divorce and I had yet to see her digs) and there, smack dab on the wall, was a picture of me taken on her wedding day. I'm standing next to her and her husband. I remember this picture: I was pretty unhappy and confused that day, and I thought I looked terrible. But they loved that picture. Had it hanging right in their entryway. I was so embarrased by how ugly (I thought) I looked. I hated going to their house because I hated looking at that picture. Eventually I got in the habit of looking over it until I never saw it at all. But I looked at it tonight and I was stuck by how cute -- no, beautiful (if you'll allow me the liberty) I looked in that picture. Only 6 years ago. It's such a tragedy that I can only think I look beautiful if there's a span of at least 5 years between me and a picture of me. I should ask her for a copy of that picture to remind myself that even if I feel like I'm the most embarrassingly ugly person alive, I really am a beautiful person.

So, I'm calm and happy right now. The anxiety is hanging at the edges and the house is too quiet. But I'm going to go to bed and turn on the sound of crickets and fall asleep and dream of loved ones.

Setting the Tone

2007-01-03T09:30:00.000-07:00

Well, friends, I have to say that this New Year's Eve was the best New Year's Eve that Kristin and I have had in a looooooooooong time. Maybe ever. It was that good. 2006 dropped away like a diseased skin, or an extra limb that had been mangled in a terrible misfortune and died while still attached to the body so that it just hung there, useless and smelly and getting more and more bloated by the minute. Phew! What a relief to let that putrescence go!

Anyway, we hadn't made plans because of Kristin's surgery, but as the tweener week wore on we decided that Kristin felt well enough to have people over, so we called some friends of ours who have children and invited them and their kids over for games and snacks. We also took a chance and invited a new couple and their two kids; and they invited another couple and their baby. I was a bit nervous having people I didn't know well over, and spent New Year's Eve day freaking out and cleaning, but it all went so well. Kristin and I felt like we clicked with the new couple we had invited, and the other new couple seemed nice, even though I didn't really get a chance to talk with them before they had to leave. Most of the kids and guests pooped out and left around 11, but our new friends put their baby to bed in a pack n play in our room, and their 5 year old stayed up till midnight with us and then fell asleep on the couch while we finished our game.

I believe that what you do (and how you do it) on New Year's Eve sets a tone for the rest of the year. Over the last decade that I've been tracking, this pattern has proven to be true. Maybe it's just hindsight and creative linking, but still... there it is, it works for me. I think a night filled with children and friends (and new friends -- this is important after the two years of friend-loss we've gone through) and laughter and light spirits and games and intellectual conversation was a great start to 2007. 2007 is going to be a good year, dammit! We deserve a good year. Heck, we deserve a good several years!

So, what did you all do?

Elimination Communication

2007-01-02T09:25:00.000-07:00

WARNING: POTTY LANGUAGE!!

It started out as a way to alleviate suffering. Julia gets constipated and has hard poops. One day she was straining and Kristin and I thought that it must be difficult pushing out a hard poop against a diaper. So we took off her diaper and held her over the toilet. And the movement finished moving much faster. Everytime we saw her straining we held her over the toilet. And then we cheered and waved bye bye to the poop and Julia got to flush the toilet (oh joy!). Even better, there was less shit to wipe off her, since there wasn't a diaper there to spread the stuff around. Eventually we bought her a little potty seat that sits on the regular toilet (Blues Clues, not that we know what Blues Clues is, but still, I'm trying to paint a complete picture here). After a few weeks we got tired of having to keep the potty seat on the toilet or have it kicking around on the floor, so we got a hook and now when the potty seat isn't in use it's hanging on the wall just above the floor.

Then we started noticing that Julia's diaper was not saturated in the morning when she woke up. One day, on impuse, we asked her if she needed to go potty. She said yes and when we put her on the potty seat she went pee. More cheering, more waving bye bye, more flushing of the toilet. In addition to the regular "She's grunting, hurry! Stick her on the toilet!" sessions, we incorporated sitting on the potty first thing in the morning and last thing at night... also before any baths. On weekends we started randomly asking her if she needed to go potty, and if she said yes we would stick her on the toilet and usually she would go. Sometimes if we left her there long enough she'd go poop unannounced as well.

A couple days ago we were getting ready for a party. One of us was in front of the bathroom mirror, the other one of us was trying to push the first out of the way. Julia pushed her way in the bathroom, too. I had just changed her diaper (this is important to note). We weren't really paying much attention to her, but she pulled her potty seat off the hook (it's at just her height) put it on the floor, and sat on it. We looked at her and laughed, oh so cute. We asked her if she needed to go potty. She stood up. "No" she said. I checked her diaper. It was warm and full. She had peed in her diaper while sitting on the potty seat she had gotten down expressly to pee on. From that moment on, everytime she gets her potty seat down and places it on the floor or the toilet, we take her diaper off and let her sit on it -- she usually pees. It might be coincidence, after all, babies normally release small amounts of urine throughout the day. But Julia's gotten to the point where her diaper is dry for stretches at a time. She's begun holding her urine, and thus when she askes and we sit her on the toilet and she pees, I'm believing that it's not a coincidence.

This morning I was on the computer uploading cds into my new iPod. It was a slow morning since I've got the day off to mourn a dead president (is it unpatriotic to wish presidents would die a bit more regularly so I could have more free days off?) Julia had already had her morning potty sit where she had both pooped and peed. But suddenly she came into the living room holding her potty seat. I looked at her and when she saw that I saw that she had the potty seat she laughed and ran back to the bathroom. I thought she was just playing and chased her into the bathroom. She put her potty seat on the toilet and began tugging at her pants. What the hell, I'll stick her on the potty again. I took her diaper off, placed her on the potty, gave her the quacking duck that we let her play with when she's toilet sitting, and stepped out of the room. She began jabbering to the duck. Suddenly there was a plop plop and then she began struggling to get down. I wiped her, put a diaper on, we waved goodby to the poop, and flushed the toilet. Then she grabbed the potty seat and put it back on the hook. Then held up her arms so I could pick her up and wash her hands.

I think she'll be out of diapers (at least during the day) by the time she's two if not sooner. And it's all been (mostly) her idea. Do they make panties size 18 month?

Now My Life is Complete

2006-12-29T08:25:00.000-07:00

I have the best readers in the whole wide world. All I have to do is ask and I receive. Yesterday Leith was so generous to gift me with Dar's version of Highway Patrolman. How wonderful is that? It made my day. Leith, you totally made my day. I chortled, actually chortled, as I downloaded my song, moved it to the iPod immediately, and forced Kristin to listen to it. You know, Leith, when we start up the next round of the Crazy Mixed-up CD club you should totally join.

Following hot on the heels of yesterday's request is another. Well, I guess, more of an announcement. There's definitely something in it for you if you participate. You all know Zilla, right? She of the magnificent comments? Hair Bitch Zilla? Well, she's doing a cookbook. Anyone who submits can have a copy. The more people to submit the better a book it's going to be. I'm going to do it, and I thought some of you might like to do it too. Here are the rules. How cool is this? I wish I'd thought of it...

Finally, something else that makes my life complete:
Earlier this month SomeRandomChic published a link to the coolest onesie imaginable... we couldn't help it, we had to order one for Julia. It reads "I am an all powerful amazon warrior" from the Righteous Babe Store:

and, for you, a bonus "Amazon Yell"

An Unusual Request

2006-12-28T09:32:00.000-07:00

There's a Dar Williams song that I've heard on the radio several times and absolutely love. The only problem is that it's from a compilation CD called Badlands: A Tribute to Bruce Springsteen's Nevada. Dar sings a cover of Highway Patrolman. I don't want to buy the whole CD because I've listened to clips and I don't want any of the other songs. And the CD (not to mention Dar's track on it) isn't listed on iTunes.

My request:

Does anyone out there have this song and would be willing to send it to me somehow (right now I'm thinking that you could burn it to a CD and mail it to me... I'll reimburse you)? Or does anyone know of someplace on the internet where I can download it? It doesn't need to be a free download, I'm happy to pay for the song, I just don't want to have to buy the whole CD...

Thank you.

Some Moments of Note

2006-12-27T09:00:00.000-07:00

1) Christmas Eve: Mom calls to confirm some details about the Christmas Eve party, and we ask her if she will bring an apron for Julia. We've been looking everywhere for a child-sized apron (that's not a costume) with no luck. Mom has a couple at her house that Julia uses on Grandparent's Night. Julia will pull bibs off, but she leaves the aprons alone. When we arrive at the Christmas party, Mom pulls out a completely new apron. Turns out that after we asked her to bring an apron she decided that the ones she already had were too stained for a fancy party and went and sewed one for Julia and a matching one for Grandchild the First from scratch before coming to the party. Sometimes I think my mom is an overachiever.

2) There's a white elephant exchange at the Christmas Eve party. Gifts that Kristin and I have given at this party in the past include: a white elephant (he he, get it? it's a white elephant exchange and we exchanged a white elephant!) tea pot; a kleenex holder with a big nose on it that sneezes everytime you pull out a kleenex; a toilet paper holder with a radio and an alarm button -- you know, just in case you fall in, and: a 6 foot tall inflatable christmas tree. This year we gave a cookbook called "Are You Hungry Tonight: Elvis' Favorite Recipes" and "Desperate Housewives: Dirty Laundry" board game. The two best parts? The only gift bag big enough to hold the Desperate Housewives game was a birthday bag, so I took a sharpie and made it say, "Happy Birthday, Jesus!" My immediate family thought that was hilarious; the rest of the (more religious) members of the family were not so amused. And the final best part: my staid, very devout uncle is the one who got stuck with the very risque "Dirty Laundry" game. You should have seen his face!

3) Best Christmas Present ever: Julia slept till 9 AM Christmas Morning!!! Whoo hoo! All the (very horrible, heart-rending) sleep training we've been doing this week paid off!

4) Have I mentioned she's a toddler? We had Christmas Dinner over at Camden's house and we were treated to the spectacle of her and Camden fighting over toys. This is the first time we've seen Julia actually fight another kid over possession of a toy. "MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!!!!" she screetched over and over as he would dive for a toy that she had just put down. At this point the behavior is still cute. I'm sure it'll wear thin as time goes on.

5) Grandchild the First had some tough Christmas moments as Julia got some toys that GtF has wanted for years. Namely: that ginormous car. As Kristin and I were loading up the car with our loot, GtF looked at Kristin and said: "I don't think all those toys are going to fit in your car. You should probably leave most of them here. Julia can play with them on Grandparent's night." It should be noted that Grandma watches GtF every day, and thus toys that are at Grandma's house are, for all intents and purposes, GtF's. Kristin and I thought this was very clever, just not clever enough for us to fall for it.

and...

6) I wasn't there for this, but it deserves to be noted anyway: HD went into labor on Christmas night and delivered Mia yesterday. Go welcome little Mia! What a wonderful Christmas present.

Hey, look! A picture!

2006-12-26T13:59:00.000-07:00

Drummer Girl
Originally uploaded by Temmerling.

Turns out I DID take a picture of the tongue drum. And there, in the background, is that cars sofa sleeper thingie.

But don't pay attention to that. Look at that drum! Isn't it pretty? And it sounds so beautiful! And Julia LOVES it. And my dad made that! Holy crap!

A whupping

2006-12-26T10:32:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, we were poor. Kristin says that she used to think that she was poor as a kid, and then she got with me. The sad thing is that though we were poor poor poor, there are people who were poorer. We were never homeless, for example (unless you count my senior year of high school when my parents had sold their home and were building a new one, but couldn't afford temporary housing and just had a tiny camping trailer on the building lot, in the middle of the worst winter in decades... but that's still more than a lot of people had, so that doesn't really count) because my father could always build us a house. Sweat equity as down payment. And we always had at least one, if not two vehicles, because my father could repair a car. I guess there's a reason that now one brother works in construction and the other brother is a mechanic.

When I was growing up my father always had 2 if not 3 jobs. He worked during the day as a kitchen cabinet installer, and then he always had one to two side construction projects that he worked on nights and weekends. There's another post coming in the future when I talk about Dad's side jobs, but for right now just suffice it to know that we rarely saw our father: he was gone most mornings before we woke up, and he came home after, or just as, we went to bed. Sundays he would take off working to... work on our house. What with my mother's depression and my father's absences (and his resentment over having to work so hard all the time) it would be fair to say that our daily existence was rather grim. Not that an outsider would know. Family problems stay in the family, and admitting that you're unhappy is like exposing the dark underbelly of the family's existence. All of us (parents and siblings) can be more than a bit dual-sided: shiny and dark, shiny and dark.

But Christmas... the week between Christmas and New Year's my Dad always took off work. Part of it is just the nature of his work: people don't like their houses torn apart during Christmas, they want it all done and impressive for their in-laws. So it was easy for him to cram installs in before Christmas and clear that week out. But that doesn't discount the fact that for that one week our dad spent time with us: we spent time doing fun things as a family. We would play games, visit family, go out to dinner at a fancy restaurant like Sizzler, and go see a first run movie. We would sort through our old toys and deep-clean our rooms. And when my Dad was in charge of overseeing our room cleaning he didn't just accept a clearing of the center of the floor. No, if you told him that your room was clean he would go in and sweep everything loose on the floor up (even from the closets and under the bed) into a big pile and tell you that if you were really done putting everything important away then you wouldn't mind if he threw all this trash in the garbage. And you, stubborn child that you were, would agree that you really were done while you tried to pick out Barbie shoes and game pieces from the pile with your shoe without him noticing. Come to think of it, that wasn't so much fun. But still, he was there and he was paying attention to us. That week was a magical week that was separated from the rest of the year by my father's presence in our lives.

I didn't realize how formative this had been for me.

Julia was completely spoiled by my parents and siblings this year. Her large presents were: a ginormous car, a mini futon (just like this one, only Julia's is red and has Lightning McQueen from the Cars movie on it), another ride-on toy, a play stove, some dishes and pots, a set of tables and chairs, a big tongue drum that Grandpa made her (very much like this one, only Julia's is made of purpleheart wood -- stunningly beautiful, I should take a picture...) an activity cube, And the Smartville Alphabet Train Station. All that on top of a bunch of books and puzzles and art supplies.

Yeah. Most of that didn't come from us. We're a little overwhelmed. Our elegantly arranged and decorated living room (well, we think it's elegant) has been overrun with toys. And downstairs is a lovely large area that we could turn into a playroom... if we only had the time. And here am I, chafing at the fact that I have to be here at work this week (I'm here because 1 I have no leave left, and 2 because someone needs to answer the phones, of course there's only one other person here and so if the phone rings I have no one to tranfer the calls to, not that anyone's calling as everyone we work with are primarily lawyers and lawyers don't work on the day after Christmas, even Govt lawyers).

I realized last night that it's not just that I want to be home with Julia and Kristin, and it's not just that I want to set that playroom up. It's that it doesn't feel like Christmas if this week isn't set aside to be home with my family and friends. Up until last Christmas I had always managed to either take the week between Christmas and New Year's off entirely, or work drastically reduced hours. This year I have a kid to play with and no time to take off to play with her. But this is how it is most days, and though most days I'm not happy about this situation (after all, we had planned that I'd be a work from home mom) today it feels worse. It feels like the Grinch just pissed all over my Christmas tree.

Don't get me wrong. This is a very petty thing to be complaining about. I know this. I have a beautiful home. I have a loving partner. My family spoiled us and Julia rotten. We had a lovely Christmas Eve and Christmas Day filled with family and friends. I am blessed. I know this. I know this.

But isn't it funny how childhood patterns, both the good and the bad, can just whup you right upside the head?

I am a Bitch: Bah Humbug

2006-12-22T11:51:00.000-07:00

When I was younger I used to think that there were more suicides during the holidays* because a) it was just that much more depressing to be depressed when everyone around you is so joyous and b) relatives are annoying.

Now I am older and wiser, and I know that it is the fact that there is so much fucking work to do during the holidays and yet everything around you is screaming: go slower! have hot cocoa! sit by the fire with your family and give gifts of expensive jewelry! surround yourself with adorable and thoughtful and tasteful crafts! But, in order to do all that one must go shopping at several stores, have the patience and peace of mind for crafts, and, most importantly, be high enough in the senority chain in order to take a butt load of time off work so that you can accomplish all these things. It's enough to make one wish that a bus would just come and run over you already. Preferably a bus with a Holiday Wreath affixed to the bumper so that your last, dying, breath can be full of Christmas Cheer.

People. I am a royal bitch. I have been bitchy to my recovering-from-surgery-and-a-cancer-scare loving partner. All because I haven't had time to go shopping for presents for her. Ironic, isn't it? It's enough to make me choke.

But, I just found out that our loving boss is giving everyone 3 hours off this afternoon... so I'm going to make a new start to this holiday. Solstice sucked, but the nights are still long so I've got time to re-do it. I'm going to get presents for my lovely this afternoon and then what I don't get done just doesn't get done. We're going to try and bake cookies tomorrow. That should be fun. I'll put Julia in a booster chair at the counter and give her dough to play with. Take lots of pictures. Maybe tonight I'll make hot buttered rum for Kristin and I, or Midori sours. Maybe we'll light a fire in our 1950's Gas Log Complete With Carcinogenic Sparkes for that Real Ember Feeling!

Maybe. One thing I know for certain... if you were expecting a holiday card from me... it's going to be late.

Have a Merry Weekend, whatever you do and however you look at it.

*I know this is a myth, but still, work with me here...

"It's a metaphor, if you know what I mean"

2006-12-19T16:28:00.000-07:00

I was 23 when I decided to run away from home. I felt stifled by my parents nd their love. I had just watched 1.5 years of romantic endeavor end very unremarkably (for the other person involved, as for me, I was devastated). And I’d just realized that the career I’d planned on having since I was 5 years old was not really the career for me. I felt stagnant, disillusioned, worthless, and protected to the point of never having to exert myself or discover what I was truly capable of. Running away to Oregon seemed the only good option.

A couple months earlier I’d blown the engine out of my pontiac. The Brother Just Younger than I was putting a new engine into a Mazda for me. He was being slower than I liked, so I decided to give him some incentive. I told him he could have my room when I left, and I set a date that I was leaving so he’d have the car finished by then.

The car was finished the day before I was set to go. I didn’t even have time to test drive it. My brother gave me careful instructions about how often to change the oil and how to break the engine in on my trip. No one in my family was happy about my leaving; but it was something I had to do. The next morning I got up, packed the car, and hopped on the freeway. I was picking up my friend in a nearby town. She was going to drive with me and keep me company, and then fly home. Immediately I knew something was wrong with the car. The back end kept fishtailing. Did I turn around and take the car back to my mechanic brother? No. No I did not. I didn’t want to delay my emancipation. I kept going.

I found out that if I stuffed a pillow between my body and the door, I could rest my arm on it and I could stabilize the steering wheel that way. I was able to make all the minute corrections necessary to keep the car moving in the correct direction. My friend was supposed to help me with the driving, but she couldn’t keep the car going straight enough and nearly sideswiped someone. She told me that she thought something was seriously wrong with the suspension or some other mysterious car-steering mechanism. I, with $150 to my name and too much pride to turn around, just started praying, “just get me to Oregon, just get me to Oregon, just get me to Oregon.” Thinking that once I got there everything would magically work out.

I should have been a bit more specific in my prayer. I had chosen the most direct route to the city in Oregon I was headed for. And that meant I took a mostly-deserted highway from Winnemucca up into South-Central Oregon. So when I hit the Oregon border I was leaving Middle of Fucking Nowhere Nevada and entering Middle of Fucking Nowhere Oregon. Traffic on the highway was sparse at best. 10 miles past the border, on a bare hill speckled with stunted sagebrush, the Mazda blew a back tire, sending the car into a serious tailspin that took everything I had to get myself facing the correct direction and off the highway and onto the shoulder. Like I’ve said before: I am a fantastic driver, but a stupid car owner. We had made it to Oregon as requested, but there was no respite or shelter to be found.

***

We knew this year was going to be a difficult one. With Kristin needing to work 40 hours, and carry a full class load AND work a 12 hour practicum, we knew it would take everything we had to get through this year. But there was a respite. Christmas break. 3 weeks at least to catch our breaths, sleep, recover, spend time as a family.

As the semester wore on, Kristin got sicker and sicker. She was exhausted all the time. If she wasn’t taking antibiotics then she was sick. But the antibiotics were making her sick, too, giving her gastrointestinal problems. We were blaming the semester… if only Kristin had more time to rest she would get well. If only we had more time as a family we wouldn’t be so stressed out. The infection and the hell semester became a chicken and egg situation… Which caused the other: was it the infection making the semester unbearable, or was it an unbearable semester that was making the infection so difficult to kick?

And then Julia started reacting to the stress like a toddler… with tantrums and messes and clinginess. Her sleeping deteriorated and it was never that strong to start with. She stopped sleeping through the night at the end of October and added a 3 hour period in the middle of the night where she needed a mom awake and holding her. Kristin and I started taking shifts and switching off nights to try and cope. At this point crying it out was adding to our stress… and besides, Julia is as stubborn as her mothers. But as time went on more and more frequently I would let Kristin sleep through her shifts. Even though I’d been sick for weeks myself, I am usually the lighter sleeper. And I would hear Julia cry, and turn to wake Kristin up, and then sigh and get up myself. How can you wake up your wife to go care for the baby when you look at her sleeping and even in rest she looks so ragged and worn and exhausted? So I would get up and let her keep sleeping, hoping each time that the extra sleep would work a miracle and she would wake up rested and feeling fine. And as I rocked Julia I would mutter to myself, “Just get to Christmas break, just get to Christmas break, just get to Christmas break. Everything will be better once Christmas break is here.”

And then Christmas break arrived hand in hand with a cancer scare, and a surgery, and my poor, exhausted brain flipped out. We’ve been living in a state of constant adrenaline saturation for months. I don’t know about you, but adrenaline feels like a poison to me. It’s never a pleasant rush – it gives me the strength to do what I need to do, but afterward leaves me shaky and vomiting and crying and headachy. And when my adrenal glands are bathing me in a steady stream just to get through my life… first I start to need more and more just to keep going. And then I start to go a little crazy. And then I crash.

***

I have shy bowels. I can’t go to the bathroom in a public place where someone could walk in and sit down next to me… or walk in and sit down right after me. I would rather die than have someone smell my shit. So, for the 10 hours or so of the drive to the Oregon border, I’d been holding it. And holding the pee, too, for fear that the shit would take my opening the door to the pee as an invitation to let loose. It was ok. The adrenaline from driving the car, along with the vibrations from the shaking car, were enough to keep everything up there. When you’re fighting or flighting there’s no time for shitting. But then, suddenly, there were no more vibrations, and the massive dose of adrenaline that my glands had pumped out to get me through the stopping of the car, wore off as quickly as it had come… leaving me really needing to empty my bowels.

I jumped out of the car to inspect the damage. There was a pick-up truck pulling a trailer that we’d been playing leap frog with for 200 miles. I looked at them as they caught up to us…and they drove right on by. And then the urge hit me. I was frustrated by the car, the near death experience, the lack of help, and now NOW my body was going to assert it’s put-off-too-long needs… it was going to make me shit in the open without even any TOILET PAPER. I started swearing and crying and dancing. And my poor friend was watching me fall to pieces in front of her. She could understand the swearing, but the dancing? Just go to the bathroom, she kept telling me. NO! I’ll be fine once we get the car moving again. I just need to get the fucking donut on the fucking car. Did I mention we were on an incline? And that I was shaking from too much poisonous adrenalin?

I’d been counting down how much longer it would be before we reached my new home and haven, until we reached a place where I could relax and take care of my immediate needs. And now this. I’d gotten what I’d asked for: I’d just made it to Oregon, but everything had gotten immeasurably harder, and my physical needs that I’d been putting off for so long were letting me know in no uncertain terms that I needed to either find a way to meet them or I was going to lose control, and end up with a big, stinky mess right out in the open. But I couldn’t see a way to meet those needs; I couldn’t go forward, I was in too much pain, and my hands were too shaky to change the tire by myself.

And then a car came up that lonely road, and a man got out – a friendly woman waving at us from the passenger’s side in reassurance – and the man took the crowbar from my shaking hand, and put that donut on for me. And my friend and I got back in the car, and when we got going again the fishtailing wasn’t so bad. We were still far from haven, but the kindness of a stranger had made it possible for me to get moving toward safety again.

Of course, I still had to move through the insanity of being pushed far FAR beyond what I had thought I could endure… My poor friend. After we got going again we continued to climb, slowly, up that hill and came out onto a plateau. We journeyed on this plateau for a while and then, horror of horrors, the descent. 8% grades, a narrow switch-back road. I think it was called the Devil’s Spine or Dragon’s Ridgeback or something like that. Me driving a stick (had I mentioned that I had never driven a standard until I got started on that trip?) with a donut and still fishtailing a bit. And, yes, I still had to answer the call of the wild. One half of the way down I snapped, and started singing an old song my dad had taught us kids. A very ugly song called 3 wheels on my Rover. (I am very ashamed that this song was part of my childhood repertoire, and I haven’t sung it or even thought of it in years, and it’s a testament to my insanity that it came out in this moment)

Three wheels on my rover
And I’m still rolling along
Those cannibals are after me.
Spears they fly
Right on by
But I’m singing a happy song.
Each verse you lose a wheel… My poor friend started crying as I was laughing hysterically. It took us two hours, but eventually we made it down the Demon’s Backbone and found, at the very end of the descent, that the road teed off with a steep drop-off at the dead end… there were flashing lights and sheriffs’ cars and a fire truck… and upside down in the gully below, the trailer smashed on top of it… that truck that shared the road with us for so long and didn’t stop to help.

If I hadn’t blown that tire on the ascent… and if I had managed not to blow it on the descent and kill us that way, then that runaway truck and trailer would have been behind us coming down off that plateau. There was (finally) a town just 5 miles away. It was Sunday night. We checked into a hotel... there had been some vagues ideas of us "entertaining" each other in a glorious celebration of life or something, but I crashed slept for about 12 hours.

***

This past weekend was the shits. But life goes on, you know? Julia was getting dedicated in our Unitarian Universalist church on Sunday (pictures tomorrow, hopefully), and we’d planned a brunch with family and friends after to celebrate. We couldn’t figure out how to cancel the brunch without also telling everyone why we wanted to cancel. Broadcasting the news to the entire blogosphere aside, Kristin wasn’t sure she wanted everyone we knew to know, you know? So we cleaned the house and made Belgian waffles, and went to Church and smiled, even though everything inside us was eaten away by adrenalin and anxiety. We were both of us absolutely convinced that the mass would turn out to be cancerous. The problem with having a long, long, long serious infection, is that it looks a lot like cancer. Kristin’s lymph nodes have been swollen and painful for weeks, her white blood cell count is through the roof, she’s exhausted and achy and in pain. She was needing care – more care even than I’d already been giving her.

But my resources were depleted. I’d been running on fumes for weeks myself – pushing everything off until a specified time. And telling you lovelies about what was going on, and the resulting support that you gave me, was enough to help me keep moving forward this weekend. It was enough to put some conviction in my voice when I told her it was just going to be a cyst. And it was enough to convince me that even if we had to push on through a terrible disease, there would be people there to support us and cheer us and pray for us and bitch with us and lend us strength. And that is why, even though the scare was only for 5 days, and even though it turned out to be nothing, I am determined not to call what I posted overdramatic or overreactionary.

I am overdramatic to the point of being melodramatic.
I am overreactionary.
Yes, I know.

But I also needed the help. We needed the help that you provided. We needed something to tether us to this world. Strangely enough, some of the strongest tethers came from the people who are the furthest away.

Oh, and the car? When we finally got to a town and a mechanics shop… it turned out that I hadn’t had a major problem at all… I’d been driving on two flat tires the whole damn time.

And now I'm off to crash...

Cyst

2006-12-18T12:53:00.000-07:00

She'd only been in surgery for an hour when the nurse called me into a consulting room because the doctor wanted to speak with me. I think I felt lighter than I have in days... I wouldn't let myself believe he wanted to speak with me so early because it was bad news. And it wasn't. When they got up in there the mass turned out to be only a large cyst. Rather than take the time to carefully remove a tumor, the doctor had only to drain the cyst and move on to the other clean-up work that needed to be done.

I can't express how touched I was by all the outpouring of love and support that we recieved from everyone out there in computer-land. There's a big part of me that's convinced that the prayers and candles and white light and positive thoughts coming from all directions changed the mass that looked solid enough and scary enough on the cat-scan to alarm three specialists into nothing scarier than an infection-filled cyst.

This has been one of the worst weekends of my life. But knowing that so many people cared made it just bearable.

Thank you. It's not enough, but it's all I have to offer.

Now don't freak out...

2006-12-14T15:00:00.000-07:00

The woman you love most in the whole, wide world; the woman that you would willingly give up perfectly good body parts for; the woman about whom you have gut-chilling, tear-spilling nightmares involving the premature death of; the woman that you know is probably the only person who will ever love the you that comes out when all your insecurities and paranoias surface...

What do you suppose your reaction would be when the woman you love calls you after an appointment with a specialist and the first words out of your mouth are: "So, what did the doctor say?" and the first words out of her mouth are: "Now don't freak out, but"?

Well, in that case I think the appropriate response would be to FREAK THE FUCK OUT. Don't you?

Outwardly I remained calm, I think. I asked a lot of ridiculous questions in with the very pertinent ones. And then I hung up the phone and went to speak to my boss about some time off (I have only a few hours of leave that I've managed to bank up since the pneumonia wiped my leave out). I got up from my reception desk, walked through one set of 10 foot tall bullet-proof glass doors, through the marble and steel-clad elevator lobby, through another set of 10 foot tall bullet-proof glass doors into the non-public part of the office and passed a co-worker. I thought I was being admirably calm. She asked me how I was, when I told her I was fine, she said she could tell something was wrong from my face. I am not close to my co-workers, they normally can't tell how I'm feeling. I must have looked very shaken for her to pick up that something was wrong. I told her what I had just learned, walked to my boss' office, saw that he wasn't there and retraced my steps to come upon her telling a group of my co-workers. She was embarrassed, I was too numb to care.

Yesterday Kristin went to see an ENT for this sinus infection she's had for the past 8 weeks or longer despite a cumulative 30 days of the kind of antibiotics that would kill a bull moose, were a bull moose a form of bacteria, and another 20 or so days on just regular antibiotics. Three weeks ago our family doctor was shocked that Kristin was still sick, and they x-rayed her sinuses... a lot of infection -- a lot of infection -- but otherwise it was normal, you know, despite the hella lot of infection. So Kristin scheduled the ENT visit; yesterday was the first day they could get her in.

This is how her visit went:
First she talked to the nurse. The nurse looked sympathetic and a bit worried.
Then she talked to a P.A. The P.A. looked alarmed.
Then the specialist came in. The specialist looked concerned and ordered a cat scan.

They shot horrible-tasting stuff up Kristin's nose and hauled her off to the cat scan machine. She sat in the machine and it started to turn. After a few minutes the image came up before the technician. The technician looked at it for a moment and said, "Oh my! I'll be right back with the doctor." And then left and returned with not one but three specialists. Three specialists who sat there and discussed the situation, and Kristin, as if she weren't sitting right there. Three specialists who were extremely alarmed at what they were seeing.

A mass. A mass that looks like a tumor. A mass that wasn't there three weeks ago. It is nearly completely filling up her entire right sinus cavity. The doctors mentioned cancer as a distinct possibility. Not a certainty, no, but still. They want it removed as quickly as possible and tested. These are specialists. They've seen bad. They know what bad looks like. This is not just a General Practicioner seeing something unusual and freaking out.

The doctor sent her over to a woman to have the surgery scheduled. The woman pulled up the calendar and looked at the first available date. January 18th. Kristin said she thinks the doctor wanted the surgery sooner than that (also thinking that by January 18th she'll be back in the thick of school and practicum and work). The woman said that January 18th is the absolute soonest they can fit her in. The doctor came back over to see how the scheduling was going and when he heard that the surgery is scheduled for January 18th he got very firm and said, "No, I said immediately." The scheduler showed him the schedule that's chock full. He looked at it for a moment and then: "cancel that tonsillectomy on Monday, we need to get her in."

Somewhere out there, some person's just been told that they have to keep their tonsils until January 18th.

In addition to the removal of the lump, Kristin has extra sinuses that they are going to take care of. I'm not sure if that means they're going to remove them, or close them up, or whatever. She was told that the recovery time on this surgery is 1 to 2 weeks. Black eyes for Christmas, hoorah!

We don't know how long until we know if the lump is benign or malignant. I'm hoping that we know right away... like they get in there and discover that it's just a big, hard booger. Or a cyst. Yeah. Just a cyst. Or that they'll come out of the surgery and tell me that it was just a swollen bean that's been in there, growing, since she was a kid and her mother told her not to stick beans up her nose. Or maybe it's a pearl. Maybe some bit of grit got up there and her body's been coating it coating it coating it in layers of pearlessence. We can have it made into a piece of jewelry for Julia.

What I am trying hard not to think of is that when we looked up cancer of the sinus cavity one of the professions at risk to develop the disease is that of Crime Scene Technician... because of the fingerprint powder. And how when Kristin was a crime scene tech she would come home after her shift and blow and blow and blow black crud out that she'd inhaled (the police department wouldn't provide masks) and how she's been saying for years that her sinuses haven't been the same since. I'm not thinking about that. I'm not. It's just a cyst. It's just a tiny balloon. It's just a hardened and out-of-place gummi bear. It's just a scare.

I love her so much. Last night I kissed her cheekbone over the mysterious mass and held her. All night I kept waking from the kind of dreams that wake you up in a cold sweat. And I would turn to her and listen to her breath and tuck my arm around her body and try to fall back to sleep. And Julia was kind enough to sleep through and not disturb us.

A Meme to Sum Up the Year

2006-12-14T12:26:00.000-07:00

(because I don't yet have the pictures ready for my Mormon Housewife Politics Post)

Thanks Liza for the idea!

You take the first sentence of the first post of each month...

January: Lots to say, no time to say it (hopefully some will come tomorrow) but hey, aren't my new shoes cute?

February: It seems everyone is talking about adoption these days.

March: Sometimes it seems as if my life is made up of one long search for mysterious bad smells.

April: Earlier today I would only have agreed with the negativity part of this evaluation.

May: Picture this (or don't, actually, I'm really not sure anyone really wants this in their head): I had a headache all night.

June: While Kristin and I were on our night-time tour of Portland, N took us around some of the neighborhoods that she thought we might be interested in moving to.

July: A few days ago, K of Odyssey to Conception wrote about a frightening incident involving her daughter, a rock, and a lot of blood.

August: You know you're a mother when... you fix your morning iced latte in a sippy cup because you can't find your chic stainless steel travel mug.

September: I'll take happy wherever I can get it these days.

October: It turns out Julia LOVES the circus.

November: I'm supposed to start a novel today.

December: Because Cali wanted snow pictures, and because I'm behind in the Photo Friday game... I've got a GREAT idea for G, hopefully I'll get to it over the weekend or Monday...

Wow. I look over those opening sentences and I see a lot of things not-done... a lot of good intentions not followed through with, and a lot of depression. Here's to hoping for a better year next year.

Vote

2006-12-13T09:38:00.000-07:00

If I were to magically morph myself into any kind of blogger in the whole wide world, I would want to morph myself into a blogger very much like LesbianDad. It's true. I absolutely adore LesbianDad's writing: post after post shines with good humor, intelligence, grace, and generosity. When it was announced that LesbianDad was up for a weblog award in the category Best New Blog, I was thrilled (a teensy bit jealous, true, but thrilled nonetheless, though I guess I'm not really a new blog, so the point should be moot) for her. I've been voting every day.

The biggest challenge to her ascendancy is a group right wing political blog. And, while one on the contributors has requested that this not continue, the readers of this blog have gotten nasty nasty nasty about LesbianDad and her popularity. I'm not going to repeat the comments, I try not to spread filth. The gist of many of them seems to be that if LesbianDad wins the award it will be because the gays stacked the deck to try and "prove" that we're mainstream and normal and deserving of respect and equal treatment. You know, it's all part of our agenda to push ourselves on decent people and ruin children. And, of course, only the gays would vote for LesbianDad...

If you aren't familiar with LesbianDad, I'm asking you to follow the link and give the site a look-see. If you like what you see, and you're not currently supporting another candidate in the Best New Blog category, will you please go vote for her? (and, of course, if you are already a fan of LesbianDad you've been voting all along, right?) This isn't about pushing an agenda. This is all about nastiness and the not rewarding of such. This is about grace and generosity triumphing over spite and fear. This is about great writing and the acknowledgent of such.

You can vote once a day until Friday. Go. Read. Become Huge Fans. Vote. Vote. Vote. Show LesbianDad your support in the face of what has turned into a really vicious attack.

And then, when you're done voting to LesbianDad, would it kill you to vote for Liza at Liza Was Here, too?

An extra special post about some extra special cupcakes

2006-12-12T11:15:00.000-07:00

We have some friends. These friends have not yet abandoned us like so many of our other friends have done. No, these friends are steadfast if a bit flaky. I’ll call them Ursula and Lola to spare the innocent. Me. The innocent would be me, because they would hurt me, hurt me bad, if they knew I was posting this story (maybe there's a reason our friends keep abandoning us...). I’m sparing myself pain by disguising their identities. So. Ursula and Lola. Lovely names.

Once upon a time Ursula and Lola had a miscommunication with a friend of theirs that resulted in their getting a large amount of a certain kind of herb left on their front porch. They had wanted just a small amount of that herb… enough, say, to give a weekend evening a little joie de vivre, but the amount they ended up with was enough to add joie every weekend for the rest of their vivre. Or close to it. They were a bit overwhelmed and stuck the box in their big freezer. I mean, what else were they supposed to do with it? We, of course, have never been in this position before (being good girls and thus completely unacquainted with the substance in question…) so we had no advice for them.

So, months pass. Several of them, in fact, with the herbal package just sitting in their freezer calling out for discovery or use. Then another month passes. This month is a terrible, horrible month, a month that most people call “November” but that wise souls know better as “Calamitember”. During this month both Ursula and Lola caught terrible chest colds. Hell, they probably caught them from us as we bring pestilence and plague wherever we go. But that’s no never mind. The fact is, they caught them, and it screwed up their breathing to no end. And in the midst of all this hardship all they wanted to do was to take some of their frozen herb and forget their troubles in a cloud of fragrant bliss. And who would deny them that? But unfortunately the whole “severe difficulty breathing” thing was putting a crimp in their plans. That’s when Lola decided to get creative.

She decided one night that she was going to make cupcakes. Now, Ursula and Lola have two small children. And they knew that if the smell of chocolate cake was going to infiltrate their house then they would need to have some cake to give the kids. So they spent some time discussing Lola's plan and trying to figure out how best to make “medicated” cupcakes as well as some plain jane cupcakes without getting the two mixed up (which would really have given Calamitember a spectacular ending, no?) So they deliberated and discussed various options… making a little cake and a couple of special cupcakes… making a couple of cupcakes and a special cake… in the end Lola started to get the cupcake pan ready and she got out the cupcake cups, and noticed that they were different colors. “Ah ha!” she thought, “I’ll make the special cupcakes in differently colored paper cups! It’s brilliant!” And Ursula agreed that it was, indeed, brilliant. So they made the regular cupcakes in pink paper and put the special batter in the green cups. And then baked them all at once, satisfied that all would be well.

After the timer went off, and the cupcakes were done, Lola pulled them out of the oven and let them cool. Then she decided that it was time for her treat. (the kids had been asleep for hours at this point) She pulled a cupcake out of the pan to check the color of the paper and… the paper cup was a greasy tan color. What the hell? She pulled another cupcake out of the pan… its cup was ALSO a greasy tan color. She pulled all the cupcakes out of the pan… all of their cupcake papers were the same damn color. It was a little like that fellow that captured the leprechaun and made the creature show him the tree that marked a fabulous treasure and then the guy puts a mark on the tree and makes the leprechaun promise not to touch the mark on the tree, but then when he comes back with a shovel to get the treasure ALL the trees are marked similarly and so he digs and digs and digs at all the trees and still he can’t find the treasure.

Well, in this case there were only 12 trees under which to dig. Both Lola and Ursula poked and prodded the cupcakes. They tried to recreate the pouring of the two different batters to determine which cupcakes were the special ones. They argued between themselves over just whose great idea was it anyway to bake all the cupcakes in the same damn pan at the same damn time. They held cupcakes up to the light hoping that perhaps the thc crystals would glow. They tore the paper cups to see if the fibers had retained a trace of their original colors. Eventually they were pretty sure that they had figured out where three out of the 4 were, but that last one was a kicker. They didn’t dare let the kids eat a possibly enhanced cupcake. And they didn’t want to just throw all the cupcakes out. So Lola ate one of the cupcakes that they were sure was enhanced. Just to be sure, you know? And it was. And she was happy. So now they knew for sure what an enhanced cupcake looked like. And then Ursula volunteered to eat one of the uncertain ones, just to see. She thought she might have seen a bit of a plant in the one she ate, but she couldn’t be certain. After 20 minutes had passed with no effect, she decided to eat another one of the uncertain cupcakes… and then another one… by the time she had eaten all 4 of the large German chocolate cupcakes that were under suspicion, she was forced to consider the fact that perhaps the first one had been enhanced after all, and this was just the munchies disguised as a laudable impulse to keep her children untouched by the ganja.

The touched now separated from the untouched, Ursula and Lola had an enjoyable night (though Ursula did feel a bit bloated) and they were able to give their kids the last two cupcakes the next day with no fear.

And the moral of this story is? If you’re going to be making special cupcakes, don’t bother to make some unspecial ones for the kids, you’re going to eat them all, anyway, enhancements or not.

And this concludes the story of some friends of ours and the ill-fated German chocolate Cupcakes.

Christmas Pictures

2006-12-11T18:17:00.000-07:00

All she wanted was that "ball"
Originally uploaded by Temmerling.

She's smiling like that because she won the power struggle to get her hands on that giant golden ball...

Click on the picture to go to my flickr page and see the rest.

Damn and Blast this Winter

2006-12-11T10:11:00.000-07:00

Sick again. Monster cold. Blah, but I have so much to saaaaaaaay. I haven't forgotten my list from last week. I'm going to get to it this week. I promise. I also promise an editorial piece about the whole Cheney baby thing will appear on LesbianFamily.org this week, too. And, finally, I promise that a review of a pretty amazing product will appear on these hallowed pages this week, too. Next week at the latest...

Oh, and the maybe good news about my job: They want to make me permanent instead of contractual. But in order to do that they have to post my job as a permanent job opening, and I have to reapply. As a consequence of this many other people may apply for my job, and I have been warned that if any qualified people apply then my boss will be obligated to give them intereviews... So, I guess the good news is that they want to make me permanent, the bad news is that I may lose my job over this... probably not, but who knows? Maybe Super Secretary will apply and my boss will have no recourse but to hire her immediately. Once someone has been picked for my job (whether it's me or not) my contract is cancelled. I'm telling myself two things... 1) I can't possibly do worse than my original interview for this position and yet they hired me that time... and
2) If I don't get the job then that's a bummer, but probably one of those Hidden In A Crap-load of Shit Blessings In Disguise since I don't really like my job anyway and would prefer to be doing something that fed my soul.

So that's that.

Now for the real part of this post:

Scene from Saturday Morning.

Me: in pajamas, unshowered, mouth-breathing, unable to hear much or smell anything. Been up for hours and now I'm buffing the leather couches to a shine after cleaning and conditioning them.

Kristin: just getting up (don't think bad about her, it's only 10 AM and Saturdays are her days to sleep in as late as she wants to)

Kristin: Wow. You've been busy. It's looking really good out here.
Me (panting between words): I've cleaned the floors. I've dusted. I've done the dishes. I've been working on de-cluttering, I've cleaned the glass table tops, and now I'm just finishing up buffing this couch.
Kristin: You don't look good. You should go lie down.
Me: I've got too much to do. The house is filthy.
Kristin: Ok, now I know you're seriously sick. You only clean this irrationally when you're sick.
Me: The house must be clean before we put up the Christmas decorations.
Kristin: Did the couches need to be conditioned and shined before putting up the tree?
Me: They looked bad.
Kristin: Are you on meth?
Me: Close. Drixoral. 12 hour. Plus some blue pills that I found in the medicine cabinet. I'm pretty sure they're expectorant.
Kristin: You should go back to bed. You should rest.
Me: I still have to vacuum...
Kristin: Why are you doing this now?
Me (gasping for breath): I. Want. Our. Christmas. Tree. Up. This. Weekend! And. The. House. Must. Be. Clean. Before. We. Put. It. Up.
(and then I collapsed in a pool of leather conditioner and my own mucus)

The Christmas Tree is still not up. It's important to me to get it up before the solstice, but I had to admit defeat this weekend. Too many other things to do... like get family pictures taken. Yes. You read that right. We had to get them taken this weekend. Hopefully after my nap I'll get enough energy to post them...

Oh, and for those of you who may have been wondering:

Saw my RE on Friday. He says that the spotting must have been my period. Must have been. So, that means that today is CD20 (wow, that cycle went fast!) I'm trying not to be disappointed that I spent my ovulation this past cycle thinking that I might be pregnant... what's done is done. I now have a prescription for Femara with 3 refills, the RE's email address, and a green light for follicle monitoring ultrasounds, but only if I want them. I think my RE likes me. I made him laugh. We were sitting in his office (first time I have EVER met a doctor in an office and not an examining room). We go over my cycle (he says that for the three months we've been monitoring I've been ovulating just fine, it's just that my body signals the different phases of my cycle differently -- for instance, I never get a positive on an OPK -- and that I'm cycling much quicker than many people, but that I've had a pretty consistent 13 day luteal phase, so at this point he's not worried), he talks to me about Femara, and then he tells me good luck and to call or email him him if I need any betas or if I have any questions or any strange symptoms. And I'm thinking to myself, that's it? So hands off? You're going to just take my word for it that our donor is uber-potent, you're not going to be monitoring my every blood-hormone fluctuation? You're not going to push for trigger shots and IUIs? This is unlike any other RE I've ever heard of! Outwardly I said,

"I really hate to be pushy. I don't want you to think that I'm a super-needy patient. But, do you think, is there a way that I could possibly get at least one ultrasound before I ovulate just so I can SEE the follicles and know that they're really there?" He just stared at me for a moment like he was dumbstruck. I continued, "Is that possible? Am I crazy to want that? I just think I need to see them..." and that's when he started laughing.

"No, you're not crazy. You can have ultrasounds if you like. I'm just trying to be hands off and respectful of your process. You and your partner have done this before, you know what you're doing. You don't need much from me, but anything you want you can have." So, how about that? An RE who's willing to let the patient call the shots, who doesn't sit on his Tower of Medical Knowledge and dictate to the Smaller Creatures around him, and who's respectful of a lesbian couple's process... and he seems to genuinely like me. Cool.

Now, if you'll excuse me. The house still isn't clean enough for the Christmas tree and I have some carpets to shampoo before the Drixoral wears off...

Got My Toes Wet

2006-12-07T17:39:00.000-07:00

My first post at LesbianFamily.org is up...

When Liza asked me if I wanted to contribute to LesbianFamily.org I gave her a resounding “yes!” because I think LesbianFamily.org can become a nexus for the lesbian family blogosphere. I think it can be the thing to pull in our disparate voices and let each be heard. I think it can be a place of vibrant discussion and connection. And with all that, I want to stand here in the center and hold up a mirror and reflect you back to yourselves. I want discussion to swirl around me, your words to fill me up.

Just so you know...

The Pooplicious Fondue Party

2006-12-07T11:39:00.000-07:00

Julia’s shit smells like… well, shit. It can’t remain in the house any longer. The diaper genie? Not so genius. Regular garbage can with a lid? Still pretty stinky. We’re having to take each poopy diaper directly to the can outside. In the finer weather this wasn’t a problem: open kitchen door, take a quick glance around to make certain no neighbor is casting their eyes in your general direction so as to be disturbed by the sight of you en dishabille (or completely nude depending on the time of day) and make a dash to the big garbage can. Now, however, as the bitter winter settles deep into our valley, that 8 foot dash to the garbage can is fraught with hazard: cold, ice, sleet, snow, slippery leaves, Deadly Horse Chestnut Casings of Doom… More often than not, of late, the poopy diapers were getting left in a little odiferous pile on the counter by the door (Kristin will probably appreciate my pointing out that it was never HER leaving the diapers by the door. Oh no. That would be me. But it’s been cold enough to freeze your nipples off lately, and I’m rather fond of my nipples, so…)

But we are not stinky people. And we are not the type to let stinking feces lie. Something had to be done. Especially since we had invited another couple over for fondue and fried shrimp. We could not have them eating fondue in a house that smelled of poop. So I thought and thought and thought. What to do? What to do? It seemed the best solution would be to get another garbage pail and put it on the back steps within arm’s reach of the door. But the dogs… the dogs… they might knock it down and get at the treasure within.

I bought a small garbage pail with a spring-action lid that requires fingers to operate (dog noses don’t count) and some strong bungee cords. I bungeed the garbage pail to the iron railing and post and tested to make certain that the spring action lid still worked. The dogs watched me suspiciously as I opened and closed the lid. I’m brilliant, I thought to myself as I sat back and admired my handiwork. Then I went into the warm house, grabbed the day’s pyramid of poopiness that had accumulated on the counter, (we’ve been feeding Julia Odwalla’s Superfood to promote regularity and good golly it’s worked!) and deposited them in their new receptacle. Oscar and Oliver circled the treasure chest and plotted, but I was not worried; I am a genius and I had flummoxed them!

My fondue was fabulous. It was a bit grainy as I threw in some cotija we had and the cotija didn’t melt well. And because I’d used some Porter Cheddar and an extra dark lager as the base, the color was a bit… off. (One of the guests remarked on the fondue’s remarkable resemblance to baby poo…) But still. Fabuloso Delicioso! And I successfully deep fried panko breaded shrimp and sweet potato tempura under the admiring gazes of our guests. The evening was going splendidly: Kristin and I were coming off as cultured, accomplished, and (as it had only been a few days since the advent of the housekeeper, AND as the odor of the poop pyramid had dissipated) admirably clean & tidy in the face of unspeakable odds. It was heavenly.

We were all still dipping into the fondue pot as we prepared to begin the ritual slaughter of fuzzy woodland creatures, when Brian decided to smoke a cigarette. Strangely, we didn’t hear the dogs jump all over him as he went outside. In fact, they’d been unusually quiet and well-behaved out there all evening. Normally when we have guests the dogs spend their time whining at the door to be let in, and mauling our guests if someone is foolish enough to take pity on them and open the door (the routine mauling of our guests is why they are banished outside or to the sunroom when we entertain).

La di da di daaaaa…. I’m cleaning up and Kristin and Psarah (yes, that’s really how she spells her name, but it’s pronounced “Sarah” – don’t ask) are getting the bunnies ready to kill and be killed. And suddenly someone needs some information from Brian. So, I open the door to ask this vitally important question that I have now forgotten. And when I open the door my eyes behold a scene of singular horror…

The dogs… the dogs… THE DOGS HAD GOTTEN THE LID COMPLETELY OFF THE POOP RECEPTACLE… and had spread shredded diapers, chewed up diapers, eviscerated diapers ALL OVER THE BACK PORCH. It was a feces fiasco: poop and poop-infused absorbent gel rubbed into our new doormat, feces flecking the fur of our resident demons, getting licked off their teeth as I watched them in horror, an ankle-high drift of fragrant brown-and-yellow “snow” piled up in front of our kitchen door and being blown down the steps. And on the far side of it all, calmly smoking, Brian.

“WHY ARE YOU SO CALM?” I shrieked at him. “WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SOMETHING WHEN YOU OPENED THE DOOR AND WAS CONFRONTED BY A PILE OF FLUFFY SHIT AND COPROLITE-CRAZED CANINES*?!?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure it was a problem that you would want to or need to address so immediately.”

“What, do you think we’re the kind of people who can be nonchalant about a pile of shredded shitty diapers being spread all over our yard? Do you think something like that wouldn’t FREAK THE SHIT OUT OF US?”

“Well, now that you put it that way…”

“Hey, the fondue really is the color of baby shit.” [this from Psarah, peeking out the door as I pushed past her to get latex gloves and a trash bag and Kristin struggled to keep the crappy dogs from entering the kitchen – where they would, of course, if allowed, shake their fur to better spread the joy]

And that, my friends, was the pooplicious fondue party.

Would you believe that it took 3 more doggie raids on the poop receptacle before I realized that there was going to be NO WAY to secure the lid from the ravening animals as long as said lid was at dog-eye level and so figured out a way to securely bungee the can to the pole up about 5 feet off the ground.

* In my distress I may not have used that exact term, but of course in hindsight I am always just that witty

Getting Back on Track

2006-12-06T09:37:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I received an email from Lauri. In it she told me that she really liked my "weird" post yesterday. Mostly she liked it because I talked about her and her special abilities, and she's just that vain. But she also liked it because she said that I sounded like myself again. No sadness. No stress. No worry.

And I thought about it. She's right. I haven't talked about her in a long time. Some of my newer readers might not even know who she is. So, for their edification, I would like to direct you all to my long ago, long forgotten, and never completed FAQ project in which I answer the burning question: just who is this Lauri chick and why should I care? I would also like to point out that I would be linking to her blog in this post, except that she never posts on her blog. She tells me that she writes lots of posts, but then just saves them as drafts and never publishes them. I think that's a little weird. And maybe I should have tagged her yesterday, so I'm tagging her right now. Lauri, I think everyone would like to read 6 weird things about you.

She's also right about something else: I haven't been myself for a very long time. I feel like I've been lost and drowning, but I think I'm finding my way back, and I'm coughing the liquid from my lungs and clearing my throat. And I'm remembering all the things that I meant to blog about and then didn't. And so I have composed the following list of Things I Meant to Blog:

1) The pooplicious fondue party
2) The completion of phase 3 of Making Julia a Lesbian
3) Semi good news about my job
4) A story about some friends of ours and some ill-fated German Chocolate cupcakes
5) Mormon Housewife Politics and the Disappointing Aftermath
6) The worst movies in the history of the entire movie industry

Please email or leave comments about which of these stories you'd like to hear first.

Actually, because it's short, I'll give you The Completion of Phase 3 of Making Julia a Lesbian first.

I've talked about my magnificent rack before. Too many times to link, actually. The consequence of this is that I manage to have cleavage even when wearing turtlenecks. I swear it's true. Turns out this is a good thing for Julia's sake. Now that it's winter, it's drafty in our house and we keep Julia bundled up in layers for warmth. But her little hands are always cold especially since she won't wear mittens. No matter, she's found an ingenious way of keeping them warm. Nowadays whenever I pick her up, if she feels her hands could use a warm-up, she shoves them down my cleavage. Not only is it unpleasant to have little blocks of hand-shaped ice invade one's warm bosom, but it's a bit disconcerting when she does this in front of guests (in the case of cold hands at home) and strangers (in the case of cold hands abroad), especially since she's not a nursing baby and I was never a nursing mama. But it's all in a day's work and both Kristin and I can feel good that Phase 3 of Making Julia a Lesbian (Learning How to Cop a Feel) has been completed so successfully.

Administrative Proceedings and An Announcement

2006-12-05T15:40:00.000-07:00

Did you hear the news? I'm going to be writing regularly for LesbianFamily.org!

I am so honored to be asked to contribute to LesbianFamily.org. The other contributors are amazing writers and I feel like I'm in illustrious company. And you know, and when I say that you know I'm not just sucking up so they'll say nice things about me, I mean, one of them is published (in a book! in paper! that people buy! that I bought!), and one of them has, like, a googlillion subscribers on bloglines alone (well, maybe not a googlillion, but a lot more than me) and she earns those subscribers because she's such a good writer and a fantastic photographer, and the other one, the one who started it all, was interviewed for a real article where her blogging was called "fabulous" by someone who was neither related to her nor getting paid by her! And then there's me. [sound of crickets chirping in the vast silence]

But I've got some exciting ideas of things I'd like to see happen over there. There's going to be weekly round-ups of some of the spectacular posts around the Lesbian Family blogroll, and I'm hoping we can organize a carnival to sponsor some interactive linkage action. I'd also like to do a series of interviews with various bloggers on the blogroll. And I might write about various issues on occassion. If you've got any tips for me, things you'd like to see me post over there, or bloggers you're just dying to read more about, please email me at anaccidentofhope [at] inbox [dot] com.

So, now for the administrative proceeding. I've redone my links. In line with my new priority of getting people to use LesbianFamily.org as an invaluable gateway to lesbian family bloggers, I've replaced most of the individual links with one link to the LesbianFamily.org blogroll. The individual links I've left are those of people that I have some connection with other than cyberly, or that wouldn't be found on LesbianFamily.org, or that I have some nefarious plan for. I'm really hoping that this move doesn't offend anyone, but really, my links were getting out of control. If you're not listed on LesbianFamily.org and your link has disappeared, please let me know and I'll put it back, as I really do want everyone to be able to find anyone that has ever read my blog even just once. And especially if you left a kind comment. Then I definitely want people to find you so they can leave kind comments in return.

Ok? Ok.

I'll let you all know when my first post over at LesbianFamily.org is up. Not that I should have to tell you, since you're all regular readers already, right? Right?

Right.

weird

2006-12-05T11:24:00.000-07:00

I’ve been tagged. By Griffin over there at Wheel Revolution. It surprised me since I don’t comment there very often, and I don’t think she’s ever commented here, but we have mutual linkage going on… and she’s got an amazing experiment in car-less living in process. Click the link to see how much stuff this woman is capable of fitting on her bike and her garden is very possibly the coolest thing I have ever seen! Anyway, I think Griffin is trying to give me a subtle hint that I should be talking about something other than depression and despair and a missing period. And she would be right.

Ok here I go. Six weird things (other than the fact that my period's gone missing even though I had high progesterone levels earlier in the month and now have none). Let’s see…

1) I only love songs that I can sing. If I can’t sing it, or I wouldn’t want to sing it… then no matter how good a song it is, it’s only meh to me. If it’s got really good lyrics a song might rise above meh to like, but I will never puffy pink heart it. This isn’t as restrictive as it might seem at first as I have quite a range in both octaves and style, and even if I can’t normally sing a song in the particular key and/or range it’s written in, I can often figure out a harmony line that makes me happy. For example… I can sing all of Les Mis… and I can do the different voices too. It’s quite a production. And when the male voices go too low for me I’ll just transpose it up an octave or two or sing it in harmony… I actually bonded with Lauri over this ability, since she can do the same thing. Unfortunately she and I never got to sing Les Mis together because we never got drunk enough to manage to do it in front of each other and now she's gone... gone...gone to the frozen cornfields of Iowa. But one day. One day…

2) I hate onions in food. Cooked or raw, it doesn’t matter. Hate them. I will eat them to be polite if I have to, but other than that, and even when I'm eating them to be polite I'll ususally hit a limit of how many I can eat before I start picking them out and shoving them to the side of the plate… Ok, that’s not the weird thing. The weird thing is that every once in a while I’ll get a craving for French onion soup. It’s actually the cheese and bread that I’m craving, but there’s something about them being in the soup… and I love funyuns and green bean casserole with the French fried onions on top. Now THAT’s weird, right?

3) Sometimes, for no reason at all, I’ll just open my mouth and sing “la la laaaaaa.” Sometimes I even do it when people can hear. And then they look at me funny. Sometimes I think it’s funny and I’ll do it again. But most of the time I just wonder why I did that in the first place. Kristin hates it when I do that. And she tells me that I do it more when I’m stressed out or off my meds. My perception is that I do it more when I’m having happy moments during those stressful times. Like I’m so happy and content during those brief moments that the contrast between those moments and the normal stress makes me want to sing… eh. Who knows?

4) I insist that the bathroom, when the door is shut, be a “Zone of Silence”. I don’t care that the door is thin and really you can hear everything that takes place on either side. I like to pretend that you can’t hear me pee and, ahem, other things. And thus the Zone of Silence. Don’t break my bubble of denial. If you talk to me when I have the bathroom door shut I either won’t answer (because I can’t hear you, duh, it’s a Zone of Silence) or if I’m not indisposed (ie, if I don’t have my pants down) I’ll open the door and say in a really annoyed tone of voice, “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you; the door was shut.” If it’s a guest trying to talk to me, I’ll tone down the annoyed tone. But Kristin should know better, for goodness’ sake! I’ll do you the favor of not listening to you when you’re in there, too. So don’t be sitting on the porcelain throne and try to talk to me. I won’t hear you. I’m serious. I really won’t. I’ve eased up on this a bit since Julia’s arrival, since I need to be on call even when answering a call, but I still find it disconcerting.

5) I am really fascinated with variations on a theme. When I was a musician variations on a theme were always my favorite exercises. I love the establishment of a “norm” and then how little changes can make such a dramatic difference. I really love listening to the original version of a song, and then listening to covers so I can compare and contrast. And this love of mine goes beyond music, too. I love looking at different versions of the same scene or object as painted by different students in a class. I love books that tell the same story but through different perspectives and narratives. And I love collecting variations on a theme. In fact, it goes a bit further than love into a form of obsession sometimes. It’s why there are 7 different varieties of mint in my tea garden. Because they’re all different! But they’re all the same! And look! This one’s got purple leaves, but it’s still mint! I love tasting them and savoring their subtle differences. It’s why our house is cluttered with things. Because I may have elephants, (or fish, or turtles, or frogs) but I don’t have this elephant. This elephant is different, but it’s still an elephant! Wouldn’t it look great on the shelf with all the other elephants, like a little elephant commune? … I like to think that I’m like this because I’m fascinated by the differences which divide us from each other (on both personal and political levels), and the commonalities which bring us back together. But, really, that’s just a secondary justification.

Finally, 6) I rehearse and rehash entire conversations… out loud. Yeah, that’s right. I talk to myself. In fact, I'm talking to myself right now. I tell myself (and now you know, when I’m saying I tell myself, I’m really, actually, physically telling myself) that it’s ok, as long as I’m only playing the one part out loud. When I start speaking as someone else… that’s when I’ll have to admit that there’s a problem. Right now, at least, the other person’s voice stays in my head and I only vocalize the part that I should have said, or wish I could have said, or will say (if I’m rehearsing what will be a difficult conversation). I think this is perfectly normal, but it used to freak the fuck out of my dad -- probably still would if he could hear it.

Ok. I’m now supposed to tag 6 people in turn. I’m going to make this more of a suggestion. I would love to read 6 weird things about HD, Blue Ox, Plimco, Merr, Brooke, and Charlotte (both of those last two are people whom I think need a distraction). If I didn’t tag you it’s because a) I may have a fuzzy (and possibly incorrect) memory of you doing this meme sometime in the past, b) I don’t think you’ll do it anyway (though I’m not sure anyone I tagged will actually do it either) and/or c) I DO want to hear your 6 things, but I’m sticking to the rules and only tagging 6 people. Or, you know, of course it could also mean that I secretly hate you. I don’t, but then I’d say that, wouldn’t I, if it were a secret hate and I wanted to keep it that way?

Julia Juice

2006-12-04T11:15:00.000-07:00

I realized that it's been a while since I talked in depth about Julia. So...

Extracted and condensed for your consumption...

1) She spends her days dancing. We always have music playing and it’s like she can’t help herself, when a good beat comes on she can’t help but bounce to it. And then when she notices us smiling at her she gets more creative – adding head and arm movements, getting bigger in her bounces. And she’s usually on the beat, too. Girl’s got rhythm!

2) She sings. She walks around the house singing little unrecognizable tunes. She also sings to the radio. The first song I noticed her singing along to was Patty Griffin’s “Rowing Song” As I row, row, row going so slow, slow, slow... little row row rows and slow slow slows coming from the back seat. Then, just Saturday, we were driving around running errands, and a Swamp Mama Johnson song came on, one with some real kick-ass saxophone action, and suddenly, from the carseat in the back, came some incredible scat vocals. Holy shit! She was imitating the saxophone solo!

3) She swears like a sailor. Julia now understands the correct use of the phrase “oh shit!” Used to be when she dropped something she would say, “Uh oh, I dropped it.” I’ve been trying to get her to start saying, “Yeah, I dropped it” with a bit of a ‘tude, since her “dropping” things is rarely accidental, but she’s resistant to the substitution. However, she’s taken to saying, “Oh shit!” when she drops things on accident. We try not to laugh, because though we don’t have a problem with her swearing (I have strong feelings about restricting language use re: the swears) we really don’t want her to start doing it for the reaction it gets her. Still, it’s pretty fucking funny.

4) My God, this girl can talk. For several months now she’s been using two word phrases, but I was unclear on whether she was aware that the phrases had two different words in them, or if she just thought that the phrase was one big word. In other words, even though she was technically speaking in 2 word (or more, as in the case of “I dropped it”) phrases, was she capable of creating new ones in order to get her meaning across? That question was solved last weekend when she spontaneously identified a stuffed animal as “[Grandchild the First]’s doggie”. She’s capable of answering yes and no questions about what she wants or doesn’t want, and has begun to have a say in what she wears in the morning. She’ll also answer open-ended questions, but we often have a difficult time understanding what she’s trying to say. She’ll utter a string of syllables, and when we tell her that we don’t understand, she’ll repeat herself exactly and then look at us expectantly. There’s no doubt in our minds that she is saying something specific, something repeatable, something she expects us to be able to understand. I can’t wait until her physiology catches up with her vocabulary so that we can finally understand what she’s saying, as I’m sure whatever she’s saying is fascinating. And funny. She’s already started telling little toddler jokes. She cracks herself up.

5) Picky eater. All weekend she would eat only clementines. Why she’s sick with all that vitamin c running through her system is beyond me.

Er. My dog ate my homework.

2006-12-01T14:16:00.000-07:00

Fiiiiiiiiinally getting around to completing HD's homework assignment.

1. What is the most outrageous gift you'd give someone for the holidays if you had unlimited funds?

This is really hard to answer because obviously the answer changes depending on who I'm thinking about. I guess the only person that I would really want to give an outrageous gift to would be Kristin. I would give Kristin a trip to an intensive immersion Spanish school. There was one our favorite town in Nicaragua that she's mentioned longingly before. I don't know how long something like that would take, but that's what I'd do. Pay her expenses, clear her schedule, give her some spending money, and ship her off. And, since chances are she wouldn't be completely happy unless Julia and I were with her, I guess I'd have to pay my expenses, clear my schedule, and ship me (and Julia) off with her. And, though Nicaragua calls to us, it would be really cool if there were one of those programs near to where Sublime lives, so we could visit with her and she could laugh at our Spanish.

2. What is the most outrageous gift you'd WANT from someone else?

And for me? Well, what I'd LOVE would be for someone to give me the gift of a housekeeper and Oprah's chef for a year. The housekeeper would only need to come once a week, and I'd be happy if Oprah's chef just cooked healthy delicious meals for our family five days a week -- I think I could handle the weekends... I know. So domesticated. But just think of all the other things I could do with my time if these domestic tasks were taken care of. Not to mention all the cute clothes I could probably fit back into if I ate better (and really not to mention all the other, ahem, evening endeavors I'd feel more like engaging in if I felt better about my body). So really, it's a multi-faceted and exotic gift. I know, I know, I could do the better eating without Oprah's chef, but I'm just so tired whine whine whine and this is a fantasy...

3. What is your family's weirdest holiday tradition?

My father's family are immigrants from Denmark. Unfortunately, at the time that they immigrated (late 1940s) it was thought that immigrants should put aside everything from their former cultures in order to socialize properly. So the children who were born in Denmark lost their language and culture, and the children who were born here never learned it to start with. Now the only things of Denmark left are some old family recipes, an aesthetic sense in home furnishings and art, some odd phrases that pop out at odd times from our mouths, my grandmother's increasingly strong accent as she ages into dementia, a fierce pride and longing for our homeland (several of us have learned Danish to compensate for the fact that we never knew it to start with), and Christmas. Christmas is when you'll encounter the most Danish cooking, the most Danish art displayed (as ornaments and decorations), the most Danish flags (flying proudly from our trees), and hear the most Danish phrases and carols coming out of our mouths. We celebrate Christmas with a huge party on Christmas Eve (ending with the traditional Rice Pudding topped with raspberry or current sauce where everyone looks for the hidden blanched almond to win a prize). Kristin would probably nominate the fact that we all eagerly eat this pudding as our family's strangest holiday tradition, but I would say that there are two other things tied for the distinction of Strangest Holiday Tradition, and they're both oral things, so I suppose I'm redefining this to be the Strangest Holiday Oral Tradition.

In Denmark (or maybe this was peculiar to our family) on Christmas Eve, families hold hands around the Christmas tree and dance while they sing carols. Several years ago when I was very young, it was my father's oldest brother's turn to host the family party. Their house was pretty small upstairs, and the tree was very crowded with presents -- no room for dancing. But downstairs his wife had a preschool set up, lots of room to dance, but no second Christmas tree. So they took their jumparoo (a strange piece of equipment that look like a colorful metal spider surrounded by a giant, inflated innertube for jumping on) and strung it with Christmas lights. It looked a bit like this (please forgive my crookedy lines). And that, my friends, is what the family danced and sang around that year. And ever since then it is tradition to threaten carol-reluctant people, "don't make us get out the jumparoo." It's not Christmas without the threat of the Jumparoo.

The other tradition is a joke. Every year my uncle has to tell the traditional joke. We all await this joke eagerly, and the year he refused to tell it just felt like someone had pissed in my Christmas sock. His job is to tell the joke. Our job is to groad loudly and wonder aloud how he can possibly tell the same joke year after year. And here's the joke:

"I'm sorry, kids. But it looks like Rudolph isn't going to be able to lead Santa's sleigh this year. [kids (or now, adults, since none of us are kids anymore): Ooooh, why not?] Well, he picked his nose and electrocuted himself. [groans from everyone]."

And there you have it. A little bit of holiday spirit to start this month out right. I'm studiously ignoring the fact that I still don't have a period and the RE can't see me until next Friday. Oh, yeah, and Julia's sick again. AGAIN.

Photo Friday: F is for First Snow

2006-12-01T10:23:00.000-07:00

First Snow First Light
Originally uploaded by Temmerling.

Because Cali wanted snow pictures, and because I'm behind in the Photo Friday game... I've got a GREAT idea for G, hopefully I'll get to it over the weekend or Monday...

It's a puzzler, all right

2006-11-30T16:14:00.000-07:00

My progesterone levels are back. Last night my progesterone was 0.26.

Huh. No blood today, though.

So where, oh where, has my period gone?

And, more importantly, does this mean I should stick some spooge up my love canal soon? The RE is not in the office on Thursday afternoons. I guess I'll get the mirror and take a little looksy myself tonight.

Let's see, if I decide that that one spot of bright red was, indeed, my period, then that would make today day 9... unless day one was that first day of dark brown...

Sigh.

Good thing we get our stuff for free. If we were paying $300-500 a hit for this shit I think I'd just curl up and die.

Simmering Cauldron of Resentment

2006-11-30T08:41:00.000-07:00

Yeah. Not pregnant. But I have a hard, hot, blackbluered bruise the size of a hen's egg on my forearm to show for everything. I know I'm not getting that much blood drawn. I know that if we were doing ivf I'd be getting poked far more often. But my veins have just about had it. They are in full rebellion and the phlebotomists are having to get creative, and creative leaves angry marks.

So last night me and my bruise received the results of the beta and found out just how twisted and sneaky a thing hope can be, and then we overate at dinner and spent the next 2 hours finding new ways to call myself fat. Good times. Good times.

Guess what? Despite all my medications and supplements and despite the fact that I fired my therapist (which really should make me feel better since I never really liked her anyway, but since I fired her without telling her that I was was firing her, kind of backfired if you know what I mean), and despite the fact that I have a really fucking cute kid and a wonderful partner, and despite the fact that I finally finished the Series of Unfortunate Events and nothing in my life has ever been as unfortunate and tragic as what happened to those poor Baudelaire orphans... I'm depressed.

Somewhere I read or heard or was told or, heck, maybe I made this up, anyway, it doesn't matter. Somehow I came across the thought that depression is anger turned inward. And it's been well documented to myself that I have a huge problem with anger. I don't know how to express it. Piss me off and you'll never know it. I'll probably be even sweeter to you. You know, in a sort of saccarine way that I hope will slowly corrode your soul and give you cancer of the psyche without you knowing what's really going on, but which actually just does that to me as the source of the carcinogenic cordiality and leaves the intended victim untouched.

So, in an effort to let some of that anger out, I present to you:

A Sure Way To Make Me Unbelievably Pissed At You Five Days Later When I Finally Get Around To Really Thinking About What You Said:

Compare my needing expensive medications to keep me sane, functional, and yes, ALIVE to your one-to-two packs a day addiction to cigarettes. Because OF COURSE they are EXACTLY the same FUCKING thing.

This is not to say that I hate smokers. I don't. I don't hate smokers. Smoke all you want, I'll even keep you company while you do it. But do not, DO NOT compare your decision to buy cigarettes instead of tampons one month because you were too poor to afford both to my agonizing dilemma two summers ago of how to pay my utilities AND pay nearly $200 a month for my antidepressants. If you do that I will be forced to smile at you sweetly and murmer some nonsense about how I understand your conundrum while little pieces of me turn black and die inside.

I may not be able to control what's happening or not happening in my reproductive system; I may not be able to control my daughter's teething; I may not be able to control that fucking clerk in Nevada who won't fucking fax the fucking documents I was asked to track down for a fucking deposition this morning; I may not be able to do anything about the fact that I accidentally uninstalled the driver for my computer's sound card and so now all the music and video that comes out of my computer sounds as if it were uttered by Alvin, Simon, and/or Theodore; but I can damn well make certain that you never get to eat my cheese fondue again.

Phew. I feel better now. Sorry to have subjected you all to that. It may have seem a bit extreme to severe a friendship because of one misguided anecdote, but that was just the proverbial straw. I'm better off without her in my life.

Now. What about you? Anything you need to kick to the curb? Feel free to vent on your own blogs or in my comments. Let's make this last day of November as full of vile sentiment and darkest anger as we can before we kick November itself to the curb. Because November sucks baboon balls.

I don't know why I'm blogging this.

2006-11-29T08:47:00.000-07:00

Last night, at dinner (on which I will write more a bit lower) I was complaining to Kristin about how no one had commented on my lovely 10 point list (this was before I had seen Shelli's and Blue Ox's comments) and that that meant that no one loves me anymore (and yes, I AM that insecure right now) and she looked at me and said: Why should anyone comment? It's obvious that you're feeling sorry for yourself; what is there for anyone to say? Which is, of course, completely true. I am feeling sorry for myself, indeed. And I have been feeling sorry for myself for a very, very long time. And by now there is not much anyone can say about that. But still. So, I thought I'd write about something else. I thought I'd tell you about Kristin's day yesterday. (She told me that I could... so this isn't as mean as it seems at this moment... or is it? You read and then decide.)

It's crunch time for Kristin right now. Papers papers papers and a couple presentations just for shits and giggles (he he he... this phrase will get funnier in just a moment). And, you know, her full-time job and her part-time practicum. And catch up from the illness. And and and... Yesterday she had a paper due so she got up at 5 am to finish it. Finishing the paper made her run a bit late to get to class, so she was in a hurry. She ran to open the gate, opened it, got in her car and backed up... right into the gate that wasn't completely open. It made a terrible noise, but she was in a hurry, so she didn't stop. When she got to school she decided to just take a look at the damage and discovered that there was a piece of our gate sticking out of a HOLE IN HER CAR. Her entire taillight assembly is destroyed, there's a big hole in the side of her car, and her trunk won't close. Oh yeah, and her registration is due in December. And this is the year that she has to have an inspection. Do you know how expensive an entire taillight assembly is? We'll probably have to get one from a junkyard. And the hole... and the big crease in the metal... and the trunk... not to mention that the piece of gate sticking out of her car was the latch to hold the gate closed... and it's completely destroyed. We now have a bungee cord holding our gate together.

So, she's in the parking lot trying to get her trunk to close, and one of her classmates sees her slamming and slamming and slamming the trunk and says something like "hey, take it easy! It's not that bad!" and then he (who, in Kristin's words is "gayer than Ed Smart"* but who has yet to come out of the closet) came over and looked at the damage and took it back. He also offered to replace the taillight assembly for us if we can get one. Which is nice since we'd rather not rely on the Brother Just Younger Than I for mechanical help right now.

*this phrase is now my favoritest phrase EVAH. Gayer than Ed Smart. Hilarious!

Aaaaaaany way. So, Kristin goes to class, trying to forget about her troubles. Then, sometime between classes she suddenly has to go to the bathroom. Really really has to go to the bathroom. It's a two stall bathroom and the other stall is occupied. So. (I can't believe I'm writing this. I can't believe she told me that I could.) Kristin goes into the stall and proceeds to be very, um, loud. Explosive might not be too strong a word. And, um, odiferous. Yes. Explosively odiferous. The woman is still in the next stall. Kristin exits the stall and begins washing her hands. And the other woman walks out and it's... Kristin's favorite professor! The professor that she has class with in just a matter of moments. The professor that's been the most sympathetic about our month-long bout with illness. The professor that Kristin's hoping to take a class from next semester, if she can get an add code because the class is full. That professor. And that professor looks at her and says:

"So. The antibiotics still messing with your digestive system?"

And Kristin really wanted to reply, "Wasn't it obvious?" but instead went with a weak "yeah" and an embarrassed smile.

And then after class the professor offered Kristin an add code but Kristin was too embarrassed to take it. She'll go and get it later.

So. That was Kristin's day. Better than maudlin self-pity?

Well, you don't get off that easy. I've still got some self-pity inside me. Here's the part that I really can't believe I'm blogging.

I called Dr. Nerdly's nurse yesterday. Nurse Perky. Nurse Perky confirmed for me that I did, indeed, ovulate on either day 10 or 11 as Dr. Nerdly had predicted. She also told me that Dr. Nerdly wants me to have another beta today if I still haven't started my period. Guess what? I still haven't started my period. He also wants a serum progesterone. See if we can figure out what part of my cycle I'm on if I'm not pregnant (I'm not pregnant). I'm not pregant, but I guess he thinks that there's a chance I could be pregnant.

Last night, on the way home from work I felt slightly nauseated. And I nearly fell asleep on the 10 minute train-ride home. Which is ridiculous because with a beta of less than one on Monday night, even if it doubled in the less than 24 hours would still be less than 2 and a non-pregnant woman is capable of producing an hCG of 2. An hCG of 2 should not be producing pregnancy symptoms (unless the woman is extremely sensitive to hCH... like all the women in my family are extremely sensitive to hCH...STOP IT!) So then, I get Julia and I get home and I am DRAGGING. And there's a coupon sheet for Arby's in the mail. And suddenly I WANT ARBY'S for dinner. BAD. I call Kristin. She doesn't want Arby's, but she suggests Cafe Med. I agree to Cafe Med, and when she gets home we go there for dinner. Cafe Med is full of lovely vegetarian options, and if I haven't mentioned it elsewhere I'll just mention it here: I don't eat meat at restaurants. I don't eat meat unless I can look at it closely. I am 95% vegetarian. And not because of ethics, it's because I just think meat is yucky. But I started gazing at the menu I have memorized and suddenly I'm wanting gyro meat! Gyro meat of all things! Meat that has been chopped and reformed. And I seriously doubt that they removed all the ickies from the meat before all the chopping and reforming. And all I can think of is how good the meat (and of the meat on the menu) sounds. I order vegetarian lasagne AND a skewer of chicken kebobs. Kristin looks at me and says, "If you're ordering meat then you HAVE to be pregnant."

But here's what I think. I think that it's all a mind fuck. I think that I want to be pregnant SO BADLY that my subconscious is playing tricks on me. My subconscious is thinking:
ok, pregnant women have food cravings. pregnant women often crave meat. kristin craved meat when she was pregant, r craved meat when she was pregnant. if you were pregnant you might crave meat. if you crave meat then that might mean you're pregnant, therefore if you're craving meat right now then then that will make you pregnant. MUST HAVE MEAT!

That's all. And that's why my breasts started hurting last night. And that's why I dreamt all night that I was pregnant. You know, I think that my whole body wants to be pregnant so badly that even the corpus luteum doesn't want to give up the ghost, but just keeps holding on, waiting for that (dead, dead, dead, it has to be dead, it's been 22 dpo) egg to start growing (that's my theory, that I have a corpus luteum cyst, that's it, that's got to be it. Why else would my period be 8 days late but no hCG in my bloodstream?)

So there. Beta at 5 pm. Exactly 48 hours after the last one. I guess we'll see.

10 reasons it's a good thing my beta was less than one

2006-11-28T08:36:00.000-07:00

Because not knowing what day of my cycle I'm on adds a bit of excitement and mystery to my otherwise humdrum existence.
I've gained a greater self-awareness. I'm not moody and over-sensitive and snappish because I'm hormonal and pregnant. I'm like that just because I'm a bitch.
Hot Buttered Rum for breakfast.
I'm that much closer to getting my own paragraph in a paper about reproductive medical mysteries. 15 minutes of fame, here I come!
If I wanted, I could take a taxidermy class. It's always nice to know my educational options are open.
The smell and feel of semen drizzling from my lady-bits are such exquisite sensations; and now I get to experience them again!
People are finally starting to believe me when I tell them that I have it on good authority that God hates me.
The longer it takes to get me pregnant, the closer scientists get to being able to merge ovums, thus increasing the chances that my wife can knock me up herself. How cool would that be? There's another 15 minutes of fame right there. At this rate I might get to be famous for a whole half a day.
One more month (at least) to build up my fat stores for pregnancy.
Because with all the x-rays, antibiotics, codeine, drinking, and admiring of greenery I've been doing this past couple of weeks, if I had been pregnant, I probably would have given birth to a one-flippered manatee. And though no doubt, no doubt, I would have loved my one-flippered manatee, just think of all the teasing it would have encountered in school what with having only the one flipper.

Decadence and disappointment and a big bump on the head

2006-11-27T08:38:00.000-07:00

A week or so ago Kristin and I agreed to indulge in something so decadent, so tantalizingly lovely, so sweetly fulfilling that we could barely contain our excitement as the chosen day grew closer. In fact, when at Thanksgiving dinner my grandfather overheard us talking about it, he grew very concerned, thinking that if we were going to be doing something this indulgent, it must mean that I was sicker than had let on, because only if I were on my deathbed could he understand this kind of profligate waste of money.

On Friday we...

paid someone ELSE to clean our house.

It's true. I KNOW! I can't believe it myself. People, our house is CLEAN!

I, of course, had to work that day, so I didn't get to witness the marvel myself. And that is actually a blessing, because Kristin was home, and though we spent all of Thanksgiving day (except when I was getting drunk at dinner) cleaning and putting things away, still our house was filthydirty and Kristin felt so embarrassed at how we were living in filth, and how monumental the task of cleaning our pig sty was, that she pitched in and helped clean, too. She and the housekeeper worked for 5 and a half hours, but by the end of it the house was sweet-smelling and shiny. Our toilets haven't gleamed like that since they were new. Our faucets are blinding in their brilliance. And the floors... oh the floors were so spotless I could weep. The next morning Julia dropped her string cheese on the floor and when I picked it up it was free of dust and hair! I handed it back to her (like I always hand it back to her)and this time I wasn't filled with guilt over letting her eat dog hairy food.

So, that was Friday. By the end-of-day Friday our house was clean, all the laundry was done and folded, and all the standard tasks that fill our weekends were completed. Saturday we bought a leaf-blower and blew all our leaves away while Julia toddled around the yard and picked up horse chestnuts. Saturday night was grandparent's night and so Kristin and I got to have a date, which was only slightly flattened by the phone call informing us that Julia had been dancing with her cousin by my parents' fireplace, and had stumbled, banging her forehead into the sharp edge of the stone hearth, and had a giant goose-egg and bruise marring her little face. And we were planning on Christmas and family portraits this week!

Sunday I re-calked the upstairs bathtub, changed out the two deadbolts on our two exterior doors, installed a new water filter, winterized our swamp cooler, and filled some of the cracks in our hardwood floor. And the whole time we managed to keep our house clean! This is a miracle! We're challenging ourselves to see how long we can keep the place clean now that we're finally (after over a year) ahead of the housecleaning game.

In other news... after spotting for 5 days (one brief spot of bright red, the rest dark brown) I have NO IDEA what day of my cycle I'm on. I wouldn't consider that spotting a period. But I'm not pregnant. If that wasn't a period, then I'm on CD31. If that was a period, then I'm on CD9, unless it wasn't a period until the bright spot, and then if the period started with the bright spot, then I'm on CD6... and, of course, all weekend the RE's office was closed. I'm giving them a call in approximately 5 minutes. I'm so confused. I can't tell you how many sticks I peed on all weekend thinking that I HAD to be pregnant. I just had to. But I'm not. It's been 21 days since we inseminated. I'd have gotten a positive HPT by now. So it's just my body, fucking with me again.

The Glass Girl

2006-11-24T15:10:00.000-07:00

Thanksgiving morning. Kristin made me a breakfast of exotic cheeses. She knows that I love nothing so much as trying new forms of fermented milk. Yum. Cheese and warm, crusty sourdough bread. And grapes. Surrounded by the scent of bread mingling with the scent of the roses that she had given me the night before, I could almost forget that it was Thanksgiving. I am so grateful for my wife, for my daughter. Our morning was delightful.

And then we cleaned. And did laundry. And it felt good to put things in order, to put things away. We wrapped Christmas presents and got our packages ready to mail. We chased Julia around the house. We fed the dogs beef stew. We cleaned so hard I got sweaty and exhausted carrying things up and down the stairs. But I did not lose my breath. I did not crumple around fits of coughing. I am so grateful to my body for healing as quickly as it did. I am so grateful for our beautiful home, our material comfort, that is so much more than so many others have.

And then we baked a blackberry pie and some green bean casserole. And then we went to my parent's house. I had told my father that I was only going to come if I could have wine. Lots and lots of wine. My mother gets anxious when we drink around her family. Primarily because she has a sister who gets upset when people drink around her (fully grown, married) sons. It's a simmering resentment on the part of those of us who are non-mormon (read: me, my siblings, my father) that we must cave to the tyranny of this particular aunt's sensibilities. We do so out of love for my mother. So my father told me not to let mom see...

Sister in-law the Maybe had been at the house since 10 AM... folding napkins, cooking, helping to decorate. She's a better daughter to my mother than I am... if my brother doesn't follow through and marry her after all these years we'll probably disown him and adopt her, but that's another story. As soon as I walked in the house the Thanksgiving panic began knocking on my mental door. I ignored it, but the effort made me a bit fuzzy. People started arriving, and with each new arrival I felt less and less present. I'm not entirely certain why this happens. I used to be so close to these aunts and uncles, these cousins. Maybe that's the problem. I don't think they really see me, who I am, what I'm like, what I love, what I want, what I think. They don't accept my current reality, they only tolerate it. I get around them and I feel all the color, all the substance leeching from me... I become transparent and colorless as glass. They look through me, not at me. I speak, and they hear what they want to hear rather than what I'm saying. I think I'm just too alien for them to really hold a place in their world view.

I kept the panic away. But a deep depression descended during dinner. Helped, in part, I'm sure, by listening to two male members of the family talk about how they like to flirt with gay waiters just to see the looks on their faces, how funny it is when the waiters slip them phone numbers... I should have said something to that. I should have, but I didn't. And that failure on my part helped push me down. It's not that they were using slurs, or saying anything BAD exactly about the men they were talking about. It's the attitude. The actions. How can I explain that without screaming and bursting into tears? How could I explain what it's like to try to flirt with a stranger when you're gay and when flirting with the wrong person can get you beaten or killed, even today? How can I convey the cruelty behind their actions without becoming the overreactive harpy who takes everything too personally and makes it all political?

And then there's the aunt who, while my mother was holding Julia, touched Julia's hair and expressed surprise at how soft and fine it is. Because, you know, she expected it to be so much coarser! My mother explained that Kristin has very curly hair, and that Julia actually has Kristin's hair and not her donor's. And that was that. But still. And I'm still left wondering if there's something more I could have said. Something sharper. Something smart and savvy. Something that would have let her know that her attitude is all wrong. It's not the question, exactly, that bothers me. It's the automatic assumption of otherness that members of this family place on Julia. Not all of them, to be sure, (and not my immediate family!) but enough. I can see how when they look at Julia they don't see my daughter. They don't see a member of the family. They see Trista's lesbian lover's black daughter. Only they would never use the words "lesbian" or "lover" or "black".

Before the dinner started, I stood in the kitchenette in my parent's basement... steps away from the huge banquet table... and realized that there was no way I was going to be able to get a bottle of wine open without everyone seeing. Sister in Law the Maybe, apron on, bustling around doing last minute prep, saw me looking intently at the lines of liquor bottles trying to figure out which would make the most innocuous, and yet potent, drink. "What's the matter?" she said, "I need a drink," I muttered. "There's water on the table" she replied. "Not that kind of drink." "Oh." "I need something that no one will notice." "I got just the thing for you." And she opened the fridge and pulled out a bottled lemon margarita and started pouring it in a glass for me. Mom came in the kitchenette, drawn by our furtiveness... she saw the bottle and raised her eyebrows, "don't let anyone see." "It's ok, it's just lemonaid." SiLtM assured her. I took my drink and fled. Later I snuck back and made myself a gin and tonic, heavy on the gin. And yet one more trip to raid the liquor to make a Kristin a gin and tonic (heavy on the tonic) too. I am grateful for alcohol and it's dulling effects on my rage. We made our excuses and left the dinner a mere three hours after arriving. We didn't overeat. In truth, I barely managed to eat at all. But my parents were happy. And this is the last Thanksgiving the entire extended family is gathering. I couldn't be more thrilled.

I survived...

2006-11-24T12:12:00.000-07:00

Keeping me in my place
Originally uploaded by Temmerling.

More later. Maybe.

That meme I promised you

2006-11-22T12:25:00.000-07:00

yet another meme that so many people have done that I don't have to credit anyone. Though, to be fair, I think I first saw it at Sublime's place.

[A is for age:] 31
[B is for beer of choice:] Gulden Draak, though I do like a good IPA.
[C is for career:] I am careerless at the moment. Just passing time. One of these days I'll get my shit together and embark on my planned career as a writer.
[D is for favorite Drink] Gin and Tonic. Though Good Earth Sweet and Spicy Tea is also veeeeery good.
[E is for essential item you use everyday:] Cetaphil
[F is for favorite song at the moment:] Orange Sky by Alexi Murdoch (oh, I'm so sorry all you other great songs. I didn't WANT to choose, THEY MADE ME! I take it back. I love all of you! ALL OF YOU!)
[G is for favorite game:] Tie: Killer Bunnies, Starfarers of Catan
[H is for hometown:] Salt Lake City
[I is for instruments you play:] I don't think I can claim to play any instruments any more. Though I still have dreams that I'm playing my bassoon. And I have fond hopes of picking up the flute again...
[J is for favorite juice:] Lime Rickey
[K is for kids?:] yup.
[L is for last kiss?:] This morning as I ran out the door.
[M is for marriage:] Our marriage was annulled by the California Supreme Court. I'm still bitter about that. I hope they all got piles.
[N is for full name:] It's not that hard to figure out. But I don't think I should make it easier on my stalkers by typing it here. One hint, though, it means weeping rock.
[O is for overnight hospital stays:] Never.
[P is for phobias:] Spiders. Thanksgiving.
[Q is for quote:] "And if you turn away/because there is no lesson here/I will hold my awkward bowl,/with all its cracked stars shining/like a complicated lie,/and fasten a new skin around it/as if I were dressing an orange/or a strange sun." -- Anne Sexton, "For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further"
[R is for biggest regret:] Something that happened on Friday. And no, If you have to ask what it was then I'm probably not going to tell you. Unless you're you. You know who you are. Oh, you're not sure you're the you I'm referring to? Then you're not.
[S is for sports:] Air hockey.
[T is for time you wake up:] 15 minutes later than I should. And always reluctantly.
[U is for color underwear:] Well. White. Today.
[V is for vegetable you love:] Peas (but not the canned kind. ICK!)
[W is for worst habit:] self-denigration.
[X is for x-rays you've had:] 5 dream-crippling ones of my chest last week. Teeth. Right forearm. Ankle. Knee.
[Y is for yummy food you make:] Nachos. Don't laugh! Making great Nachos is an art form!
[Z is for zodiac sign:] Pisces sun. Capricorn moon. Leo rising.

Goulash

2006-11-22T09:46:00.000-07:00

In an effort to distract myself from the impending doom I am now going to just type. Type like there's no tomorrow. Type like the wind. I'm going to throw the Cloak Invisible* over my head and swing from ropes like a deranged berserker wildly swinging the sword of my intellect around and only managing to hit the things that are so stupified by my exhibition that they don't bother to make that little step to the left to avoid me. Feel free to watch the madness. And comment! Comment like there's no tomorrow (see: theme, current) Comment because you realize that what you have to say is a vitally important part of my distraction. Or don't. Whatever. See if I care.

Wild Swing #1. A long time a go. An entire aeon in the half life cycle of a blog topic, there was a lot of talking about donor choices. What I am about to say is not a judgement on anyone's choice. It's not a critique of anyone's required qualifications. It's not a big fat raspberry on anyone's decision-making process. It's just an observation. One I think is interesting. And I love all of your donors. I really do. Even the ones I haven't met. Even the ones I haven't read. They're all lovely and will all make beautiful children. But here's my observation. If our donor were to try to donate to a bank... if he were to fill out that long form... no one would ever pick him. It's true. He has an anaphylactic allergy to both tree nuts AND peanuts. He has asthma. He has pet allergies. His father was bipolar, his mother suffers from extreme depression. There's schizophrenia in his recent family history. Alcoholism. Drug use. His father may or may not have committed suicide. When we chose him he had no known pregnancies. And yet... look at Julia. That's all I have to say on that.

So, something kinda cool just happened. I got an email (yesterday? day before? the days all blend together right now) from a stranger saying that she had come across my posts on breastfeeding and sexual abuse survivors. She stated that she is a sexual abuse survivor, breastfeeding her son, and that she's been having issues and stuff come up. She THANKED ME for writing what I wrote and said that she feels like she can move forward with the information and story I provided. I need to write her back and thank HER. I felt like I went out on such a limb with that overly long series. But it was worth it if it helped one person (besides myself). I'm so glad I was brave enough to write that. I'm so glad she was brave enough to email me. My mission statement has been fulfilled. I am validated. I did something good.

Wild change of direction here... I am the air...I am the wind...
Last night I dreamt that all my teeth fell out. This is not an unusual dream for me. I dream quite often that my teeth are falling out. It's a real fear of mine. When I had braces put on, instead of pulling 4 teeth to make room in my mouth, they sanded down my teeth to make them smaller. That means that a tiny cavity can be a big problem in a very short period of time. I've had 2 root canals and one of my molars pulled. I have issues about losing my teeth. Missing teeth is the epitome of white trashness for me and I have a hard time respecting or even really listening to people who have visibly missing teeth. I know. I'm a bad person. So these teeth falling out dreams really get to me. But normally they're rather bloodless. There's some pain, and then I feel the tooth with my tongue and the tongues just kind a pushes the teeth out. Or I bite down really hard and the teeth just shatter one by one. But still, bloodless. But last night... last night there was a lot of blood. The teeth were gushing blood as they were falling out. And I kept grabbing the teeth and shoving them back up into their sockets and biting down hard to try to keep them in place, and more kept falling out and I couldn't get them all back in place so I could hold them all at once, and the blood just flooded out of my mouth.

But hey, at least I was asleep last night TO dream. Julia has decided the last week that she must be held by a mommie AT ALL TIMES in the night. We start out each night with her in her crib. And then about an hour and a half later she wakes and starts screaming. So I go get her. And she calms. And I put her back in her crib and then an hour and a half later she wakes and starts screaming. Over and over and over. The first night I think she was constipated and in pain. The next nights not so much. And I'm still really run down from the pneumonia. So you can see this isn't working so well. The rocking chair we have in her nursery was never meant for long term rocking. As I was never going to be the kind of mother who rocked her children to sleep every damn night. Sunday night I took Julia out to the living room and laid with her on the floor. Now I have a gigantic bruise on my hip. Oh yeah, and she crawled away sometime in the night and got into the dog food. Monday night I took her down to the guest bed. That night she slept, but every hour or so she would rise through sleep to begin to fuss, then reach her hand out and touch my hair or face and then go back to sleep. And then she rolled off the bed. So, not restful. Not restful at all. Yesterday Kristin and I broke down and bought a rocker/recliner for Julia's room. And last night I slept in that with the babe. And that's where I had the bad dream.

You might be wondering why Kristin's not taking more of these night shifts. Well, I'll tell you. She really can't. She's not the sleepy mommie. It's funny. For the most part Julia does not distinguish between the two of her mamas. Most of the time if she shows a preference for one of us, it's the one of us that she's spent less time with recently. Except for when she's tired. When she's ready for bed, then she's ready for the sleepy mommie. And that would be me. I don't know what it is about me. Maybe I'm boring. Maybe I'm somnolent. Whatever. But it's true. I can get her settled and to sleep and Kristin can't. Last night Julia started crying at a little after 10. Kristin got up and went to her and I heard an intensification of the screams. I wanted to go in there and soothe Julia, but I also want Kristin to be able to calm Julia. I didn't want to undermine Kristin's parenting. So I waited and waited and waited. Finally Kristin asked me to get a water bottle for Julai. So I went and got the bottle and walked into the room and there was Julia kicking and screaming. And I took her from Kristin just to help Kristin get readjusted in the chair... and the moment I took Julia into my arms she sighed and stopped crying. She had been pissed that it was Kristin and not me who had come to her in the night. So. I did what any loving parent and wife would do. I handed her back to Kristin. I helped Kristin get her arms in just the right crook that Julia likes, and I walked out of the room to let them work it out between themselves. And silence finally reigned. But Kristin was unable to get Julia to go back in the crib, so I ended up in the new recliner with the baby for most of the rest of the night. The chair is comfortable, but the bed would have been better. I hope this is a short-lived stage...

Speaking of short-lived stages, today I am on cycle day 26. It's 15 days past when I think I ovulated. I've been scant spotting dark brown for the past 4 days. Pee sticks on Friday (CD 21, 10 DPO) and Sunday (CD 23, 12 DPO) were both negative. My cycles are never predictable in length, but it's very rare for me to go longer than 25 days in a cycle. And it's rare for me to spot like this for so many days before bleeding. I'm blaming the x-rays. You know I am. I think there's probably a blighted little blastocyst desperately trying to hold on... and just too mutated by the radiation to make it. It'll probably give up tomorrow and make Thanksgiving just that much more special.

Dammit, I wasn't going to think about Thanksgiving. I'm going to go look for a meme. That'll distract me.

* brownie points to whomever can identify where this comes from.

Everyone else is doing it

2006-11-20T13:27:00.000-07:00

You.
Can.
Only.
Type.
One.
Word.
No.
Explanations.

Not as easy as you might think...

1. Yourself: amoral
2. Your boyfriend/girlfriend: busy
3. Your hair: camoflage
4. Your mother/stepmother: omnipresent
5. Your dog: spotted
6. Your favorite item: camera
7. Your dream last night: repetitive
8. Your favorite drink: gin
9. Your dream car: whole
10. The room you are in: lobby
12. Your fear: corrupted
13. What you want to be in 10 years: unflappable
14. Who you hung out with last night: wife
15. What you're not: brave
16. Muffin: strudel
17: One of your wish list items: iPod
18: Time: lunch
19. The last thing you did: printed
20. What you are wearing: rutching
21. Your favorite weather: lemony
22. Your favorite book: fiction
23. The last thing you ate: coffee
24. Your life: drained
25. Your mood: pessimistic
26. Your best friend(S): absent
27. What are you thinking about right now? stomachache
28. Your car: crap
29. What are you doing at the moment?: procrastinating
30. Your summer: dry
31. Your relationship status: taken
32. What is on your TV?: dust
33. What is the weather like?: gray
34. When is the last time you laughed?: dinner

I can't escape the horror

2006-11-20T09:56:00.000-07:00

I just can't get away from it. Thanksgiving. The Holiday from Hell.

In my entire life, I can think of only 2 Thanksgivings that I didn't have full-blown, feel-like-I'm-having-a-heart-attack, sneaking off to furtively sob in a darkened room, hands-shaking, relatives asking if I've recently developled a drug problem, emotionally debilitating panic attacks. Even when I was a small kid I used to freak out on Thanksgiving.

The only two peaceful Thanksgivings were when for some reason my mother would have a tiff with her siblings and opt our family out of the festivities. Those two years (one when I was 12 and one when I was 19) Thanksgiving was small, just our immediate family, and we invited my father's mother over. Using those two peaceful times as a diagnostic tool, I decided that the problem wasn't me, it was the gathering of the extended family (never mind that the extended family gathers quite frequently through the year and I don't have nearly as hard a time with them on any other occasion). So, when I got with Kristin, I took that opportunity to opt out of the big Thanksgiving and spend it with her family.

And still, panic attacks. Horrible one. Horrible ones mixed with guilt for having abandoned my own family. So, after a few years of that, I convinced Kristin that my problem wasn't with my own family, but with family AT ALL. So, we decided to do our own Thanksgiving feast and only invite friends. And still, surrounded only by people that I LIKE, STILL I have terrible, panic-ridden Turkey-Days. Not fun. Not fun in the least little bit. And at this point the day itself has become like a gigantic boogey man. I know I'm going to freak out on Thanksgiving, and the dread of the inevitable freak-out very likely actually contributes to said freak out. It's a vicious cycle.

So. THIS YEAR I told Kristin that all I wanted to do on Thanksgiving was tell everyone that we were out of town, tell our out of towners that we were holeing up here, and then HIDE in our home with the phone disconnected and the lights off and the cars parked a couple streets away and just let Thanksgiving glide by overhead like a bloated B-52. Maybe get Tibetan Take-out. If I can't see Thanksgiving, then Thanksgiving can't see me...

But see, we have a friend. A friend who didn't have anywhere to go. And we really like this friend. And we try to be generous people. So we mentioned to this friend that we were going to be home and hiding on Thanksgiving, and we casually mentioned that she could come and hide with us... and before I knew it we were offering to cook her a tofurkey (she's vegetarian and we don't really like meat, either) and she was planning on bringing wine and Thanksgiving had its claws hooked deep around my collarbone.

Meanwhile... my mom came to me and asked me honestly if she stopped hosting the entire extended family, would I come back to her Thanksgiving table? And I hesitated, because to answer a question like that from my mom is tantamount to signing an agreement in blood. But I started talking to her about how much I hate Thanksgiving, but I don't know why, and though I did end up telling her that yes, if it was just my immediate family (and their spouses) I would probably return to Thanksgiving, other than that the conversation was a good one and took enough of the Thanksgiving pressure off that I was able to come to a realization:

Remember all those months ago when I mentioned how I was sexually abused? It's in my archives, but I'm too lazy to link right now... I think I was talking about it in June or July... anway, remember how I said that I don't really remember any of the details, and how often or how extreme it was? How it wouldn't have been reported if there hadn't been a witness the last time? And how I'm now convinced that the abuse was more frequent and of a more severe type than was witnessed? Well, I begin to think that my hatred of Thanksgiving is a clue. I think that the abuse either started on a Thanksgiving, or that there was a particularly bad episode of abuse that occurred on a Thanksgiving.

It makes sense. My known abuser (and I do wonder if there was more than one, but that's a story for another time) is a member of that side of the family. Thanksgivings are/were chaotic, with the mothers all in the kitchen and the fathers all watching TV, and us kids shooed out of everyone's way. There was opportunity. There was availability. And, given how many times I was able to find hiding places to freak out, my abuser certainly wouldn't have had a hard time finding a secluded spot to take me away from watchful eyes for a few minutes.

I, of course, still remember nothing. But it makes sense. It all makes a very horrible, chilling sense.

And things with the tofurkey friend got very weird and strained over this past weekend. And I'm already getting Thankgiving Terror Tremors. So I called her up last night and uninvited her. I am an asshole. And now that I don't have a friend-with-nowhere-to-go to hide behind, what do you want to bet we end up at my mom's house? Thanksgiving is all powerful. That turkey is like a gigantic black hole... sucking everyone into its maw.

I hate Thanksgiving.

Better and Other Miscellanea (oh, and a meme)

2006-11-16T16:14:00.000-07:00

Guess who gets to go to work for a half day tomorrow?

That would be me!!! I'm still exhausted, very easily tired, and want to sleep a lot, but I think I can do a half day before the weekend. Plus, it'll help my self-esteem.

Guess what else? I also lost 7 lbs! Let's give a big hoorah to a wasting disease! If only I hadn't fueled myself with all that pecan pie.

Yesterday, I made my bed. I felt so accomplished. I made my bed, people! And then I immediately lay on it and pulled the covers up over myself like a sick-person burrito and fell back asleep. But the bed was made, and that has to count for something. Today I'm going to try to put laundry away.

The other day I was sitting on the couch, and Julia was sitting next to me, and Zoe (the cat) was sitting on my lap and purring. Julia reached forward and very, very gently, touched Zoe's ear. Zoe flicked her ear and Julia pulled back.
"That's Zoe's ear." I said. "She doesn't like you to touch it."
"Yeah." Julia replied thoughtfully. She looked at Zoe another moment and reached forward and gently touched Zoe's nose. Zoe snorted, but was too comfortable to move her head or anything. Julia continued lightly touching Zoe's nose until I said: "That's Zoe's nose."

Julia jerked back, looked at me alarmed, and clapped her hand to her own nose, feeling it, pinching it, pushing it. If she'd had the verbal language skills, I think she would have said, "Oh, god, PLEASE don't tell me that my nose looks like THAT! How is it possible that I could have anything in common with a cat?" I laughed my ass off, and Zoe finally moved, affronted, as Julia started poking at her nose again.

And, finally, here is Cali's meme.

1) If somebody said you were like a breakfast cereal, which one would you be and why? I would be Malt-o-Meal. Because I'm full of subtle flavors that are brought out by butter and spice. Because I'm filling and cozy on a cold morning. And because if you make me wrong, I'm gloppy, lumpy, overly sticky, and hard to swallow.

2) How do you take your coffee/tea? I like me some Mochas, so stick some chocolate in that coffee! Tea, I normally take black, with some sugar. Unless it's chai. I also love chai. I like my chai hot and spicy, but not that sweet.

3) Your bedroom is on fire. You can only reach in & grab ONE thing. Do you grab your photo album or your journals? Um, I grab my flash drive with all my poetry on it... shoot, that's not a good enough answer. Because, what if I CAN'T get it? What then? I just lose everything? I need a fire-proof safe. I need an off-site storage center. I need to prepare!

4) When I see people flicking their still-lit cigarette butts out their car windows I wish I could catch that butt, drive the flicker down, and RAM IT IN THEIR EYE so that everyone else would know that a discarded cigarette butt can still cause DAMAGE!!!, like, um, a FIRE.

5) Got porn? Oh yeah, baby. Wanna see?

6) If I could meet that first girl who made my hands tremble whenever I sat next to her and explain why that night under the tree I couldn't breathe when I was looking in her eyes I would never wonder what might have happened between us again.**

** not that I wish that I had ended up with her instead of Kristin (which some people might take this as saying), no way. But, you know, she might have been my first, and a much better first than whom (and under what circumstances) I gave that privilege to a few months later.

7) What is the worst pet name in the history of your family? Um, that would be a tie between Smokin' Bunny-Cake's bunny, Thumper, and her orange cat, Simba. I named her next cat, Themis, because I couldn't take the Disn*yness any longer.

8) I would eat a bowl of Dirt (as long as it's the kind of dirt I like) for free, but if you want me to eat a bowl of meat that still has the "ickies" in it, you'd have to pay me with sex. Um, no. Not really. But that would be nice, wouldn't it? Honestly, I'd probably just eat it to be polite, and then go be quietly sick in another room...

9) What 80's tv star would make you giggle like a school girl? Doogie Howser. Wait, was he from the 80's? And wouldn't you know it? He's gay. How funny is that?

10) What age was your best and why? Well, this age is pretty good, what with Julia being the light of my life and all... I hate to put a label of best on any part of my life, though, as I hope that it just keeps getting better.

Hopefully I'll get some cute pictures and another video uploaded soon...

Thanks for all the wonderful comments. You guys are the best. I think I virtually drowned in all the virtual chicken soup...

The #1 thing I learned from Pneumonia

2006-11-15T07:57:00.000-07:00

In my mind this was going to be a funny post with all the hilarity that a serious illness can engender. Something like what Julie would be capable of doing, something biting and acerbic and funny as hell, with a lovely little lesson woven in there somewhere.

But I'm sorry. I just don't have my funny back on. So all you get is #1.

The #1 Thing I Learned From Pneumonia is....

That I derive all my self worth from what I can do for people.

Which means, of course, that I don't feel that I have any intrinsic value. I'm only as good as my use. Normally this isn't much of a problem. It keeps me busy, proving my value; it makes our weekends jam-packed full of activity. It makes me popular with hostesses; if I'm at a party I'm always the guest that's doing dishes, serving food, cleaning up, refreshing drinks, etc... I have a wide range of skills, and I am capable of getting a great deal done. I'm a handy person to have around. People like me. I feel like I deserve my partner's love.

But then, suddenly, I'm sick. And I keep doing things to maintain my sense of place and value... and then I push myself too far and get sicker. And suddenly I can do nothing.

Where does that leave me?

That leaves me wandering around the store in search of pecan pie while my prescriptions fill, wondering how quickly we could sell our house, and if the equity would be enough to set Kristin and Julia up in a nice condo or something (I, of course, worthless creature that I am, would just go move into my parents' basement) with some money left over for some vacations to celebrate the fact that she's just been severed of such a very great Dead Weight that has been dragging her down for much too long.

Ok, so it sounds ridiculous here. But at the time? At the time it felt like the right thing to do. The noble thing. Free her from the uselessness that is me. I have nothing to offer. I am empty.

Obviously, this is a problem. I don't judge people's worth by what they can do for me, why do I judge myself this way? And, more importantly, how do I stop? Anybody have any stories? Roadsigns?

Because my biggest concern right now is that I don't want Julia modeling this behavior. And I truly believe that the best way to parent is to lead by example. And if I can't do that, well then...

Aw CRAP! You see how pernicious this way of thinking is?

Follow-up

2006-11-13T20:50:00.000-07:00

Went back to the doctor today for a scheduled follow-up appointment. I think somewhere in the back of my brain was a lovely little fantasy of going into work after the appointment... ha. ha ha ha ha ha.

The doctor said she was concerned that this illness is not turning around as it should. My lungs still sound terrible. My blood pressure was through the roof (for me), my heart was racing, and I couldn't catch my breath to save my life. In fact the nurse that treated me on Saturday poked her head in the exam room saying, "I recognize that cough... oh you poor thing, aren't you any better yet?!"

So. They changed me from the nebulizer to an inhaler because of the blood pressure and racing heart thing. I'll start inhaled steroids on Thursday. The doctor gave me permission to take the prednisone all at once in the morning instead of once in the morning and once at night... the better to help me sleep. And... she changed my antibiotic.

See, internet, there's something I didn't tell you about last week. Last week we inseminated, and it looks like I ovulated... so I could be pregnant right now. That is, if the 4 chest xrays didn't blast the little blastocyct. It had slipped my mind (I'm just not used to having a 2ww, let alone possibly being pregnant) on Saturday, but I remembered to tell her this morning. And it's all good. Because Kristin needed 3 weeks of Bioxin, but insurance would only pay for 2 and damn that shit's expensive. So now she can have my week.

Anyway, it was quite a blow to be told that I can't go back to work ALL FUCKING WEEK. Especially since I don't have any more leave. That means 4 days without pay. My job is secure; I'm concerned that our mortgage isn't. (Kristin keeps telling me to stop worrying that far ahead, that we'll be fine, but it's all par for my little self-hatred course I'm on) And the trip to Hawaii is looking a little shaky at the moment. It sucks that a bad illness in November could disrupt a trip in late February that we've been planning for a year... but there you have it. It could. It really fucking could.

I have a follow-up follow-up appointment on Thursday, and hopefully the doctor will clear me to go to work on Friday. Not that I love work, by any means, but, you know, the whole "money is good" thing. And Julia still looks clear of pneumonia, so that's good. Here's to feeling better on so many different levels tomorrow.

PS -- Melessa... from your comments here you seem to be a wonderful, compassionate, intellegent, empathic person. I would be happy to meet you anytime... even if you ARE from Oklahoma!

Forget that self-pitying whiney shit

2006-11-12T21:47:00.000-07:00

I wrote earlier. Just forget it. Go read this. This is funny stuff. This made me laugh. Which, of course, made me cough. But that's not the Ox's fault. The Ox is blameless. Oh, and wish her happy birthday, why don't cha?

shit

2006-11-12T20:56:00.000-07:00

That's what I feel like: emotionally and physically.

Thank you everyone for your well wishes. It was so nice to log on tonight and see all that. Especially since I feel unlovable right now.

Kristin is extremely sick, too. She's got a horrible cough and it's hard to tell if it's from her sinuses draining or pneumonia, too. Though how she got pneumonia when she was given clear back on Thursday the same antibiotics that they just gave me is a mystery. Tonight, of course, I feel like it is all my fault. If I had gone to the damn doctor back when she told me to...

And we're watching Julia like a hawk. Her cough has gotten worse, too. God help me if she comes down with pneumonia. I don't know how I could bear that.

Shit, now I'm crying. And the crying makes me cough.

The prednisone gives me terrible insommnia. The last time I was on prednisone was when I had mono. I am probably the only person on the whole planet who COULDN'T sleep when I had mono. I'd just stare at the ceiling too weak to do anything, unable to sleep from the drugs in my veins, the drugs necessary to keep me breathing. Breathing begins to feel a bit overrated at 3 AM when all your body wants to do is quit and your brain doesn't see anything wrong with that.

Kristin's already behind in her school work and her work work. First she was sick. Then she got better but she took three days off to go to New York with me. Then we all got back and got sick again. And then this weekend was a three day weekend and she was supposed to get time to catch up and I got sicker and she had to take up the slack... and now she's so very sick again, herself. To say that I feel like the very worst sort of support and partner right now is an understatement. I was well enough tonight after getting some rest this afternoon to take Julia downstairs to play so she could get some rest. But it's not enough. It doesn't feel enough to me. I wish I could write her papers for her. I wish I could snap my fingers and make half her case-load disappear. But I can't. All I can do is sit here and hack and shake and cry and infect. I can't even sleep it all away.

I'm so glad my parents came and got Julia yesterday. But she wasn't happy to be with them. She was confused and upset. She could tell that something was wrong. When they finally brought her back today she just laughed and laughed and clung to Kristin and gave kisses upon kisses. And there was part of us that wished my parents could keep her another night, but we missed her and it's apparent that she missed us, too. But she's just so damn active and hard to keep up with even when I'm on my game. I just got her to sleep and I loved cuddling her as she drifted off. But I was so glad that she was asleep. Because now I can cry and take a bath and take a breathing treatment that will make my heart race and my hands shake and I don't want her to see me like that.

I'm going to hit publish now before I hit delete.

Huh, I guess I really AM sick

2006-11-11T17:19:00.000-07:00

So... what serious illness besides the flu also presents with symptoms of:

Extreme fatigue
Body aches
Deep chest pain
Inability to breathe
Persistent cough that takes your breath away and leaves one shaky and weak

If you guessed pneumonia, you guessed correct!

Yesterday while not exactly napping, but not exactly awake, more like in a sick-induced haze, I was entertained by a sound like pop rocks, or rice crispies snapping. "What a curious sound." I thought drousily. "I wonder where it's coming from." It took me quite a while to realize that it was coming from my lungs.

"Go to the doctor." Kristin said.
"No." I replied. "They'll just tell me it's a virus and thus I'm not really sick."
"No they won't. They'll tell you that you're sick and help you get better."
"Will not."
"Will too."
"It doesn't matter, because I'm much better now. The snapping sound is almost completely gone. I can't even hear it anymore as long as the music's playing."

So, I thought I was feeling better, and we went to some friends' house to kill some bunnies. And then this morning I could barely move. All my muscles were frozen in pain. And the snapping sound was back in force. So... I broke down and called the doctor.

I've mentioned before how much I love our clinic. It's not their fault that I was raised without health insurance and so can't bring myself to go see a doctor when I'm sick because I never feel sick enough to justify a doctor's bill. It's not their fault that I am so disconnected from my body that I can't really tell how sick I am until I'm REALLY sick. It's not their fault that I' m convinced that I'm a hypochondraic and thus am sure that my symptoms are all in my head.

Even the doctor could hear the pop rocks in my lungs (WHAT a relief! I was so worried that I had made that up). I blew in the little breath thingie and only measured 200. They took exrays. They poked me three times (tried to draw blood out of one good vein and that one good vein threw up the white flag and retreated into the great unknown. So then they tried with another vein and that vein, too, went hither and yon, finally they poked me in the thumb like a baby to get the blood they needed). Apparently I am very, very sick. They sent me home with their own nebulizer machine. They gave me strict instructions that I am to go to the ER if after a breathing treatment I still feel wheezy. They gave me a painful shot of antibiotics in the ass (OUCH! Even the gama globulin shot I had when I was exposed to hepatitis didn't hurt as much). I have prescriptions for prednisone and some major abx.

My mom came and got Julia for the night. Kristin's wheezing too, but she's already on the same abx that I'm now on.

Now if only we could get hold of a friend to bring us sickies dinner...

Photo Friday: Dum Dum Dum Duuuuummmm

2006-11-10T10:32:00.000-07:00

Death Bed
Originally uploaded by Temmerling.

D is for:

Death Bed.

This is me in mine.

My own take on the whole "election" thing

2006-11-10T09:24:00.000-07:00

Ya know... I just can't get that excited about it.

Oh, I voted. I did vote. I ALWAYS vote. Even though as a liberal in the reddest state in the union* let's just say that voter apathy is pretty damn high. I vote knowing that it doesn't do a damn bit of good. So, I guess, mainly I vote so that I can complain. And so that I can goad people in other states whose votes count into voting.

Ok, I'm partially lying. I did find some things of excitement in this mid-term election. But let's get my bitterness out first.

I'm not all that euphoric that the Democrats are finally in power. Mostly because I refuse to believe that they'll actually do anything substantive with that power. Over the last, how many years? We've watched the Democrats roll over and play dead. We've watched them blindly vote with the majority. Yes, there have been a few clarion voices calling for change and thought and reason and justice and democracy. But for the most part the Democrats have been toothless panderers. There are series of checks and balances even within the legislature, but time and time again the Dems have refused to use what methods they had as a minority to stop the ruthless smashing of our liberties, and our values, as a secular democracy. This is my big problem with the Democrats. The Republicans are not out of the running just because they're no longer the majority. The Republicans have no problem pulling every trick of the minority out of their hats to get what they want. The Democrats just throw up their hands, whine that they're in the minority, talk big about what they'd do if they had power, but actually do nothing. So, yeah, I'll believe in Democra-sponsored change when I see it. And if I do see it, I'll know that it doesn't come from the majority of Democrats up there, but rather from a small, vocal cabal who has been pushing for change all along, and dragging the rest of their spineless party behind them.

Hmmm, I guess I'm a little bitter.

And see, about the whole vote and the shifting demographics of the turn-out? I don't see it as a triumph. I see it as the LEAST that should have occurred. Where were all those people two years ago? or 6 years ago when the presidency was hijacked and countless poor people of color disenfranchised? NOW you're doing the right thing? Well, it's about time. So my big reaction to the new voters (not, of course, the young voters who didn't have a chance in the last elections, but everyone else who either voted for the right-pandering haters, or didn't vote at all) is not a resounding HURRAH! But more of a bitter "feh, 'bout time you did the right thing"

To all those pundits who keep saying that Tuesday was a demonstration that our system works? All I say is that to me, all Tuesday proved is that only when their own bed is finally on fire will the people make a move to disturb their peaceful slumber and beat out the flames -- even though the neighborhood and the house has been burning for YEARS. Again, it doesn't seem much to be proud of. And I am, of course, including myself in that condemnation.

There's a reason I'm not a politician.

But, I said that I saw a bright spot, and I did. And here it is: In the reddest of the red states, in a vilely homophobic and heterocentric community, an openly gay state senator was elected. Now THAT's change for you. And no matter that I don't think much of him personally, and no matter that I have grave misgivings as to his actual effectiveness as a state senator, the fact of the matter is: people here voted for him. True, his constituency is here in the capital city, which is actually a dot of deep blue in a vast sea of blood red (I mean, our beloved Mayor has led protests against the president here, has pushed to give same-sex couples who work for the city domestic partner benefits, used to be an attorney for the ACLU -- can't get much more liberal than that, and the city -- and ONLY the city -- LOVES him). But still. I never thought he'd win election. So there's that.

And here's another thing. While I was looking up the election results for our state legislature for Kristin... I noticed that some of those elections hinged on as few as a hundred votes. In some of the most conservative counties in Utah, Democrats NEARLY won. This is big. HUGE. Because when I think about it, most of the tangible discrimination and misery in our lives comes not from the Federal government, but from our state legistatures. DOMA may be a federal act, but it is our state legislatures that give it teeth. All these anti-gay marriage ballots (or the VAST majority of them) come out of the state legislatures. So the bright point is that I have realized (finally, on a cellular level) that I need to change the focus of my political activism from national issues to local politics. The change needs to happen in our local county races. On the level of everyday people. And looking at the results of this election, that may not be as hard as I used to think. Especially since the more I talk to people (even "conservatives") about the very real emotional, financial, and legal problems my family faces, the more they are appalled that such things are a reality. Message voting aside, most of the people I talk to don't think that I deserve to lose my daughter if something happened to Kristin, they don't think that it's fair that Julia can't get my social security if something happened to me. They don't think that it's right that I can't adopt her. They just don't KNOW that these things are the reality for our family and once they do they are upset and feel lied to by their representatives. Finally, the sleeping giant of our non-politicised general population is beginning to rouse and think about these things (and others). And even if it's slower than I think it should be, it's still happening. The euphoria shouldn't be coming from what happened on Tuesday, but from what is possible now that the people are beginning to wake.

You know, as the next election gets closer, I just might volunteer to help a liberal running for the state legislature in a sparcely-populated, extremely conservative county... I be there are a lot of hidden liberal, reasonable people there who just don't think that they have a voice, maybe I can help them realize that while they DON'T have a voice in the larger, national elections, we can begin making substantive change through our state legislatures, where our voices are heard.

*All you people who don't live in Utah who like to call yourselves residents of the reddest state in the Union? You don't know what red is. Yes. I'm talking to YOU Texas, and Virginia, and Oklahoma, and South Dakota and Florida. Sure, you're red. You're like a bright brick red. We are heart's blood.

On Julia and Bri

2006-11-09T14:39:00.000-07:00

Several years ago my mother read a poem that I had written. And she looked up at me and said, "I can't believe that you came out of my body. I can't believe that I made something so incredible." Well, I was uncomfortable. My family and I have had a rough relationship in the past, and this particular moment happened a little too close to some Very Bad Things for me to take it at face value. I shrugged it off and moved on. My mother and father have said similar things as I've gotten older, and each time I brush it aside. I'm just not that spectacular.

***

I think everyone who reads me also reads Unwellness. So you've all read about Bri's tete a tete with Julia. So I guess I'm not violating her privacy by writing about my perspective on what happened. Still, I'm not sure what to say, though when I think of that moment all sorts of emotion wells up so I feel like I have to say something. If you're offended by mothers raving about the perfection of their children, you might want to skip this post. For I am about to lose all perspective on her perfection.

I can't believe that I helped make something so incredible as my daughter. And I am going to claim a small slice of credit. I truly believe that we called to our family an amazing soul. I believe that with all my heart. One of these days I'll blog my "blastocyst as vacuum" theory, but for now just know that I believe with everything inside me that Julia's soul CHOSE Kristin and I to be her parents. So there must be some part of me that is worthy of greatness because she chose to walk through this life with us. She is an amazing, wise, loving soul. AND I believe that the way we are raising her is working with what is innately within her to help her flower beautifully. This is where I take my credit. I am not a complete swine to her pearls. I (we) must be doing something right. This is why what my mother used to say bothers me so: I would not be who I am without her. She has a right to take some credit. Still, I now know the wonder of seeing my child go beyond anything I could have hoped for, and she's not even two years old yet.

***

I was worried about Bri. I was worried that bringing my child to the meet-up would hurt her. Bri's friendship, even though I had never met her in person, is precious to me, and I feel very protective of her, and it would hurt me to hurt her deliberately. But I couldn't come to NYC without my baby, and so I came to New York having accepted that my presence, and that of my daughter, might hurt my friend. I ached with that knowledge, and it nearly kept me from coming. But in the end I decided to let her be the judge of what she can and can't handle. I decided that if she limited her exposure to me and/or Julia that I wouldn't be hurt. I decided to trust that she knew what was best for her and that when she said it was ok that we come, that she meant it.

So, we came to New York. And I wasn't surprised that Bri kept her distance from the children. I was happy to see her and she seemed as composed as anyone could be under the circumstances. And then time whirled by as it does when one is overwhelmed. And the next thing I know Bri is holding Julia and tears are streaming down her face. I walked over there, concerned, not for Julia, but for Bri. Charlotte was there, and Bri gave me a watery smile as I approached. She told me that she'd tried to put Julia down but that Julia wouldn't let go. And then I noticed that Julia was clinging to Bri and rocking a little, back and forth. And under the noise I heard how Julia was humming to Bri. Suddenly the situation changed from Bri holding Julia, to Julia holding Bri. My sick, cranky, miserable, in-pain, give-me-all-the-toys-or-I'll-scream toddler had not only discerned the amount of pain within Bri, but was attempting to comfort her through that pain. She was trying to comfort Bri in the best way that she is comforted -- by holding her, by rocking her, by humming to her.

I was there. I saw it. It blew me away. My toddler, in the midst of her own pain, reached out to comfort a stranger in distress. Yes, Virginia, there is a Goddess. I saw her shining in my daughter that night. May I see her shining through many times more.

I can only hope that that is what my mother has seen shining through me. That even if I haven't been able to feel it at the time, there has been a touch of divinity within me. And I can only hope that as Julia gets older I'll be able to convey how much I learn from her, how blessed I consider myself, how amazing she truly is.

You know, without giving her a big head or anything.

Just Shoot Me Now, Whydoncha

2006-11-09T09:08:00.000-07:00

Oooooooooooooh

That was a moan of misery, in case you couldn't tell.

I'mmmmmmmmmmm siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick.

I don't deal well with being sick. I am not the sick one.

You'd think that with a whole day to rest with my sick and cranky baby I'd be feeling better. But no. Nonononononononononono. No. As the day went on I got sicker and sicker. Coughing. Achy. My chest hurts. Julia went down for her afternoon nap and I (thinking she'd be asleep for a solid block of time) took a cought syrup with codein. Big mistake, but at least it didn't bite me in the ass too much. She woke up after only 1/2 hour (just as the codein kicked in) and I staggered into her room and brought her out with me to the couch. She napped with me on the couch for a period of time and then wiggled down and started playing. I think she may have played nicely by herself (without doing anything TOO dangerous) for about an hour before she crawled back over to me with her bottle and started hitting me in the face with it. Ok, Mama's up.

So, she's feeling better and I'm feeling worse. But I used up all my leave yesterday, so I'm sitting here at work like Typhoid Mary. My chest hurts when I breathe in deep, so I'm trying to keep my breathing shallow and regular. And that works, until I cough. Then I have deep coughing fits that leave me groaning and shaky. Everything aches. I've got that raw skin feeling that I get when I'm just about to spike a fever. My head aches. My neck aches. But I'm not fevered yet, so that's a good thing. I tend to go delirious when I have a fever that hits about 102 -- so let's just hope I don't go there...

And, on top of it all... the thermostat in my area doesn't work and so it's FREEZING in here. I have a metal space heater which I clumbsily hit with my bag and it fell over and smashed my big toe... and when I left for New York I forgot to empty the tea bags out of my teapot. And they were all moldy this morning, and even though I washed the teapot out... my tea still tastes like mold.

At least I can still breathe through my nose.

Tomorrow is Veteran's day, so I've got the day off, thank the good lord above. I'm just not sure how I'm going to get through this one...

I know. Whine, whine, whine. That's all I ever seem to do these days.

One last whine. I'm like, 20 THOUSAND words behind on my NaNo novel. WHAT THE HELL AM I GOING TO DO??? It's not looking good for my novelling aspirations, I can tell you that...

Home Sick

2006-11-08T09:17:00.000-07:00

Julia woke up worse this morning... all the screaming, again, I just couldn't take her to daycare so back to the doctor we went. Her ear is still infected, but she's still got the abx in her system, so there's nothing more to do. It's ok. I was just worried that maybe her eardrum had burst or something she was so upset.

I am also home sick. Just a cold, I think. No fever, just body aches, chest aches, cough, swollen lymph nodes in the neck. It'll do us both some good to stay home and sleep.

Mish Mash Melange

2006-11-07T09:30:00.000-07:00

I don't know where to start...

Yes, it's true, we went to NYC this past weekend. We shouldn't have. But we went anyway. I've never been to NYC, and I was terrified of the city. TERRIFIED. But I girded my loins and braved my fears of the subway, the busy streets, and the taxi drivers and went.

But we shouldn't have. Wednesday night I took Julia to the doctor's office because she was so congested. We just wanted them to check her out. Just in case. I thought she just had a cold. But nope. Ear infection. Just starting. She wasn't even running a fever. I asked the doctor if we should cancel our trip, but the doctor said that we shouldn't. That we caught it soon enough, and with the decongestant and the antibiotics, she should be fine. Ha. And again I say: HA!

Anyway... so we packed. Light. For the entire weekend we took our two purses and one backpack. I was impressed. And we got on a plane at 6 AM Saturday morning. And Julia was a champ. SO well behaved. We got comments on how good she was. And then we were getting off the plane in NYC. And then we were getting on the bus to Harlem. And here is where things started getting a bit shaky. See, the bus was crowded, and our stroller is BIG. And even though I had it folded up, it still took up a lot of space. And I was mortified that we were taking up so much space. And people were tripping on it, and kicking it, and I just wanted to curl up in a tiny little ball. But finally the luggage platform was cleared off and I was able to put the stroller out of the way and try to relax. But still, there were SO MANY PEOPLE!!! Everywhere I looked on the street was overflowing with people. And cars. And busses. So much congestion! I started to feel overwhelmed and overstimulated and far from home. I was on constant look out for pickpockets and purse thieves and baby snatchers. You know, all the evil people that live in NYC and love to pray on naive out-of-towners. Luckily we didn't meet up with anyone like that.

Anyway, eventually we reached our stop, and managed to get the ginormous stroller out of the bus and headed in the right direction and then we were in the safe haven of Shelli's place. HEAVEN! Kristin and I were nervous to be staying with internet strangers but Shelli and Narda made us feel immediately welcome. And MP3 is ADORABLE! And I was able to breathe and let my heart rate and blood pressure decline and we settled into a quite night of chatting and killing bunnies. And then Jen and Cait and Natalie arrived and there was more talking and more big eyes and finally I practically passed out from overstimulation. But that was a good thing.

But that night, Julia spiked a fever. She was so restless and uncomfortable that night and I felt so incredibly bad for subjecting her to this trip. And there was nothing more I could do for her besides dosing her up with Motrin and decongestants and her antibiotics and lots of cuddles and hugs. The poor little pumpkin. So sick and so far from home.

Saturday morning we all got up and Hope and Megan and Quinn came over and we all headed out through Central Park to go to breakfast. This was lovely. Meeting these people in smaller doses was perfect. Time to talk. Time to acclimate to seeing people in the flesh that I had only ever seen in the pixel. I'm a fairly new reader to Hope and Megan's blogs, and I don't feel like I know them as well as I know other bloggers, but it wasn't long before it felt like I'd known them forever.

After breakfast, we went back to Shelli's place and began getting ready for the big party. And here is where it gets all disjointed for me. The closer to the descent of the masses, the more panicked I got. The more panicked I got, the more I wished I could just hide in the bathroom and forget the whole thing. WHAT WAS I THINKING???? I'm the woman who had a full-fledged panick attack at Julia's birthday party surrounded only by my friends and family! Why did I think I could do this thing?

And then Brooke showed up. And I looked in her face and I recognized the same panick that I was feeling, and then I remembered that HEY! I know about this woman's ass problems! I know this woman, I can do this! And I started talking to her, and about that time someone opened some wine and I grabbed a glass and started drinking, and then things just started to smooth out. Some. They started to smooth out some. I got drunk and started chattering. I think I talked too much and too loudly. I think I rudely interrupted conversations to tell really lame and pointless and long stories. I'm sure I hugged all the wrong people (wrong meaning that I hugged people who probably didn't want to be hugged, not that I hugged people I didn't want to hug, comprende?) and didn't hug the right ones. And OH! Sophia! She came over to me to say hi!!! and all this time I never thought Sophia liked me! But she must like me, at least a little. And, people, Sophia is gorgeous! And I'm not just saying that so she'll like me more. It's absolutely true. And there were people there that I wasn't surprised to see. Not because I was expecting them, but because it just seemed that I knew them so well that they didn't feel like internet strangers, but like old college buddies that I just hadn't seen in the flesh for a while. Instant comfort. Or maybe that was the pinot grigio. I'm still not sure.

All I know, is that my pants kept falling down. It's true. I think I bought them when I was slightly bloated, and as I wasn't capable of really eating anything, and I'd already worn them for a day and kinda stretched them out, and whatever... I don't know. But I swear everytime I bent over they fell down and I was constantly hiking them up. Sorry people, I wasn't MEANING to moon you... I wasn't THAT drunk. All I can say is that I hope you either didn't notice, or that you liked the show. I started so many conversations that I wasn't able to finish... I saw so many people that I wanted to talk to more. I regained my bearings by noticing Brooke somehow managing to look like she was holding up the wall in the middle of the room and walking over and talking to her some more.

And then it was over and everyone was leaving for a bar in Union Square. Shelli and Jen and Cait had all said that it would be ok for Kristin and I to leave Julia in their care... but we wanted to get her to sleep first. So we promised to meet up with everyone as soon as she was down. But she never. went. down! An hour later and she was still up and Shelli shooed us out the door saying that there were enough mothers in the apartment to handle one cranky, overtired baby and that we should go. So, we took a cab down to the village, walked around some, and then took the subway over to Union square and couldn't find anybody! I was calling and calling, and we were walking and walking. In and out of bars looking for our peeps and nada! Nothing! I was disappointed, but it was all ok, because I got to see a subway rat (the one thing on my MUST SEE! list...) so I felt like the night accomplished something. And then Kristin and I ended up at a cool lesbian bar for the rest of the night. So that was good too. The only bad thing was that I hadn't said goodby to anyone because I thought I'd see them later... and I never did. So things feel unfinished there. Does that sound strange? I didn't hug someone goodby so now I feel like I owe them something. Weird. I am a weirdo.

ANYWAY. Julia seemed better on Sunday, but still we took it easy. Hung out in Harlem. Watched the marathon runners run by. Ate the world's best french toast at a lesbian owned restaurant... It was nice. And then it was time to go. Only with the marathon in town everything was discombobulated. We had thought we'd just take the M60 back to the airport, but it was rerouted. And though Narda walked with us to help us figure out where the bus would be picking up passengers, and though the place she finally led us was full of travellers with luggage trying to get to the airport... the bus never came. Finally all 20 (or so) of us airport seekers realized that the bus was NEVER GOING TO COME and we all tried to get cabs. And no cabs would stop for us. No cab wanted to try to get to the airport. Kristin and I walked a few blocks away from the horde and tried again... and the only cab that would stop for us was a rogue cab that haggled with us over prices, and finally agreedt to take us for all the money in Kristin's pockets. (Luckily I had a 20 hidden on my person). And thus began The Most Frightening Half Hour of My Life. This man was INSANE!!!!!! He made his own lanes. He swerved into oncoming traffic and left it to the oncoming traffic to get out of the way! He went the wrong way on one-way streets! He weaved through intersections full of traffic going all 4 directions! We were clinging to our baby in the back seat (sans carseat, by the way! because we were told that they weren't required in NYC) PRAYING to ALL THAT IS HOLY AND GOOD! While he played with our lives all while talking non-stop on his cell phone (NOT hands free!) and cursing at the people in cars who just happened to be following the traffic laws! He... he... he... got us to the airport on time. That's all I can say. He got us there, alive, but considerably frazzled.

And then... it gets worse.

When I bought our tickets a month ago there weren't any seats left sitting together. And there weren't any "bargaining seats" aka: window and aisle seats. No. There were only middle seats available. That's ok, I thought, I'll ask them to change the seats when we check in. But no. When we checked in I could see that there were open seats together. But to change them on the e-ticket check-in screen cost $30! And, frankly, I thought that was ridiculous. So, we went to the gate and I walked up to the gate agent and explained that I was travelling with a baby and that my travelling companion and I weren't seated together and was there any way they could change our seats... and she refused unless I paid more money! Now, I'm used to flying standby. And when you fly standby you accept such things. But I had paid full price for these tickets and I think that they should change your seats for free when you PAY for a ticket. But maybe that's just me. So, Kristin's in the row behind me, and we're passing Julia back and forth over the seat backs and she's fine. She's completely fine. And then the plane takes off (btw... no one wanted to trade us seats so we could sit together) and Julia starts SCREAMING. She screamed like someone was murdering her. She flung her head back and forth, she kicked and scratched. She wouldn't take her bottle of milk. She wouldn't take her sippy cup of juice. She wouldn't eat anything. She wouldn't play with anything. She just kept screaming. People were looking. Finally the plane leveled off, and though the fasten seatbelt sign wasn't off yet, I took Julia up to the lavatory and held her in my arms in the little open space there for a few minute while she SCREAMED and SCREAMED and SCREAMED. And I couldn't take everyone's eyes on me, and she was overstimulated and so I, in desperation, took her into the lavatory. And she SCREAMED and SCREAMED and SCREAMED and kicked me and pulled my hair, and pinched me, and threw her head back and it banged into the wall, and I was sure that people thought I was beating her in there. And I sung to her and I rocked her back and forth and I took her shoes and socks and pants off because she was so hot, and I hummed to her and (because I get very airsick, and I hadn't taken my dramamine and I was in a bad position rocking her in the lavatory while there was turbulence) I vomited bitter, burning stuff into the sink as she screamed, and I called her name and I kissed her and still(I'm crying right now as I type this) she screamed so long and so hard that she broke little blood vessels in her eyelids and after an hour (yes, I hogged the lavatory for over an hour on a 2 hour flight -- but even though I didn't have the door locked, NO ONE CAME IN) she stopped crying and passed out. And then I held her for another 15-20 minutes as she twitched and moaned and I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed helplessly, and tried to get control of myself. And then I came out of the bathroom and walked with my head down and my red, puffy eyes averted, back to my seat and prayed that Julia would stay asleep for the rest of the flight. And that was only the first leg of the flight.

During our layover I read the instructions on the dramamine and broke a pill into pieces and fed her some so that it would help her sleep. And the dramamine kicked in right before take off, so she slept through the second flight. Which was a good thing. Kristin and I were together on this flight, but this man who STANK to high heaven of cigarettes and alcohol was in the seat next to Kristin and passed out on her and I spent the flight nauseated from the smell and she spent it feeling violated from his touching her. And then we were home.

So. Now I just need to process. It was so wonderful meeting so many of you. I feel a deeper connection to some, and to others I just feel justified in my already deep connection to you. But, I'm afraid if y'all want to do it again, I'm going to have to insist that it be here or within driving distance of here, as I'm afraid that I'm NEVER GETTING ON A PLANE WITH MY BABY AGAIN.

How long does it take to drive to Hawaii?

No More Denial...

2006-11-02T21:03:00.000-07:00

She's officially a toddler!

taken with my new camera that only cost me $20!!!

Sometimes it pays to complain when a company treats you like crap...

Breathe two three... out two three...

2006-11-02T15:35:00.000-07:00

Ok.

Dr. Nerdly says...

that yes, the numbers are elevated. And yes. The elevated numbers indicate that I have diminished ovarian reserve.

But. He says that I'm young. That the tests indicated that I ovulated beautifully last month. And that he doesn't want me to get upset or give up hope. He said that the numbers indicated that if we were trying to do IVF that I wouldn't stimulate as easily and they wouldn't be able to harvest as many eggs as they'd like... but we're not doing IVF and he says he has no reason to believe that my eggs are bad, per se. And, really, if we're not doing IVF then we really only need one egg at a time, right?

So, we're watching this cycle. Again, I'll have blood drawn for progesterone tests. He's thinking that I'm probably ovulating around day 11 or 12... and that might be why I'm never catching an LH surge... I'm surging before I start peeing on sticks (except that one month where I started peeing on sticks on day 5... but let's not think about that...) So we'll see. I took the whole day off work so I could cry myself to sleep, but left the appointment feeling more optimistic than I have in a loooooooooooooong time. I'll see him again in about another 2 weeks, and we'll evaluate this cycle and then we'll talk about femara.

So, it's a good thing that I didn't overreact and freak the fuck out on Tuesday...

Oh, you thought that was freaking out? No. That wasn't freaking out. Freaking out would have been following through with my plan to kidnap our donor for a hasty elopement to Vegas to ensure the ability to use his jizz for an IVF cycle using Kristin's eggs. Now THAT would have been freaking out. What you guys got here was just a mild upset...

I'm outta town for the weekend. But before I go... a lovely thing to think about that I got from a poster being given out at the University's Women's Resource Center.

For every girl who is tired of acting weak when she is strong, there is a boy tired of appearing strong when he feels vulnerable. For every boy who is burdened with the constant expectation of knowing everything, there is a girl tired of people not trusting her intelligence. For every girl who is tired of being called over-sensitive, there is a boy who fears to be gentle, to weep. For every boy for whom competition is the only way to prove his masculinity, there is a girl who is called unfeminine when she competes. For every girl who throws out her e-z-bake oven, there is a boy who wishes to find one. For every boy struggling not to let advertising dictate his desires, there is a girl facing the ad industry's attacks on her self-esteem. For every girl who takes a step toward her liberation, there is a boy who finds the way to freedom a little easier.

Adaped from a poem by Nancy R. Smith.
Crimethinc. Gender Subversion kid #69-B.

oh, yeah, um, THAT

2006-11-01T08:54:00.000-07:00

I'm supposed to start a novel today.

Holy crap I'M SUPPOSED TO START A NOVEL TODAY

given what I'm going through right now, it seems impossible to focus on something as trivial as writing a novel.

given what I'm going through right now, it becomes absolutely imperative that I manage to create SOMETHING from this body of mine. Once upon a time... I wanted to be a writer. I even got a little piece of paper to say I was one...

here goes.

Too bad I don't have the foggiest idea of what my novel is going to be about, and that I'm planning a very busy, non-writing weekend, and, oh yeah, I'm supposed to have like 20 baby scarves made by Tuesday (total completed so far: 1 very lumpy one that Kristin gently questioned the craftmanship of, until I burst into hiccupy, sobbing tears over the little strangely-shaped scrap of pink yarn, and she apologized and told me it was lovely and that she was sure no one would mind the fact that it is wedge shaped). I am over committed, over extended, over emotional, but AS GOD IS MY WITNESS I SHALL WRITE THIS NOVEL!

B is for (not a pretty picture)

2006-10-31T08:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was CD3. Yesterday I had blood drawn. Yesterday I found out that my estradiol (e2) level is 85.2 and my FSH levels are 10.3.

No. These are not good numbers. Yesterday I spend hours googling, googling, googling. Those numbers are too high. Those numbers are too damn high. Those numbers are too damn fucking high. Women with those numbers are urged to consider donor eggs because even if you do manage to ovulate the chances that your eggs are no good are so damn fucking high. Low Ovarian Reserve. There ain't enuff eggs in my baskit.

True, those numbers could be worse. The FSH could be higher. Maybe I need to hear that right now. Maybe hearing that would just make me scream. Maybe hearing that would keep my eyes from watering. Damn allergies. I don't know. Maybe I just need to lose 100 lbs and cut out all soy. Maybe I need to just chill the fuck out already.

My doctor's appointment isn't until Thursday AM. And I don't really feel like I can completely fall apart until I hear it from him. After all, couldn't Dr. Google be wrong? Maybe there's something still to try? Falling apart now seems a bit... premature? hysterical? overreactive? I'm just numb today. Just numb yesterday. I don't know what to think, I don't know what to plan. I'm just hoping that the doctor has some sort of game plan, or a different diagnosis entirely, something for me to focus on other than that old fashioned, and wickedly sharp word

BARREN.

Maybe it's not real. Maybe I'm not there yet. Maybe there's some mitigating circumstances. I don't know where my high progesterone levels of just a week ago figure... maybe I'm wrong. The doctor hasn't said it yet. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's not true. The doctor hasn't said it yet. Maybe I'm just overreacting. Maybe I'm just scaring myself. Happy Halloween. Trick or Treat.

Boo

Finally, a full-fledged member of the family

2006-10-30T11:09:00.000-07:00

I've been with Kristin going on 6 years now. We bought a house together. She comes to all the family events. Through this whole time my mother and my aunts all insisted that my grandparents (my grandfather and his second wife) couldn't be told the truth about us. I didn't really care -- I'm not that close to them, but I didn't let their presence change my behavior toward Kristin or keep me from talking about my life in front of them. So, for all these years, they considered Kristin and I to be just old maids together, probably bought a house to save on rent, and the poor girl just never seems to have any family of her own to spend Holidays with, etc... annoying, and hurtful, but whatever. Everyone seemed to agree that they just wouldn't be able to handle the truth.

But when we conceived the child that was to be Julia, I gave my mother an ultimatum: tell Grandpa that he has another great-grandchild on the way, or I would. So, she finally told him.

And they've been wonderful about it. I'm used to holding them off at arm's length, so they haven't really had much opportunity to show their acceptance, though. Still, we're all moving forward.

And then, Saturday, Kristin's birthday, a card came in the mail. A birthday card, for her. And it said "Granddaughter" on the front, and had $5 inside. Just like all the other grandkids...

Baby Eat California Roll

2006-10-27T14:18:00.000-06:00

Tomorrow is Kristin's 30th Birthday. So last night we had dinner at a local Japanese restaurant with my family. I reserved a room and we all sat on the floor around a sunken table. While we were deliberating and chatting, Julia crawled around the room and charmed everyone. Then, when the food started coming, we strapped her into her booster seat (we brought it from home specifically for those straps) and gave her food.

Our server was an older Japanese woman with a thick accent. She was completely won over by Julia.

About the middle of the meal, she brought Kristin another California roll, and she was still in the room when Kristin picked up a piece of that roll and handed it to Julia.

"Baby eat sushi?"
"She loves sushi. LOVES. IT"
"No, really? She really eats it?"
"Yeah, she really eats it. All of it."
Just then Julia picked up the roll and shoved it in her mouth.
The woman left, shaking her head. She shut the rice-paper door behind her.

"Baby eat california roll!" we heard her say to several people outside our room.

Huh. And here we've been justifying our feeding Julia sushi and sashimi by saying, "Well, what do people in Japan feed their toddlers, then, huh?" That usually shuts the wannabe-toddler-food-expert up.

But maybe they don't. Heck, for all I know, people in Japan feed their toddlers boxed macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets and yogurt like everyone in Middle America seems to do. I mean, the woman seemed a bit taken aback by the sight of a toddler shoving sushi in her mouth while going, "mmmmmmmmm".

What can we say, though? The girl loves herself some sushi. I wonder how long she'll be this adventurous in her eating habits?

What I Forgot to Mention Below

2006-10-27T08:54:00.000-06:00

Was that the whole time she was spilling her heart to me all I wanted to say was...

I MIGHT HAVE A BRAIN TUMOR!!!

Yup, this whole thing happened on the Bad Weekend. When Kristin and I were sniping at each other and I was trying to analyze every twinge in my head and pelvis for signs that explosion was immanent. And then that.

But even as I thought of screaming the sentence above, I also realized how completely selfish and over-reactive that was, and, honestly, that was kind of funny. Especially since I was likening it in my head to Turkey Vulture vomit. So, one of the scenes that kept playing in my head (I have a hard time keeping myself in the present sometimes) while she was talking was this one...

She: So. Um. So that's when I realized--
I: I MIGHT HAVE A BRAIN TUMOR!!!!
She: (startled, big-eyed, covered in reeking bile, wipes some sticky, regurgitated rotten news off her cheek, while more drips from her chin into the puddle on her lap) Um... well... uh... wow...
I: CAW! CAW! CAW! (flying away in a flash of black and white feathers and red-skinned, wrinkly, bald head)

I don't really know what kind of sound a Turkey Vulture makes. But a Caw seems possible, no?

Well, I think it's a pretty funny scenario. It got me through some of the more awkward moments of the conversation, at least.

collision, delusion, incision

2006-10-26T13:37:00.000-06:00

A few days ago a woman told me she loved me… and it wasn’t Kristin.

Let me be clear: I am not cheating on Kristin. This was… an unexpected complication in a growing friendship. This was me doing what I like to do… having deep conversations about history, literature, the state of our current social contract, the effects of childhood abuse on adult behavior… and flirting.

I only flirt when I feel safe. It’s a sure bet that if I’m flirting with you it’s because I feel confident that such flirting is not going to get me in trouble. And by “get me in trouble” I mean – put ideas in your head so that you might think that I actually walk my talk. Kristin is the one exception. And frankly, I didn’t do such a hot job of flirting with her (and still don’t). It was my geeky clumsiness that got her, my failure to flirt gracefully (because I had no experience with flirting when I actually meant it to lead to a tousled bed and a long night) rather than the teasing quick-wittedness and risqué humor I’m capable of displaying when I don’t really mean it.

I only like to play when the field is vacant of hearts. I’m a tease, but I hate to be cruel.

***

I was always the ugly one in school. I was the fat one (even when I was 5 ft 9 and 120 lbs I was called the fat one… because my breasts were larger than any other girl’s in school). I was the one that cute boys would talk to in order to get closer to my friends. Once, there was this cute guy… let’s call him Brad. I had a massive crush on Brad. He was a year older than me, but he was in a lot of my classes. One day we were all sitting in debate class and goofing off. Brad had a yo-yo that he was making do tricks in front of the girls. I asked him if he could do Walk the Dog and he grabbed my hand and pulled me across the room (And OH! I wanted to swoon when he touched my hand!) and then he said. “There, I just walked the dog.” And everyone but my friends Laurel and Amy laughed.

I was the ugly one, the fat one, but I also became the untouchable one. Sophomore year, first debate meet, my “mentor” (a senior boy) thought that being my mentor meant he could touch me. I put up with it and put up with it. And then he tried it again when I was standing at the edge of a group of people. I think he thought that my fear of attention would keep me quiet. But I lost it. I screamed at him to keep his filthy hands to himself. And everyone looked, and there he was with his hands up and “hey, it’s not my fault the girl misunderstood a friendly hug over a victory” and from that moment on the only touches I got from boys were hostile. I became the fierce one, too, even though inside I was always shaking. Sometimes I was capable of gathering my reputation around me like armor and stepping between another girl and a boy who was bothering her, and sometimes I wasn’t.

Another boy, another day: I’m sitting in the hall outside the drama room, rehearsing lines with a friend. Clark comes up behind me, sits on my shoulders (he was a slight guy) and begins scratching my head. My heart began beating; get out get out get out. My friend asked him what he was doing. “I’m scratching my balls. Isn’t that right, ball-breaker?” My paralysis cracked and I flung him off my shoulders. He skipped off, laughing.

While other teens were learning how to flirt, how to date, how to kiss, I was learning how to defend, how to fight off, how to hide, how to cry and hide it. And the sad thing is I’m betting most of you were learning how to do those things, too.

***
I’ve said many a time here that my only motivation in writing this blog is to get as many people to fall in love with me and offer to have my love children as possible. But really? If any of you (or anyone, really) were to come up to me and say with great sincerity, “Trista, I think you’re beautiful, inside and out. You get me in a way that no one has ever gotten me before. I’m falling in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.” I think I would probably vomit on your shoes. Not in a “I am so disgusted by what you just said that the only appropriate response is to vomit on you immediately” kind of way, but in a Turkey Vulture kind of way. Still, when you're the one with vomit squelching between your toes, does it really matter why it's there? You've still been barfed on.

But I like her. I want her for a friend. And I never intended this. So I listened to her. And I offered sympathy. And though I don’t think she’d be flattered by the comparison, sometimes I felt like I was talking to my teenaged self. And that really sucks. Because if I’m going to be talking to my teenaged self, I don’t want to have to say, “I’m sorry, I don’t love you.”

I hurt her. I didn’t mean to, but I did. And the only honorable way out was to choose the lesser of a thousand hurts and do it quickly. At least I said it kindly. And at least I didn’t vomit and run away.

There’s something to be said for that.

I guess.

Advice and/or soothings required

2006-10-25T14:22:00.000-06:00

ok, my fine friends...

If you look at the pictures of Julia below, and on flickr, you can see that even though it's been over 2 weeks, that damn black eye is STILL visible. And there seems to be a little dent in her cheek from it.

Is this normal? Will it eventually go away? Or is she scarred for life?

I'm a little worried because when I fell on my ass a year ago, after the bruise faded (about a month, but it was a BAD bruise, the size of a platter and hard for weeks) there was a permanent crease in my buttock. It's still there. I just figured that the fat cells there were killed or parted (like the red sea only less helpful). But there's a lot more fat on my ass to be parted than on Julia's cheek.

Any of you know how long it takes for a black eye to completely go away?

Pigtails!

2006-10-25T08:24:00.000-06:00

Happy Girl
Originally uploaded by Temmerling.

I promised pictures of my pigtailed girl, and here they are. In this one she's wearing her chicken costume, but the head's off. She did not like the chicken head on.

In fact, this is the expression on her face when we make her wear the chicken head:

or, sometimes, this one:

And then, after we make her make that face for long enough, when we get home she gets us back by doing things like:

getting a bra out of the cupboard and running around the house in it (she has yet to do this when there's company, but I'm not putting it past her)
or

dumping an entire roll of toilet paper into the toilet. And then flushing.

Anyway, back to the ponytails. It was really hard to get her to hold still for them, and we got these elastics that are made out of silicone and are tangle-free, so with determination she can just pull them right on out. AND I don't know how to make a straight part to save my life, AND symmetry and evenness are overrated (or so I'm declaring), but I think they look pretty cute! And it's not so bad when she pulls the elastics out, because her hair just stays in the little bobbin shapes even without the elastics once her hair has dried in them (I put them in when her hair was wet -- easier to manage that way) so no can really tell that she's rid herself of the tyrranny of elasticy bands.

One last picture and then I'm done:

What the nose knows

2006-10-24T09:14:00.000-06:00

How important is your sense of smell to you? And I'm not just talking about the way scent can bring the past full-bodied into the present, though that's something important too. What I mean is how much are you conscious of the way scent influences your relationships?

When you smell someone, do you feel like you’re bringing them inside you? Because you are. Tiny particles of them entering your body, nestling into you, flowing along your nervous system. Residing in you. Your nose is an organ, and scent strokes it.

Can you tell what kind of a day a person's had just by the way they smell? Can you smell the traces of fear, stress, excitement, happiness in the pieces of them that you're taking in?

For me, all the above applies. My sense of smell is very sensitive. When I get someone in my nose I am flooded with more information that I can process. It feels animalian. And sometimes it makes associating with people difficult. I get offended when people smell strong enough (of whatever scent – perfume, cologne, b.o.) that I can smell them from feet away. It’s like they’re walking around with their genitals exposed. I hold my breath when people walk by quickly enough to create a breeze – I just don’t want any information from them. It's just TMI and nothing to do about it.

But when I love someone, I need to smell them. I need to breathe them in. It’s like talking. I get so much information. No, talking isn’t the right metaphor. It’s like looking into your beloved’s eyes – vital for connection. I can smell Kristin’s day on her. I can smell when she’s sick even before she has symptoms. I swear, I can smell her emotions. I know this sounds crazy, but it’s true. And I'm learning Julia's smells, too. I'm getting to where I can smell if Julia is getting sick, too, and if that sickness is viral or bacterial. I can smell the difference between a cold and a sinus infection.

And scent is one of the primary ways that my libido gets torched. I think it's interesting that before I met Kristin I dated only smokers. It's true, I just thought back, and everyone I dated was a smoker but for one. And I rarely got the hots for any of them. And the girl who wasn't a smoker, I was hung up on for years.

Here's something I did before I was conscious of how scent affects me: I was spending the weekend at her place. She lived 4 hours away and I would visit once a month or so. It was winter and she had an old heater that was on most of the time. I took the perfume oil I used to wear and I smeared it on the heater vents in her bedroom, in her living room. I wanted her to catch whiffs of me when I was gone and think about how I was missing from her home. A month later, she asked me to move in. And a week after that we were finished. But that's another story.

With a smoker, none of that extra information is present. It's all masked. It’s like looking in your lover’s eyes and finding them clouded with cataracts. And, having sex with someone who smokes is like having sex with someone who never takes off their dark sunglasses. At one point, this was what I wanted -- sex without intimacy, sex without really taking someone in. Sex without knowing. But now, for me, this is a radical disconnect that I can’t get over.

Not that the sexual part of this discussion is anything more than hypothetical at this moment in time. Kristin doesn't smoke. But I've got a friend who smokes, and I can only go so far in a friendship with her and no farther. She can't be one of my more intimate friends; she's not one I'll tell all my secrets and hopes and fears to, at least not in person. Because though I can smell her, I can't smell her. And there's that disconnect -- as if I've caught her in a lie of omission. And I want to tell her that my reticence does have to do with her smoking, but not from judgement on the habit, but from something more elemental, simple, primal, and inescapable as scent.

I was talking about this with another friend, a former smoker, who told me about how she was dumped by someone because she smoked. And that she felt that she was more than just a bad habit, and shouldn't be judged by it. And, while I agree with her that she (and every smoker) is more than just that one habit, I can't agree that the habit doesn't have severe consequences and effects on some people. I can't be intimate in a personal, physical (as in physically-present, not necessarily sexual) way with a smoker. And there's nothing I can do about it. It's like trying to be close to an invisible person. You never really know where they are.

So, what about you? What's your relationship to scent?

Fucking shitty fucking weekend

2006-10-23T10:20:00.000-06:00

Yeah, it wasn't a good one. I've had better. The confluence of too many BAD situations and stresses into one gigantic suck-fest of a weekend. Yay me. Yay us. Yay life.

I ran into the most condescending phlebotomist on the planet Friday night. First, she dug. Enough said, right? Second, while I'm sitting there, trying to keep from retching from the effects of the digging and such (blood draws hit me hard even when they go well) I'm trying to tell her that I want to be able to call in and get the results.

She tells me no.

That's right. She said that it wasn't a yes or no test, and the number wouldn't mean anything to me, so why bother knowing it? All it would do was make me worry. And then she patted me on the head, offered me a cookie, and showed me the door. I was really discombobulated and woozie, or I would have put up more of a fight.

As it was, I worried all fucking weekend. I kept wanting to go up to people and say "I'M BARREN AND I MIGHT HAVE A BRAIN TUMOR!!" So, no, it wasn't a good weekend. I'm a brooder. I brood.

The fact is, if she had let me get my results, I might have felt better. Because this morning I felt stronger and a different woman was nicer, and I got Friday's results AND this morning's results.

Friday's progesterone results: 18.30
Today's progesterone results: 22.30

Those numbers seem good, right? Today is CD20, Friday was CD17, and the numbers are going up. They're higher than the reference range for a woman's luteal phase, but right on track for Midcycle. On clomid, in the middle of my cycle, the levels were 4. So, weird, but the high progesterone would seem to imply that I have ovulated this month (DAMN! I missed it!) unmedicated. Or maybe it means something else. But I feel a bit better from knowing the numbers.

Plus, according to Dr. Google, my prolactin levels (32.0) are too low to indicate a prolactinoma. So, that's good, too.

In more positive news, I managed to put Julia's hair into lots of tiny little pigtails and she looked way too cute. I'll try to post pictures later.

If any of you have any insight about the prolactin level or the progesterone levels, please feel free to speak up.

Hopefully I'll have something more chipper for you tomorrow.

Let's play Stump The Doctor, shall we?

2006-10-20T14:41:00.000-06:00

First off, I just want to point out one of the reasons I love Kristin so much:

Driving to the appointment, I was just getting going through a light when I heard a horn honking -- I looked and behind me (going in the opposite direction) a car had abruptly slammed on its brakes, nearly causing a collision and getting honked at in the process. I couldn't see what had caused the car to stop so suddenly.

Kristin was late to the appointment. It wasn't a problem, because they were running late. But she came in a bit flustered with her lateness. Turns out she had been driving up the same street that I had, and had seen 2 puppies playing in the traffic (obviously they're what caused the little scene I had witnessed, though I hadn't seen the puppies) so she pulled over, coaxed the puppies to her, and went looking for the house they must have come from. One house had a doggie door and the puppies seemed most excited at that house, so Kristin rang the doorbell. No answer. Still, she had to get to the appointment, so she locked the dogs securely behind the gate. I love that she took the time to gather the puppies up and make sure they were safe before continuing on. We've rescued our fair share of dogs, but she was running late to an appointment that was important to both of us, and still she helped them. I love her.

Anyway, after waiting and waiting, the nerdliest doctor came in. Turns out all the blind cootchie snortcher grooming was for naught. I never had to bare my beaver. I guess that gives all the bald patches time to grow back in.

After going over my medical history, dates and times and amounts, feelings and pee sticks and mucus, we talked briefly about our donor. No judgment there (thank goodness!) he just wanted to make sure that we had a contract and were protecting ourselves. And then he started deliberating. Brought up PCOS and then dismissed it -- not only do I not have the major symptoms, but clomid did nothing to help me. I'm really glad that I had that ultrasound now, because I was able to tell him what my ovaries were doing (um, nothing -- not dead, but not far from it) on the large dose of Clomid. Then we talked about too much estrogen, not enough progesterone. Could be a luteal phase defect. But that would imply that I was ovulating at least. Then he said the dreaded words. The words I've heard whispering in my little doomsday brain: Premature Ovarian Failure.

Seems that one of the most puzzling things about my cycles is the fact that they are rhythmic. I expect a period every month -- just they're always really, really close together. He said that a woman's cycles will sometimes do that as the ovaries begin failing. So, though he told me that he doesn't expect POF to be the case, he's testing for it first, just to get it out of the way.

I, of course, stopped really listening to him for a while after he said POF. All I heard was "you, my dear, are dysfunctional. All out of eggs. Too bad for you, you'll never get pregnant. YOU'LL NEVER GET PREGNANT. YOU'LL NEVER GET PREGNANT. YOU'LL NEVER GET PREGNANT YOU DYSFUNCTIONAL HALF-WOMAN YOU!!!!!"

Yeah, ahem, then I had to snap myself out of it and try to pay attention to what he was saying. Kristin would probably like me to point out that she heard the doctor say that he didn't really think POF was a real possibility, and that indeed it was a long shot. So, maybe you should take my reaction with an ocean of salt. AN OCEAN OF SALT CREATED BY MY TEARS.

He's also going to check me for elevated levels of prolactin. This is Kristin's favorite theory. Because, though I never lactated, my breasts did get tender and swollen after Julia was born, and I do periodically (though not necessarily with my period) get sore breasts. Of course, my question is: don't women with high levels of prolactin cease menstruating? All my conversations with Doctor Google this afternoon have born this assumption up -- most women with elevated levels of prolactin have fewer periods, not greater. Still, it seems the easier problem to fix UNLESS IT HAPPENS TO BE CAUSED BY A BRAIN TUMOR, that is.

This is a quote from Dr. Nerdly:

We see a lot of dysfunctional cycles around here, but yours is atypical even of the range of dysfunction that we normally encounter at this clinic.

My cycles are atypical even for an infertility clinic. No diagnosis springs to mind: super short cycles, minimal response to clomid. So. I'm having blood drawn tonight. Blood drawn early Monday morning, and blood drawn on CD3 whenever that is. I have another appointment on November 4th to discuss the results of the batteries of blood tests.

The good news is that when I told him how crazy I was on the clomid, he told me that I would never have to take it again. THANK THE GOOD LORD ABOVE. Although I would. I would take it if that's what it takes.

I like this guy. Even though my symptoms are atypical, I never got the feeling that he was considering that maybe I was mistaken or lying. I never got strangeness about our being lesbians. I never got judgment about our using a known donor -- doing fresh at home. I felt listened to, I felt consulted, I never felt condescended to or patronized. I feel like he feels that I have brains enough to participate in my diagnosis. This makes me happy. This makes me very happy.

Now if only he can figure out what's wrong. And if only what's wrong turns out to be fixable.

Hey, put this in your purse

2006-10-20T08:13:00.000-06:00

My parents have this strange little quirk. Well, ok, they have a lot of strange little quirks. But only this one is relevant right now.

We'll be somewhere public. Or they'll be somewhere public without us kids -- yes, I have it on good authority that they do this even without us kids present to embarrass. They do this just because they, personally, think it's funny. So, we'll be somewhere public. Someplace fancy, someplace watched. You know, by security. Or by prissy servers or management. I don't think they've ever actually done this in a store. Always in the unexpected place: a church, a place of business, a tourist attraction, a restaurant, someone's house, a museum, a school, etc. My dad will pick something up, sidle over to my mother, and in a very loud stage whisper (for "very loud" read: practically hollering) tell my mother, "Hey. Put this in your purse." Then my mother, in the same kind of whisper, will start getting flustered and start telling him about how she's so tired of him always making her steal stuff for him and that if he wanted it that bad he could steal it himself. This exchange invariably draws suspicious looks and glares and increased scrutiny.

What makes this funny are the kinds of things my dad will suggest that my mother steal for him: things that are too big, or too bulky, or too messy to fit in a purse. Or things that are permanently attached to a building (he'll start pretending to yank on it in order to get it off). Or things that are just strange: a piece of trash, a small animal. My parents think this is hilarious. They've been married for 33 years this May, and they've been doing this the entire time. It never seems to get old.

As a child, I went through several stages of acceptance of this behavior. When I was younger, I thought it funny, too. When I was a little older, I was worried every time they did it that they were going to get thrown in jail. Older still and I was mortified and would try to distance myself as much as possible. Once I hit adulthood, I thought it was funny again.

Then I met Kristin. And it was so amusing to watch her deal with this bizarre compulsion exhibited by my parents. And then, one day, I did it myself. I made a very loud suggestion, in company, that we just steal something I was admiring.

I have become my father. Though my area of threatened theft happens to be landscaping materials. I'll start arguments with Kristin about how we should just come back and dig up a person's beautifully flowering Russian Sage. They would never miss just one! Or how I could obtain beautiful river rocks for our yard if we would each just put one in our purses when on a walk through the neighborhood and past a certain house. I figure it would only take a couple months to spruce up our rock garden, and they would never miss them. I call it "redistribution of landscaping goods." A certain house has a beguiling statue in their yard: we'll drive by with friends and I'll tell Kristin that tonight's the night we're going to come back and get that.

I find this behavior endlessly amusing, Kristin not so much. I think she worries that one of these days I'll really do it.

My thievery begins and ends at some grapes from the store when I was a kid, and the occasional taste-testing of something from the bulk bins -- stuffed into my mouth hastily and with much trepidation when no one is looking and a great deal of guilty behavior afterward. I just don't have it in me to steal. Neither do my parents. They're probably some of the most honest people around. Which is what makes it so funny.

But, if I really were going to steal something large, inappropriate, and strange, I have found the perfect thing.

My office building is attached to a mall. The mall is dead. They're going to tear it down and do a major remodel. So, for the past year, the stores have been closing. The last 2 months have been creepy. When you walk through the mall to get from the parking structure to our office building, the halls are echoey and strange with the deserted storefronts. It's a ghost mall. It's a ghost mall filled with beautiful...

benches. Yes. I lust after the mall's benches. They're hard wood, beautifully lacquered, elegantly styled. I. WANT. ONE. In fact, I'd love three -- two of the ones with backs for sitting, one of the backless ones to serve as a table. I think they'd look so good in our yard, or in our sunroom.

I've been wondering what they're going to do with them once the remodel gets started. I've been wondering if they're going to store them, or sell them. I wonder how much they're going to sell them for. I doubt I will be able to afford them.

But. Why buy one when I can just steal it? I only see these benches when I drive to work and have to walk through the mall. And I now have an (tiny, third-hand, TRULY necessary) SUV. Every time I walk by a bench I think to myself -- no one's here, I wonder if I could get this bench down the hall, out to the parking structure, and in the back seat of my Kia, without anyone noticing... And each time I think that, I wish Kristin were there so I could turn to her and say: "Hey. Put this in your purse." She might even think it was funny.

All of this was a very long distraction from the fact that I have my RE appointment in less than three hours. I'm nervous. Veeerrrrrrry nervous. I've dressed in my sexy shiznit gray slacks and a floaty little silk top. Hoping to impress the doc with my casual sophistication. I groomed my cootchie snortcher this morning. Which was hard, since I'm blind as a mole without my glasses and my glasses get too steamy in the shower to wear them, so I had to do my grooming by feel. Have you ever tried to feel if you're still hairy somewhere? Yeah. I think the grooming impulse may be one that will come back to bite me this afternoon when it comes time to drop (sexy shiznit) trou. I'm worried that my blood will suck up into my body this time like it did for the serum progesterone test a couple months ago. But, most importantly, I'm worried that I'm going to find out that I can't get pregnant at all. Oh, I know that I won't find that out at this appointment. But this is the first step to what could be that ultimate discovery. And when (if?) we get to that point, if it looks like IVF would be the only way for me to get pregnant? What if we need to use Kristin's eggs? What then? We can't afford IVF. Flat out, we can't. My insurance will pay for all this diagnostic work, all the drugs to get me to ovulate. All that stuff is covered (or so they tell me, I guess we'll see). IVF is not. Not at all. Kristin's insurance doesn't cover it either.

I need to stop leaping ahead of myself. Today, today is just a consultation. Today is just a step. Today is nothing heavy. I actually feel good about today when I'm not stealing stress from tomorrow. This kind of stealing isn't funny. Sometimes you need to let go of old patterns in order to be happy. Sometimes you shouldn't borrow trouble, even in a hypothetical way.**

** ok, that was REALLY pushing it as an ending to tie the previous story together with the musings on my doctor's appointment. I'm sorry. That was less than graceful. Forgive me? I'll steal you some flowers and send them to you...

Corporate Drag

2006-10-19T08:25:00.000-06:00

I'm in corporate drag today. Full ensemble: hose, heels, long skirt, blazer, shell, tasteful and minimal earrings. The Boss is coming today. The Head Honcho. The Big Cheese. On a tour of the district offices. To shake people's hands. What this means is that --

Oh. My. Lord. I just saw one of my office mates coming up the elevator in black leather chaps! Maybe she didn't get the memo. Maybe there's a suit stuffed into her backpack. Wait, someone's teasing her about the chaps. She's patting the bag. Maybe? But, oh lord, it would be funny to see our local boss' face when he sees her in chaps. He just came up the elevator himself, DAMN! he just missed her!

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the Numero Uno. What this means is that I was told to clean my desk and the lobby I sit in. Now my desk is cleaner than it has been since my first week on the job. I had no idea that I had so many post-it pads in my drawers. Oh, yeah, and I get free lunch. So there's that.

I still don't know whether or not I'll be sitting at this very clean desk two weeks from yesterday. My contract expires on the 31st and though I've been told they want to keep me on, I've yet to see a formal offer. Um. Yeah. I've been looking for jobs, but work is hard to find. They keep assuring me that they want to keep me, but they said that to the other contract worker and then three days before HIS contract expired they gave him the bad news that they weren't going to keep him on. Bad luck, that. The thing I've got going for me is that no one else wants to sit at my desk and answer phones and buzz the door open. Fun for me, don't you know?

Crap. One is not supposed to blog about one's job. Still. I don't think I've said anything untoward, have I?

If you're wondering what the real point of this post is... I'll tell you. I'm getting you used to boringness from me, so you won't be so surprised come November when all my brains are grated and squeezed and the juices used to annoint my keyboard in a blessing on my manuscript. Or something.

PS -- RE consultation appointment tomorrow!

Now I'm Eating Amber

2006-10-18T10:05:00.000-06:00

Have we ever changed these sheets?
They are smudgy and soft.
They are layered burnt sap
rubbing on and off your skin.

I try to clean you
but when I lick your hair
my mouth bleeds.

My tongue snags your stockings,
catches on your ring
and with it your finger and arm and thigh.
You (knotted up with my grosgrain tongue)
are hard to swallow.

I'm used to eating secreta.
This time it's translucent and tastes
of trees, water, salt, smoke.

There are times

2006-10-16T12:40:00.000-06:00

When you have nothing to say. When you have nothing to say, and yet you want everyone's attention. You want everyone to stop what they're doing and say, "hey, chica, hi. I like you. I think you're really smart and funny. Keep on keepin' on." Even though you're standing there, bedraggled really, but other than the bedragglement, just sort of unremarkable. Nothing noteworthy. Nothing to inspire intense devotion. Just... there. With nothing to say.

Photo Friday: To Dreeeeeeeeeam the impoooossible dreeeeeeeeeam...

2006-10-13T09:24:00.000-06:00

Peace. Love, and Harmony
Originally uploaded by Temmerling.

Wow. When Cali decides to challenge us, she REALLY challenges us. How do you take a picture of a dream? Especially when one has just been whining that the dream is so, so, very far from manifesting?

Wait. That's just my negative side coming out. My dream isn't so far from being made manifest. I'm just beginning to realize that I may not recognize it when it comes around.

So. Peace, Love & Harmony. That's my dream. I took this picture while Kristin and I were at the hot springs last weekend, and while we were there we made some concrete plans for the creation of our mutual dream for our future -- our commune.

Ok. Co-housing. I know. Commune sounds so... alternatively hippie and violent. Images of flowerchildren and vats of cool-aid. Too many women and too few men -- and not in a lesbian mecca kind of way. But still, co-housing feels awkward on our tongues.

Here is my (our) dream:
acreage in some semi-rural area that is still within easy driving distance of a cool city. Like somewhere in Oregon or N. California or New Mexico. A community of houses full of our friends. A fish/duck pond. Chickens. Gardens -- vegetable and herb and flower. The individual houses arranged around a central courtyard with a big play area for the kids. A common house with a big kitchen, dining/great room, a play room for the kids during inclement weather, guest quarters, AV equipment, maybe a gym. I'd like there to be a simple outdoor stage for house concerts by local and wandering musicians and maybe plays the kids (and/or adults) would like to put on (as kids my brothers and I were always putting on magic/talent shows and plays for the other neighborhood kids). A generator for the common house just in case of the complete collapse of society as we know it (why yes, I AM obsessed with Jericho and Battlestar and other dystopic visions of the future, how can you tell?)

I see Kristin and me and the kids living in a house built as greenly as possible, warm and inviting, surrounded by this community of people we love. I see friends dropping by unexpectedly -- knowing that our door is always open. I see myself with a job that doesn't take up all my time, one that gives me adequate time for writing. I see my children in a community schooling co-op -- like homeschooling, but in a group with other parents taking responsiblity for teaching different subjects. I see us, as a family, travelling a lot, taking the kids to foreign countries, coming back to the arms of our community.

I see myself as a writer, taking the visions in my head and sharing them with others. I see myself engaging in dialogue and friendship with other writers -- inviting them to come stay in our community for a while, maybe running an artist's retreat or a writing workshop. I see myself in my dreams as confident, self-possessed, gracious, generous, warm and welcoming. I see Kristin doing a job that she loves, that she feels fulfilled at. I see our children flowering into the best that they can be -- following their own dreams.

Peace. Love. Harmony.

Sometimes I think this vision is impossible, that it is so wavery and watery that it will never come to be, that the best I can hope for is some rough semblance. And in those cases I just hope that the semblance is enough. But other times I think we might just get closer than that. Already our house is warm and welcoming, our doors are open to visitors and guests, we're working to create community. And after taking a good look at our finances, Kristin and I think we may be in a position to buy land in a year or two, in fact, we're going to start looking around. We figure we'll buy the land now, and then when we're ready to start really planning the co-housing, if the land isn't where everyone wants to be, we'll sell it and hopefully make a profit to buy land elsewhere. It may yet come to pass.

And I'm going to write a novel. I'm going to do it. And I'm sending my completed poetry manuscript to some contests and presses and such. And I'm going to start looking around for some freelance work. Baby steps, baby steps, baby steps.

In Honor of National Coming Out Day

2006-10-12T08:57:00.000-06:00

Which was yesterday (cough, cough). So, I guess it's fitting that I offer you a rerun from last January.

People, I present to you...

My coming out story.

Enjoy.

Ok. I'm doing it.

2006-10-11T16:35:00.000-06:00

I'm going to do NaNoWriMo this year. I really, really am. Kristin and I have been talking for a good long time that I need to write a bestseller to finance our wild dreams. But that's all I do. Talk. This will get me to WRITE something. Hopefully. Hopefully.

If any of the rest of you are going to do it, let's be buddies! My name is Temmerling, and you can see my profile by clicking on that lovely little writer/runner dude in my sidebar there...

Now, I just have to figure out what the hell I'm going to write about!

Bad Dreams

2006-10-11T08:34:00.000-06:00

I had a dream last night. Weird, since two of my favorite bloggers just blogged about dreams. Last night I went to bed upset, every neuron bathed in an intoxicating mix of stong emotions, like strong spirits, like a big nasty mix of tequila and rum and Pabst Blue Ribbon, and I dreamed.

I dreamed that I was pregnant. Wait. I dreamed that I was pregnant and happy and then... I started cramping. And bleeding. And I went to the hospital and I was miscarrying. I was laboring to clear my body of my dead baby and I was all alone. Crises were occurring all around me in the hospital -- everyone had other people in more immediate mortal danger to attend to, and all I could catch were flashes of people's clothing as they hurried past my doorway -- mine was a relatively tiny little problem. And in my dream I kept telling myself the stories of the women I've read on-line, come to care about, who have had their own tragedies. And I kept telling myself that they lived through this, that they've had worse than this, that I need to just buck up and get through, but everything was covered in so much blood, and everything hurt so much, and I was so alone.

So now I have an emotional hang-over. I am headachy and nauseated and there are little sparkles of fear running through my brain. Some of my dreams have been spectacularly prophetic while others are just piercingly symbolic of some deeper truth I'm not acknowledging. And then, of course, there are the dreams that are nothing but neurons pickling in a bath of emotion. The problem is figuring out which category a dream (this dream) belongs in...

Two Snippets of conversation in Butt-fuck Nowhere Utah

2006-10-10T10:08:00.001-06:00

Snippet #1 You People All Look Alike To Me
Setting: Wal-m*rt where we were forced to go for swim-diapers. It was the only store open on a Sunday. Because, you know, if you're not in church, then you should be, and so only soulless corporations like Wal-m*rt will take your dirty money.
Players: One Overly Talkative Checker, Two Mothers Embarrassed To Be Seen In Such A Store, and The Cutest Baby in Utah^TM.

OTC: Oh, wow, you're the one with the baby in the picture!
METBSISAS#1: Excuse me?
OTC: Your baby is the baby in the picture?
METBSISAS#1: What picture?
OTC: The picture at the front of the store!
METBSISAS#1: There's a picture of my baby at the front of the store?
OTC: Right there by the photo studio, there's a couple picture of your baby.
Mother Embarrassed To Be Seen In Such A Store #1 looks where the Overly Talkative Checker is pointing. There is, indeed, several pictures of babies. Two of those babies happen to be black. Neither of those babies are The Cutest Baby in Utah^TM (of course they aren't, like we would let Wal-m*rt take pictures of our baby).
METBSISAS#1: Those aren't pictures of my baby. Those are two other, different, babies.
OTC: Are you sure?

Snippet #2: Bathroom Humor
Setting: JB's Restaurant around 10:30 AM
Players: Hard-bitten Waitress (I would use a more PC term, but this woman has definitely been a diner waitress since the invention of the term back in 207 A.D.), Older woman looking for some breakfast, One horrified traveller who really, really needs to use the bathroom before hitting the road.

Woman: (coming out of the bathroom) Phew!
Waitress: I know, it's bad in there. Didn't you just about die in there?
Woman: Oh, man, yeah. I didn't think I was going to make it out.
Waitress: I know, I was in there not too long ago and I nearly passed out.
Woman: Well, I'm glad I don't have to go back in there again.
Waitress: Do you know what you want for breakfast, hon?
Woman: I just need a minute to recover. That bathroom was a little hard to bear.
Waitress: That's it. I don't care if the manager is cold. That bathroom is just too hot. We're going to have customers dropping like flies if he doesn't let me turn the heat down...

Photo Friday -- revisited

2006-10-10T10:01:00.000-06:00

Water? I'll see your water, and I'll raise you an entire weekend submerged.

Have I mentioned that our last name is Balboa?

2006-10-10T09:29:00.000-06:00

Our little bruiser
Originally uploaded by Temmerling.

Yup, your eyes are not decieving you. That is a shiner on my baby's perfect little face.

I'm not going to tell you how she got it... but you should have seen the other guy!

Head on over to The Speckled Frog to see more funny pics of Julia from our weekend.

No Photo Friday -- And Boy am I Uncomfortable About It.

2006-10-06T08:43:00.000-06:00

Y'all know I still don't have my broken camera back, right? That it's been gone for 12 WEEKS NOW! And that when it comes back it will still be broken, right? Yeah.

And Kristin's got a fancy dancy Nikon digital SLR that has more buttons and bling that I can handle. And I've got a BAD reputation with cameras... so I only touch her camera when I'm desperate for a shot. And NEVER when I'm in a rush. So, though I have the perfect picture in mind for uncomfortable, I was in a rush this morning and didn't take it. So, how about some uncomfortable stories instead?

Uncomfortable Story #1

Julia goes to a very small in-home daycare. It is run by A*. A needs to leave to take school-kids to school by 7:45 ON THE DOT. And I was running late this morning. So I knew that I was pushing it. Cutting it close. She might even have left already. And if I didn't catch her that meant either waiting the 45 minutes until she returned. Or driving to the first school she drops of at and getting snarled in school-traffic (the WORST!). So sped down the alley to her parking lot, bouncing over the pot holes and through the puddles, Julia squealing in the background at the rough ride and pulled in right behind her (as she was starting to pull out) so she couldn't go anywhere. Then I remembered that I hadn't written a note for her to be able to give Julia her cough syrup, so I hurriedly grabbed an empty envelope and a pen and started scrawling on it as I pulled Julia out of her car seat and walked to where A was standing, tapping her toe, at the open door of the van. "You've just made all these kids late for school." She said, and I finished putting the flourish on the signature of the illegible note. I looked up at 4 sets of accusing child-eyes, and looked down, as I handed A the cough syrup, the note, and the baby. "I'msorryIwon'tdoitagain" I muttered as I slunk back to my car. But... I probably will.

*Daycare provider may not be as annoyed as portrayed. It could all be my own issues and projections...

Uncomfortable Story #2

Tuesday I came home from work. Kristin and Julia were playing in the library. I walked into the bathroom to, uh, go to the bathroom. And I looked into my (normally sparkling, so clean you could eat off it -- snort! no, never mind, I can't go through with the lie, it's never that clean) toilet only to see... greenish brown clumps in the midst of yellow-cloudy water. It looked like diarhhea, AND IT HADN'T BEEN FLUSHED AWAY! OH MY GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M BEING FORCED TO LOOK AT THE PRODUCT OF KRISTIN'S (obviously diseased) BOWELS! HOW INCONSIDERATE OF HER NOT TO FLUSH HER DISEASE AWAY! "Gaaaaahhhh!!!!!" I exclaim, in a tone of pure horror, and I look over at Kristin accusingly, my face pale and tight with disbelief and disgust. Kristin sighs, rolls her eyes, and says:

"Julia threw dog food in the toilet."

"Oh. Ok. Nevermind." And I flushed the toilet and went about my business.

And here you thought I was going to talk about my fissures. Now THAT would have been uncomfortable...

Sick Again, Sick Again, to the Doctor We Go

2006-10-05T09:11:00.000-06:00

Yup. Julia's sick again. I'm blaming school kids everywhere. Damn school kids with their damn germs.

Julia is an extraordinarily cheerful child. What temper she has is more and more often expressed in sassiness and back talk. Of course, we're the only ones who can understand when she's telling us to fuck off. Everyone else thinks she's talking about ducks. According to authorities, Julia is talking on a nearly 2 year old level, but is hindered by her 13 month old physiology. She isn't physically capable of pronouncing all of the words she knows, but that doesn't stop her from trying. And she's turned into a little parrot -- everything that comes out of our mouths is repeated (sometimes garbleishly, but still recognizably, at least to us) by her immediately. "Oh SHIT!" I say as I drop the carafe of espresso. "Oh shit" pipes a little voice from near the dog bowls. "God, I'm a dork" I say as I have to slam on my breaks because I nearly missed the turn into the doctor's office. "Dor!" comes from the carseat behind me. Yes, dear, your mama's a dork. And well you know it.

But the problem with having an extraordinarily cheerful child, and one who can't help but babble constantly, is that no one believes you when you tell them that she's ornerier than hell and is clearly not herself and this is NOT NORMAL and something is wrong with her. They just look at what appears (to them) to be an ordinarily cheerful child, who is extremely interactive and lively. Yes. Yes, you agree, but normally she's 100 times more active and talkative and happier than this! And then they look at you like you're lying. Because that seems impossible. Until you have lived it. She runs us ragged. She never sits still. She never stops talking. We wouldn't have her any other way.

If you don't believe me, ask Sacha and M of Babycakes. They met her in Oregon last May. We kept apologizing for her crankiness, even though we couldn't figure out why she was so cranky. It turned out she was cutting 4 teeth at once. Anyway, ask them. I'm pretty sure they'll tell you that she was just charming. Even as she was being (compared to her normal self) a complete monster.

Yeah, we have it tough, I know.

But it does suck when you know she's not feeling well, she's not acting normally, but you take her in and the doctor (well, yesterday's doctor, because our regular doctor is out of the office this week, our regular doctor knows Julia quite well and believes us now when we say she's not feeling well) tells you that she can't possibly be as sick as you say she is, because if she were she wouldn't be this happy and talkative. I say, "do you talk to people talking to you when you're sick? Because Julia is verbal like an adult is verbal, just without the vocabulary and pronunciation skills. I have to be on Death's door before I stop responding to people verbally, and Julia is like that, too. She's not like other babies who look but don't speak to strangers. Julia will talk to everyone." Anyhow, the doctor ordered a blood test to look at Julia's white blood cell count to determine if she is fighting a virus or the tail end of a sinus infection.

So I take Julia down the hall to the lab. And the two lab techs ooh and aah over her, and say they feel bad because in a minute she'll be crying and hate them. They have me hold her elbow so her arm is still, and then they prick her thumb and start squeezing the blood out. And Julia didn't cry. She flinched when her thumb was pricked, so I know she felt it. But she just watched, fascinated, as the tech collected the blood. The lab techs were floored. I was stunned. I couldn't even watch it, I felt sick. But there Julia was, not screaming, not upset, not struggling. Weird. She got a sucker and a sticker, but she was more interested in chewing the band-aid off her thumb.

The blood test showed that she is fighting a virus. Ok. For now she's fighting a virus. Hopefully that's all it ends up being. Hopefully she doesn't develop an ear or sinus infection on top of that.

So there you have it.

This is not what I'm supposed to be writing.

2006-10-04T09:06:00.000-06:00

There's this really funny story that starts out: two women and a baby are getting ready for a fancy schmancy wedding and realize that it's been so long since they went anywhere fancy schmancy (since the party where they announced the pregnancy of the one at 9 days past ovulation, in fact (they hadn't planned a party for that particular, they just happened to be going to that party when they found out)) that all their fancy schmancy clothes (not many, to be sure) are all just a smidge too tight...

Kristin gave me permission to tell this story. She gave permission as we were driving home, laughing so hard it hurt. And she told me last night that every day she has pulled up my blog expecting to see the story and every day she's disappointed.

But, see, I'm not sure I can tell it right. I'm not sure it's not one of those stories that you had to be there for. Like this one:

Once upon a time some friends and I were driving to the Oregon coast. And we were wanting to catch the sunset on the ocean, and we were SO disappointed that we hadn't been able to drive fast enough. It was getting pretty dark, dark dark in fact. When suddenly the driver (me) said, "Look, look! We haven't missed it! There's the sun right there through the trees!" (we were ALMOST to the beach at that point) And I hit the gas pedal and we all started cheering that the sun hadn't set yet (even though it was really dark everywhere BUT where the sun was... can you see where this is going?) and then the sun started getting a bit bigger... and it seemed kinda low to the ground... and then we pulled into a clearing and realized... it was a streetlight. Oh how we laughed and laughed at how for those few moments we were convinced that a streetlight was the sun. And then we went to the beach and played in the water in the moonlight. The End.

See? That's not very funny, is it? Because it's a had to be there kind of thing. Now you're all looking at me like I'm not very bright. Trista, how could you possibly mistake a street light for the sun? And how could you, once you realized your mistake, laugh at what was obviously a very troubling symptom of your decreasing physical and mental acuity? I don't know. You just had to be there.

So, I worry that when I tell you that instead of throwing on comfier, but less schmancy, outfits for the wedding, Kristin and I both decided to put on girdles, you'll miss the humor in the situation. I worry that pity will be your primary response when I say that I was wearing TWO elastic things around my waist because one just didn't seem to be able to subdue a particularly stubbon roll of fat around my middle and the black shirt I was determined to wear is very sleek. I'm afraid that you won't think it's funny that Kristin had bought a girdle sized "small" because she thought that the smaller a girdle she bought the smaller it would make her.

And if I tell you that during the course of the wedding Kristin's girdle folded down from the top, creating a back roll that I was specifically supposed to warn her about, but that I was too much in pain from my own girdle riding up under my breasts, simultaneously exposing the tummy roll I'd been trying to hide AND creating deep bruises on my sensitive mammary tissue from the boning to notice, will you laugh? Even if I want you to? Don't you think it's funny? Cause it was. The crumbling of our vanity. How silly we looked. How we walked in there creaking but skinny, and walked out lumpy, limping, and laughing at how ridiculous we looked and how much pain we were in. How when I helped Kristin put on that girdle, I fastened it in the back, not thinking of how she was going to take the thing off... and so when we got in the car for the drive down the canyon, and she groaned (in between gales of laughter) and tried to take the damned thing off, she couldn't reach any of the hooks and she had to practically take all her clothes off and twist this way and that way to get it off, with me laughing at her the whole time. How the number one thing we learned that night was that it's better to be lumpy and comfortable than be skinny and in pain.

And that we need to go back to the gym.

And that the next time we get invited to something fancy schmancy, we should try on our prospective outfits a few days before the event.

And that if you're going to buy a girdle, by God, buy the right size!

Eh, I guess you had to be there.

Do you ever get the suspicion

2006-10-03T11:26:00.000-06:00

that deep down you're just meant to be a professional student?

I'm thinking about yet another change of plans. I'm thinking that maybe I'd like to be a therapist when I grow up.

Why? Well, I love talking with people, getting their stories, helping them figure things out. I act as an amateur therapist for the majority of my friends. I have a talent for drawing people out and then figuring out just where to push to get them to go further in their thinking. And I (usually) know when to back off and let them process without any more of my help. I think I'd be a good therapist and I think it would be an interesting career.

But I think the same things about becoming a librarian.

So now I don't know what to do.

My real problem is, though, that I think I'm putting too much pressure on this decision. Like deep down I think that if I could only find the right degree to get then my life would work out golden and I'd suddenly be happy and motivated and fulfilled. And school delays real life. Not only would my student loans be deferred, but any major decisions, as well.

And I think... I think... I think I should put at least as much effort into pimping my writing as I am pondering future careers.

I am familiar with the sensation of being lost and confused and disillusioned and wandering through academia. I am not as familiar with the sensation (and process) of marketing myself, of putting myself out there, of creating something from nothing and working without a teacher/instructor/professor giving me timelines, deadlines, exam questions, books that contain the answers, and a set goal. The thought of looking at the path my feet are already on and working to walk that path, make it successful is not one that I'm comfortable with. It seems at times that I'd much rather look into the sky and dream and be lost -- and then be bitter when I realize that all I have to show for my wanderings are shreds of mist.

OK. I'm going to make submitting to the Tupelo Press' current contest as much of a priority as applying to schools. OK. I'm going to send out one packet for submission each month.

That begins my attempting to really walk the path I said I wanted to walk. As for concrete career plans...

How does one go about choosing what one wants to be when one grows up? Should I apply to both library schools AND therapist schools and then see which ones I get into? Should I ask the magic 8 ball? Should I put up a poll? Should I throw darts or flip coins? Should I job shadow? Can you even shadow a therapist? Is that allowed? As you can see, I'm comfortable asking question upon question until the original impulse is shrouded and I'm chasing mist again. It's deciding on a course of action that turns out to be the right one that's the problem.

Spork!

2006-10-02T10:29:00.000-06:00

Spork!
Originally uploaded by Temmerling.

When you say the title of this blog post in your mind, I want you to make the Spork sharp and crisp. Spork! Like a little Kentucky fried chicken bock. Spork Spork Spork Sp-GAWK! Yeah. Just like that.

My Spork finally came. There it is, isn't it pretty? I know some of you ordered copies, too, so I'm hoping you got yours this weekend, too.

But you know, it's funny. Funny in a sad kind of way. I wrote to Lauri not too long ago that I had this silly conviction that once this major work of mine got published. In print. In a cutting-edge journal. For all the world to see*, that my life would change. Maybe I'd feel more writerly. But I knew that people would see my opus and suddenly offers would be POURING in. People would ask me for readings. Suddenly everyone would know how brilliant I really am. I would be famous! This blog would be the site of greatness! And I would owe it all to Spork.

That's a huge burden I put on poor Spork. I'm sorry, Spork, I didn't mean to be unrealistic. I won't do it again.

The sad part is that they got rushed at the end and asked for my help formatting my stuff for publication. But I didn't know what I was doing, and it came out wrong, and I didn't know until I got my hard copy. The margins are all messed up. Whole sections are indented to the right that should be left-justified. I mean, there's no reason for those sections to be indented, but there they are. Indented. It undermines my (everywhere else) careful line-breaks and spacing. Instead of looking brilliant, I look like a young poet who doesn't understand the power of the indent. I'd like to think that it looks like a mistake and people will be able to tell that the poem isn't supposed to look like that... but mistakes like that don't get made, unless, of course, I do the final formatting.

It's just frustrating. I self-sabotage all the time, but I didn't think I was this time. I thought for once I was going to let something wonderful happen to me, and I screwed it up again. I was going to send copies of this book to important people in the valley in order to start making my presence in the artistic community known. But now I'm embarrassed. Especially since all the other pieces in the book are wonderful and amazing, and beautiful on the page.

If you didn't buy the book, you still can. Like I said, the other pieces included are amazing. But, if you didn't, but you'd still like to see a sample of my published piece, you can go to Spork's website and see it:

By clicking on the following link you agree that upon learning Trista's full name you will not stalk her, harass her, or otherwise impose upon her private life unless you are very, very hot, or want to give her lots of money.

I agree, I'm rich and sexy and I want to share! Let me in!

I don't agree. I am neither hot nor rich, and yet I still intend on stalking her. Let me at her!

*if, by all the world, you mean approximately 300 people many of which are past or present contributors and their family and friends, a couple-dozen people who are too cool for me even to LOOK AT, and with the rest being (probably) a bunch of creative-writer-types who like to sit around in coffeehouses and basements talking about how the world just doesn't get it, man! This stuff is so, like, real and important, and the drones just go about their tired, corporate lives, oblivious to all this beauty in the ugliness of change, man! Whoa, can you pass me the bong?

Well I'll be a Monkey's Uncle!

2006-10-02T09:42:00.000-06:00

YAY for cotton candy!
Originally uploaded by Temmerling.

It turns out Julia LOVES the circus. We were skeptical when Merr said she wanted us all to go to the circus. We thought Julia would be too young to appreciate the show. But, my god, I'm not sure if it was all the cotton candy she ate, or the snow cone, or the fact that she had unimpeded access to a bucket of popcorn, but she loved, loved, loved the circus. Loved it.

When Julia gets excited she opens and closes her hands really fast. It's like her excitement is too much for her body and she must distribute it through her hands. When the circus started she started squealing and those hands started going and her eyes were so wide!

Her favorite acts were the flying acrobats. We were in the perfect seats to see them and she loved the way they hung upside down and flew through the air and tumbled in their shiny costumes right in front of her. She didn't really care for the clowns, or the trained animals, or the strong man. But that acrobatic troupe...

I was disappointed that there were no tightrope walkers, for flying trapeze. Though they did have those people who hang from a rope from the ceiling, and I think they're beautiful.

But in the end, two hours of circus (not to mention the sugar crash) were too much for Julia. She managed to fall asleep during the final act -- 7 motorcycles in the cage of death -- and slept all through the rousing finale.

After I put her to bed, Kristin and I had pangs of Terrible Motherhood. We realized that we had fed our child cotton candy, popcorn, and snow cones for dinner and that was it. Sigh. Good thing the circus comes to town only once a year...

Holy Fucking CRAP!

2006-09-29T20:25:00.000-06:00

Do you know what just happened in my house?

Do you KNOW

what just HAPPENED

in my HOUSE???

I was getting Julia ready for bed. Fuzzy, footie pajamas. Lots and lots of kisses. No need for a bottle, she finished one on the way home from Dinner with the Dean (of Kristin's SW school). I turn the waves CD on. I pull the curtains. I turn the light off. I settle in with Julia in the rocker, thinking I'm going to be there for the usual 20 to 30 minutes, with the usual two false starts laying down in the crib.

But she's tossing. She's turning. She's grunting. She's giving me kisses and then pushing my head away. She's twisting, she's kicking. She just cannot get comfortable. I'm rocking, rocking, rocking, she's getting ornerier and ornerier.

So I get up. I put her in her crib. She sighs. I put the side of the crib up. She does not cry. She does not cry for me. She sighs again. I walk out the door. She does not cry.

Holy shit! She just went to sleep completely on her own. She didn't need me. She didn't WANT me to rock her to sleep.

You know how the other day I was wishing Kristin could be a sleepy mommie too so I didn't have to put Julia to bed with the rocking, rocking, rocking every night? I take that back.

This is a good thing, right? It'll make things so much easier, right? It's what happens when they grow up, right? It was bound to happen sooner or later, right?

So why do I feel so bereft?

Goodbye, Kwynne

2006-09-29T09:58:00.000-06:00

She's deleted her blog. In her final post before deleting she mentioned that she just doesn't have time to keep the blog up anymore.

She and I had a very memorable butting of heads a year ago, and I've approached her with some temerity since. But I always found her observations to be keen and informed -- even when they stung and made me bleed.

I wish her well.

I wish you well, Kwynne.

Women with Spiders on their eyes

2006-09-29T09:02:00.000-06:00

Today I've got a real humdinger of a question for y'all.

What's with those women who use too much mascara?

I know, I know, the question's been asked before. But still...

I mean, do they look in the mirror when applying?

How do you go past Ordinary Mascarad Lashes

to A Bit Clumpy But Still Acceptable

then through that to:

My God! How Do You Keep Your Eyes Open?
and then on to

Tarantuala Lashes of DEATH?

I mean, don't you think you would stop BEFORE your lashes were thicker than the brush you're applying the paste with? Do they actually think it looks attractive? Enhances their beauty? Do they not realize that people aren't looking deep into their eyes -- but are transfixed by horror at the sight of what appears to be spiders sucking on the eyeball juices of their host?

Or could it be that they're using waterproof mascara and never actually removing it at night. Just getting up in the morning and applying a new coat out of habit. If that's the case do you think their lashes would have rings like trees? Could, if one of those lashes managed to free themselves from their sticky prison, we place it under a microscope and take a cross section and count the years back to when Mascara first touched innocent lash? Could we date things by the change of formulary compostion of rings from Wet'n Wild to Covergirl to Maybelline to L'Oreal?

Please, I don't mean to mock. I seek to understand. Do any of you have any insights to share? Do you, perhaps, apply copious amounts of mascara? Is there a benefit that I'm missing here? Perhaps the thicker and stickier the lashes the better protection against airborn dust and UV waves? Anything?

RAWR!

2006-09-28T10:14:00.000-06:00

Nothing like a good rawr in the morning to get ones blood going, no?

Julia has been back in her own bed for the last two nights and sleeping all the way through! The last two nights I've put her down in her crib when she was sleepy but not asleep and she cried for a short time and then went to sleep. I stood, two feet from the door, listening to her cry, waiting for it to turn from "how obnoxious is it that you expect me to sit here in the dark, all alone, without anything to get into and destroy" to a hysterical "get me out of here right now or I swear to god at my earliest convenience I will knock over a 7-11 and kill the clerk just to watch him die!" and it never did. I think that's a huge step forward, don't you? Now if only we could turn Kristin into a "sleepy mommy" too so that I don't have the be the one to put Julia down every night and my life will be complete.

I spent yesterday evening with Merr and Summer watching Jericho. Kristin and I don't have TV, and Merr and Summer allowed me to talk them into getting hooked on the show so that I can come over and watch it, too. They're good people. If you've got a moment, can you go give them some love? Merr's brother-in-law is in the hospital, they've hit their one-year anniversary of unsuccessfully TTC a second child, and they recently got fired from a job that was to provide some much-needed additional income.

After that, I went home and made up our bed with the new satin sheets I got for only $20 on SALE! I've never slept on satin sheets before. They're shiny! And slippery! Which, if you've seen the pictures of my bedroom, you might understand why the slipperyness is a bit alarming to me. The important thing is, though, that they were ONLY $20!!! and they're a pretty color. But you know what kind of sheets I would like? What kind of sheets I dream about? Velvet sheets. I've never seen velvet sheets, I don't think anyone makes any. Velvet trimmed, sure. But all velvet? How luxurious would that be? Soft and fuzzy, warmer than satin, and without the worry about rough callouses and ragged toenails that silk sheets engender. Can you imagine the sensation of wrapping your nude body in luxurious dark-blue velvet sheets? I think I need to make myself some... or get someone else to make some for me. I like that second plan better...

Thank you everyone who participated in my little ego-boosting contest yesterday. It bears repeating that Plimco was the winner. But it made my little heart go pitter pat that so many people tried to puzzle through my sheer, unadulterated, not-0f-this-world genious. I feel so much better now.

Finally, some of you have seen this, some of you haven't. I'd like to draw your attention to:

A girl and her dog

Head Clearing

2006-09-27T12:13:00.000-06:00

Well, it's been weeks since I took 150 mg of Clomid for 5 days straight. Weeks of scary mood swings, crying jags, anxiety, bad dreams, and fearfearfearfearfear. But I finally feel like I'm coming out of it. I am, if not excited to be taking this month off from TTC, still looking forward to getting myself back.

I read back over my archives for the last several months and holy crap on a cracker people! I can't believe I have any readers left after the unrelenting self-pity-party I've been throwing over here. The weeks upon weeks of depression and anger and depression and frustration and depression. I think I'm finally coming out of it though, I look back over this week and I'm beginning to recognize myself, my sense of humor. I've been gone for a long time. Not only from here, but from my family and my home and my friends and my life. Between the TTC and the fucked-up hormones and a too-strong empathic/psychic connection to the person in this post, I have been feeling lost. And now I am found. So where are my bagpipes?

The worst part of this whole thing is that I have felt unable to think coherently about anything. And by anything, what I really mean is what I want to do in my quest for a second child. In the good tarot reading I got after the crappy reading, the reader said I needed to examine my committment to adding a second child to our family. She said that often times we'll feel that we're very committed to something, but in reality we're committed in only a very narrow way. And I realized that I was committed to bringing a second child into our lives in just such a very narrow way. Kristin has been mentioning that she would be willing to get pregnant again if I can't. And I've been so opposed to that. I won't even discuss it. Not just because of the health problems that plagued her while pregnant. Not just because of that.

But because I am a selfish bitch. It was hard for me to watch her be pregnant, not only because it was hard for me to watch her exhausted and scared and hurting. But also because I wanted to be the one who was pregnant. We decided that she should get pregnant first because she was the one with health insurance, and neither of us could stomach the thought of planning to go on public assistance to have a child. And I wanted us to have a baby. And I wanted her to be pregnant, too. But once she was these jealousies rose up within me. I hated myself for the way I felt. When there were problems a vicious little part of me would say silently, "if I were the one who was pregnant we wouldn't be dealing with this." When we were TTC and it was taking a while that same little demon would say, "If you were trying to get pregnant you'd be pregnant by now." And then a part of me would die -- poisoned by my own nastiness and soul rot. And I've been wondering if my infertility is due to this. If it's cosmic retribution for being such a bad person. When I think of Kristin getting pregnant again, I shudder. Not because I don't want a second child, and not because I don't want her to get pregnant if that's what she wants, but because I don't want to be that mean, petty, horrible person again.

Recognizing that I am not committed fully to bringing a second child into this family has cleared the way for me to become fully committed. Or to become more fully committed.

The boundaries of that "more fully committed" are still hazy. And I'm looking forward to a month with no external hormonal influences in order to clarify those boundaries. I mean, how far am I willing to go with my own body? Am I willing to mortgage our home for an IVF cycle or two? And if we do IVF will I be ok if it turns out we need to use Kristin's eggs because my own are bad? How long am I willing to shoot myself up if injectibles are recommended? And what will it take for me to be able to let go of the dream of being pregnant? Do I still think that pregnancy and birth would be the defining moment of my life, or is it just an old vision of myself that I haven't let go of yet?

For some of these questions I've got time. Kristin says that she wouldn't want to start to try to get pregnant for at least a year. She'd like to be done with school before birthing a child from her body. For some of these questions I'd like to have answers before my appointment with the RE on Oct 20th. Like the IVF question. If I really am not willing to spend so much money on a pregnancy, I need to have that figured out so we can plan accordingly.

But don't worry, I'll try to not weigh this blog down with too many of these dark soul-searchings. No need to drive EVERYONE insane!

A contest! A contest! Updated

2006-09-27T09:48:00.000-06:00

When I was a newbie blogger I used to put a lot of thought into my posts. As opposed to now when I just spew off whatever is on the top of my head. But then, I would plot my posts, chortling over their cleverness. One of the posts that I was most tickled by my own cleverness was this one.

I didn't have many readers then, and those who did read either didn't get the joke, or weren't impressed enough with it to let me know. I was (and still am) bitterly disappointed.

So. I now have a prize. To the first person who clicks that link up there and can tell me the reference behind the joke (hint, it's a literary reference)will receive in the mail...

a coupon for a free bottle of L'Oreal H.I.P. foundation! How cool is that! Totally free. Worth $13! All you have to do is pay sales tax! I got this coupon thinking I would try it, but unfortunately I have the kind of skin that is so pale that it glows in the dark. My skin, under all the rosacea ruddiness, makes milk look dingy. Even though I'm flushed all the time because of the rosacea, I still have to use the palest foundation or I look like I'm wearing a mask. And the lightest shade of H.I.P. is still too dark for me.

If you don't want the free (after taxes) make-up, I'll come up with some other suitable prize. Like one of these.

ok... GO!

UPDATE: As of noon Mountain Daylight Time, Plimco had won the contest. But she didn't want the prize. She just wanted everyone to know that she's the smartest blogger out there. I promised I wouldn't mention that I had to give her hella hints. So, there is still a prize to be claimed. The additional hint I'll give to level the playing field is that the title of the post is very similar to the title of a poem somewhere...

What does it say about our parenting and housecleaning skills that...

2006-09-26T10:40:00.000-06:00

Towards the top of the Top Ten Words Julia is Most Likely To Say In a Given Moment is the word "dirty"
One of her most clearly articulated phrases is "Oh Shit." And yet we still swear like donkey-fucking sailors around here.
We didn't get around to baby-proofing the kitchen cabinets until AFTER Julia had discovered the singular joy of stacking up and knocking over the canisters upon canisters upon containers upon bottles (all of which are partially open, or ripped open, or lids lost or whatever) of dangerous, skin-dissolving, blind-making, dipilatory-like toxic chemicals we keep under the sink cabinet in the hopes that one day we'll be inspired to clean. And even then we waited until my dad came over because after all, if she wasn't dead, blind, maimed, scarred yet what were the chances?
When I discovered her playing in the dog bowls, again (we just can't seem to train the dogs not to need to eat or drink), I firmly told her "No" like I'd been trained to do in such circumstances. She looked at me and uttered something that sounded very similar to, "But Mother, I am conducting an experiment to determine exactly how many kernels of dog food it takes to soak up the precisely 1.2 liters of water contained in the water dish. I have a theory that the absorbancy of the dog food is affected by whether or not I have sucked on it first." And I went ahead and let her continue because it sounded like a good enough reason to me.
I've given up mopping and sweeping every day because it's easier just to lint roll the baby when she needs it than keep the floors clean to begin with.
Our first response when someone informs us that Julia is eating something she picked up off the ground/floor/restaurant high chair is to say, "eh, it's good for her immune system."
The baby that we intended only to eat organic, whole-grain, no-processed-sugar, transfat-free, cooked using only solar and geo-thermal energy foods has become so familiar with costco churros that she begins squealing in delight when we pass the Costco food court, knowing that if she acts cute enough I'll break down and buy her one.
My 13 month old laughs at off-color jokes. The incriminating thing isn't that she laughs, she laughs at everything, but it's the fact that we are still telling (and enjoying) off-color jokes in her vicinity.
When she poops in the bathtub we don't bother scouring the tub and sterilizing the bath toys. We just rinse it and them off. Because, you know, shit happens.
The dogs have occassionally gotten a hold of and eaten dirty diapers, and the only thing that bothers me about this is that they don't manage to ingest all the pieces and so there's always something left over for me to clean up.

It pains me to tell you this

2006-09-26T08:41:00.000-06:00

I woke up at about 4:30 AM with an excruciating pain in my lower abdomen. God, I thought I was about to die. I was certain CERTAIN that both my ovaries had simultaneously exploded and were filling up my abdomen with blood. I was positive that I was about to die in a puddle of blood in my own bed -- victim of my (at that moment seemingly) insane desire to birth a child. I had perverted nature (by trying to force my body to ovulate) and now I was going to pay the price!

I decided that if I were about to messily expire (from exploding and coating my immediate surroundings with my life blood and bazillion unfertilized eggs) the most considerate thing to do would be to do so in some other room, some other bed, so that Kristin and Julia (yes, Julia is back in our bed) could continue sleeping uninterrupted. I mean, dead was dead, and beyond help. No need to disturb hard-won and precious sleep with the small matter of my gruesome demise.

As I rolled out of bed, clutching my abdomen and suppressing a shriek of extreme pain, I wondered if I was capable of driving myself to the hospital in this condition, or if I would die mid-drive, causing a terrible accident and killing innocent people. I thought briefly of writing a letter to my soon-to-be-half-orphaned daughter. I thought about creeping back into the bedroom to give my immanent-widow one last kiss. I thought of shaking my fists at the sky and railing at God for the cruelness of fate...

And then I realized that it was just gas. And after a suitable amount to time I went back to the family bed and fell back asleep.

I do think it stretched something out, though, cause I still feel a little achey down there.

A funny story to start the week out right

2006-09-25T09:07:00.000-06:00

Once upon a time, about 5 years or so ago actually, Kristin used to work for the SLC police as a crime scene tech and forensic photographer. I thought this was super cool. In fact, I thought this was so cool, it got her laid. (shh, don’t tell her I told you that!) I mean, between that and her scrabble proficiency I was goner, you know?

Anyway. The scheduling there sucked. SUCKED ASS. They used to only have one crime scene tech on duty on Sundays. Hello? A weekend full of drinking generally culminates in a Sunday full of dumb crimes. She dreaded Sundays. I dreaded Sundays for her. She always came home late, bedraggled, exhausted, filthy.

One Sunday she got permission to take me on a ride-along. It helps (in these circumstances) to have a degree in Anthropology. We were able to lie and say that I was considering going into forensic anthropology and wanted to see what a career in that could look like. The powers that be bought it, and soon I was sitting in Kristin’s car, frantically writing down addresses as they came across the radio.

It was an exciting night. I had wanted to see a body, but I didn’t want anyone to kill themselves, or overdose, or get murdered just because of my gruesome delight. So I wished that someone would die naturally, in their sleep. Kristin told me we wouldn’t get called to a scene like that… but some rookie cop made a mistake and called us, so I got to see someone’s grandma dead in her bed. Don’t worry, I was all properly saddened and stuff. No one from the family knew that their lives were part of my tourism.

I also saw the results of a vicious knife fight (um, in a word, ick) and there was an armed robbery leading to a car-jacking and a high-speed chase first by car and then by foot. By the time we got to the scene, he’s been pepper-sprayed and there was green snot running down his face and his hands were cuffed behind his back so he couldn’t wipe. He tried to spit at Kristin, so a cop jerked a spit-hood over his head. If you haven’t been spit-at by someone dripping long strings of green and yellow snot and high as a kite on some sort of illegal substance, then you haven’t lived.

I can’t tell you HOW many times we arrived at a crime scene only to have the victims follow Kristin around with commentary about CSI and how she was doing her job wrong, because that’s not how they do it on the show? And she forgot to dust the upholstered couch for prints! And why wasn’t she gathering fiber evidence from the scene? This random window-breaker needed to be stopped, and how was he going to be stopped if she didn’t gather as much evidence as possible?!

But the funniest encounter is one that STILL cracks us up. We’d been called to a burglary on a street by the University. It was a street where the houses were set back quite a ways from the road, and up a wooded hill. Perfect for burglaries as no one could see anyone’s front door. The cop was showing Kristin around the scene, telling her what he wanted pictures of, and where he wanted her to dust for prints. When suddenly this woman starts screaming, “Help! Help! Help!” She runs from the neighboring yard and sees the officer. “You’re a cop right? Well, WHY AREN’T YOU HELPING ME? GET YOUR GUN OUT AND FOLLOW ME!” So the officer (gun securely holstered) leaves Kristin to her job and goes to find out what the woman needs. Within a few minutes he comes over the radio saying that there’s been another burglary next door and could Kristin come over there when she was done.

After about 20 minutes, we were done with the first crime scene, and walked over to the second. The first cop had called in back up. It was that bad. Not the scene, the woman. Ho. Lee. CRAP! This woman was something else! The officer, and the woman, and the backup officer met us outside the front door. Officer 1 started to explain the crime scene to Kristin. Seems that this was the woman’s parents’ house and she was just checking on it while they were out of town. So, when she walked up to the door, she noticed that it was ajar.

“No. It was a door.” She said. We all looked at her, then looked away. The officer went on. “So, when she arrived the door was ajar.”

“No, it was NEVER a JAR. It was ALWAYS a door, and it was slightly open!”

She seriously thought the cop was telling Kristin that the door had been a jar. Not ajar, a jar. I am not making this up. It gets worse (or funnier, depending on how you look at it.) So the officer reframed... "Ok, the door, which was NEVER a JAR, was slightly open when the woman arrived at the scene"

Ooooookay, we enter the house. The first room is a living room with built-in bookcases. Many of the books were pulled out and thrown on the floor. The officer continued narrating, “as you can see, there’s been some rifling in here –“

“OH MY GOD! SOMEONE WAS SHOOTING GUNS IN MY PARENTS’ HOUSE!!! WHY DON’T YOU HAVE YOUR GUNS OUT? AREN’T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE PROTECTING ME?” We all jumed clear out of our skins and turned to look at the woman.

“Ma’am. Ma’am. Calm down. I am not drawing my weapon. What do you mean someone was shooting guns in the house?”

“You just said so!”

“Ma’am, I did not say that someone had discharged a firearm in here.”

“Yes, you did! You just said there was rifling in here”

Ba dum bum. I kid you not. She actually said these things.

At this point the woman decided that she should call her parents and let them know that their house had been burglarized. The only problem was that her parents were at their cabin – with no phone, no way to get hold of them. She called the sheriff’s office in the county that her parents were in, and started harassing (in a shrieking, crying, high-pitched, many-decibled, wail) the dispatcher to dispatch someone out to go look for her parents and get them to call her. No, no one was dead. No, the house was still whole. No, it didn't appear that much was missing. She was getting put on hold a lot.

Kristin went to work. The woman trailed us around the house, alternately shrieking into her cell phone and whining that no one was helping her or taking her seriously. The back-up cop was being hard-put to explain exactly WHY they weren’t waving their guns around, “well, ma’am, the burglar has obviously already left, and we’re in no danger now…”

Kristin moved into the kitchen where Officer 1 pointed out to her where it looked like the burglar had gained entry to the house. The kitchen door had a pane of plexi-glass that had been pushed out. The sheet of plexi-glass was lying on the floor. The woman was sitting on a kitchen stool. Still screaming into her phone at the poor dispatcher god-knows-where. She got put on hold again and decided to use her free time to tell Kristin how to do her job, and to speculate on the fantastic powers of the burglar.

“Now what I don’t understand, what I think is strange, is why didn’t the glass break when it hit the floor?”

“Ma’am, that’s a piece of plexi-glass. Plexi-glass doesn’t break like that.”

The woman sighed and rolled her eyes, obviously at the stupidity of Officer 1. “Officer, it’s glass. Glass is very fragile. So obviously something strange is going on here, otherwise, why isn’t the glass broken?”

“Well ma’am, I don’t know. I’m not an engineer or a physicist; I’m just a dumb cop. I can’t tell you why exactly the unbreakable plexi-glass didn’t break when it hit the kitchen rug.”

The woman took no notice of him as she had someone else to scream and cry at on her phone. After a while she got put on hold again. And that’s when she said the funniest thing of the whole night. She looked at Kristin (dusting the mysteriously un-broken plexi-glass for prints) and said… wait for it… she said…

“You know I’m going to school right now so I can get a job doing what you’re doing.”

And she was serious.

We waited (somehow, miraculously) until we got back out to the car to collapse with uncontrollable laughter.

The end.

Ohmygod!

2006-09-24T11:54:00.000-06:00

Thehousecouldhavetotallyburneddown!

We were ahead of the game, people. It was only Saturday morning and we were down to 2 loads of laundry. One load to go in the dryer and one load to go in the washer. This was a frickin miracle. And the other loads were already folded and put away!

So, Kristin goes downstairs and puts the load in the dryer and the last load in the washer. Then she pushes the start button on the dryer. Everything goes dark. Whole basement, lights out.

This happens a lot. We blow the breaker. The entire basement is on one breaker. But it's been happening more and more often. I'll be downstairs, washer running, dryer running (it's a gas dryer, so it's not on a 220, just a regular 110) TV on, dvd running, and the iron going as I watch TV and iron while the laundry finishes. If the big chest freezer kicks on while all this is going on the breaker'll blow. Sigh. Go upstairs and flip the breaker again... go downstairs and try again.

Yes. I was worried. I've been worried about this house's wiring since we bought it. The house was built in the 20's and remodeled in the 50's and the wiring is a mixture of original 1920's era knob and tube patched (often with a ton of ancient electrical tape) to the green (no diferentiation between hot and neutral, no ground) wires from the 50's. Scary, yeah. Every room we've redone we've redone the wiring on.

Except we only half did the laundry room. See the house had never had a washer or dryer before. The old woman who lived there used a crank washing tub and lines, until she got too old and then her kids sent her laundry out (we assume). So when we moved in and bought a new washer and dryer (we hadn't noticed that there were no hook-ups before we bought) my dad had to come out and wire us some plugs and rig us some plumbing... that was right at the same time that we built the bathroom downstairs, and we ran a new circuit and breaker for the downstairs bathroom, but for some reason, instead of hooking the washer/dryer to the new circuit, we just added it to the basement circuit. Dumb? Maybe. Maybe not. If we hadn't done that then we wouldn't have just found this recent problem. But if we hadn't done that maybe this recent problem wouldn't have been a problem? Eh. My head hurts. Back to the story.

So, the power goes out on Kristin and she comes up and checks the breaker. Breaker's not flipped. So she calls to me and tells me what's up and I go downstairs to check the ground fault circuit interruptor on the outlet that the washer and dryer are plugged into. There's just no power to the thing, it hasn't been tripped either, there's just no power. But there's power everywhere else in the basement... weird. So I call my dad. He says it sounds like there's a short, but where? He's busy, but he agrees to come out and help me find it.

Last night when he and Mom arrived (after eating and socializing -- remember, we had planned a bbq that night) we went downstairs to check it out. We followed the wires to the junction box where we had originally gotten power. And then looking, looking, looking -- deep into the basement ceiling, we notice that instead of that wire running straight back to the breaker box, it runs to ANOTHER junction box. But to get to that junction box we have to tear down the paneling (cardboard, I tell you, made. of. cardboard) that makes up the basement ceiling. So we do, and reveal...

A RAT'S NEST! Of wires, that is. No real rats. Just scary, scary, SCARY wiring.

Ok, this is what they did. They broke like every wiring law known to man. The 220 to the furnace? There's wires spliced off it like arteries, no wire nuts, no junction boxes there, and who the hell KNOWS where those splices lead to? Just wires going off in weird directions. Then there's an outlet wired into the ceiling. Covered by the panelling, by the way, that's got a cord plugged into it... and we have NO IDEA where that cord runs... But the junction box in question? The current problem we were tracing? A MESS. There're all these wires like snakes. It was a mass of meltie electrical tape. Pull off the electrical tape (all the lights flickering with each tug) and there was a screw and bolt, with two wires strung through it and the bolt clamped down, to make some sort of connection, and then multiple other wires just WRAPPED around the screw and TAPED there! Including the wire that led to the junction box that we got our power from! Sorry for the overuse of exclamation points, but I found the whole thing a little alarming!

Dad said that what had happened is that when Kristin started the dryer, it pulled so much power along that line that the loop finally slipped off the nut and thus the power went out. BUT, that whole box had been getting SO HOT from the friction of the current, that the electical tape and some of the insulating plastic had MELTED. This, just millimeters away from our cardboard paneling, in our HOUSE that we've spent so much money and time fixing up!

We should have had the fucking house rewired. Anyway, Dad's coming back this afternoon and we're rewiring that junction box and diverting the power from the laundry room to the new circuit we ran for the bathroom. We probably should have done that in the first place, but if we did, then the power wouldn't have gone out, but that box would have still been there, smoldering, unnoticed. We're going to make it safe, but how many other little wiring "surprises" are waiting for us? And where do all those splices go? And what about that outlet and cord?

I want the house rewired. The whole thing. But we don't have the money for that right now. Especially since we have a dinosaur of a furnace from the 50's (really, the thing is HUGE and GREEN) that's going to need to be replaced soon, and we're up to our eyeballs in debt, and my job is shaky and Kristin's in school...

Just repeat with me...
The House will not burn down
The house will not burn down
the house will not burn down
the house will not burn down

One last thing and then I'm done talking about it

2006-09-22T12:48:00.000-06:00

2-3 years ago, when Kristin and I were searching for someone to be our known sperm donor, Wilma offered up her husband's stuff.

She said they'd talked about it and since they were familiar with the pain of infertility (she'd had an ectopic and it took her a year of active trying before she concieved again) they wanted to help us start our family.

We politely declined. We just weren't sure that it was such a good idea.

Thank God we did so.

Panting for the Weekend

2006-09-22T11:15:00.000-06:00

Well, after being home with a sick and cranky baby for two days, I was almost looking forward to coming into work where I could blog in peace.

But no. It's crappy here right now. I can't go into details, but suffice it to say that I am having a situation with a person and it's pissing me off. I think this person is acting pretty childishly and so I feel completely justified in squeezing this person's tiny little head between my fingers (held up close to my eyes) whenever I look across the elevator lobby and the two sets of bulletproof doors that separate our workstations.

Anybody need to hire a poet? I'm pretty crafty, and I don't blog about my employers. Well, at least, not much.

In other news Kristin and I spent last night researching the Watch Tower and the J-dubs. Holy crap, those people are SCARY! Apologies to any of my readers who may just happen to belong to that ~~cult~~ religion, but you scare the bejesus out of me! And that's saying something! We're still not sure what we're going to do wrt her presence in our lives, but I really want to print up some of the articles about what the Watch Tower does to children -- its reaction to accusations of child abuse by members, the phobias it teaches, the negative psychological indications, the denial of certain medical procedures -- and give copies of them to both her and her husband. But that may be going too far. I don't know. The stage I am at right now is that she can do what she likes with her life, but I'm grieving for her daughters, especially her oldest, just turned 3, whom I consider to be like a niece.

Oh, does anyone know how to get something from a camcorder to the computer to a blog? Our camcorder is one of those with the teeny tiny little tapes and it says it's digital. But it only has cords to go to the TV. And there is just the cutest clip that we want to put on The Speckled Frog. And I don't know how to do it. Is it even possible?

Oy, I miss my camera. I MISS IT. And there's a scathing post about Nikon and Ritz cameras coming...

Final thing, I finally got around to updating my links. There's some cool people there so go check it out. And if you read me and have a blog and would like a link, drop me a line and I'll stick you up there...

Tomorrow we're having an end-of-season bbq... I just hope it stops raining long enough for us to have it outside. And I hope it stops raining long enough so that Kristin doesn't have to pick up dog crap alone in the rain. Don't get me wrong, she always picks it up alone, but in rain just makes it that much worse...

One of God's Witnesses

2006-09-21T13:15:00.000-06:00

Two years ago, Kristin's oldest friend announced that she was studying with the J-dubs. Actually, she more like ambushed Kristin with the news. Set her up. Had her new J-dub friend (teacher) over so she could talk to Kristin about it, too. The talk did not go well.

This friend, let's call her Wilma, had been depressed and seeking solace for a while. So if this was going to make her happier, Kristin would have been happy for her. But it's been hard. Very hard. And you know what? Wilma's just been getting more and more depressed. But when we try to talk to her about it she just starts quoting the bible and J-dub philosophy at us. A distance has been growing. I've been finding it hard to listen to her trash pagans and false idols and such what with being Wiccan and all. Kristin's been having a hard time with the fact that her oldest friend, the one she bonded with because they were both non-mormons in very mormon neighborhood, has become a fundamentalist. We both wonder at what her husband REALLY thinks of all this. He doesn't talk about it much, but he agreed to the no holidays and birthdays thing because he feels that our culture is too materialistic anyway.

We haven't talked to them since March. But they have some of our baby clothes, and we've got some of theirs, and we'd like our stuff back. Plus we miss the them they used to be. So Kristin called Wilma and we agreed to go out to dinner tonight. Then yesterday we got an invitation to Wilma's baptism as one of the JWs. I guess not terribly surprising. But still. And to invite us. Of all people.

Well, actually, she really only wanted Kristin there. But we found that out later.

So last night Kristin called her because Wilma has a 6 month old who was born premature, and Julia has a cold (actually, today we discovered it's a sinus infection) and we wanted to give them that information so they could choose to cancel dinner if they'd like.

After talking with Wilma, re-scheduling dinner for next week, conversation turned to Wilma's baptism.

This call happened on a cell phone as Kristin was driving home. I was home, making dinner, talking to my mom on the phone when Kristin walked in. She was on her cell phone, very upset, using her "social worker dealing with an impossible client" voice. I thought she was talking to a client. But she was more upset than she normally is when talking to a client.

No. She was talking to Wilma. Wilma was telling her about her new role, and how she has been ordained by God to teach as many people as she can about God's word. About how the Bible was written by God, it couldn't possibly have been written by man. About how everything in the Bible is literally true. Adam and Eve, true. Creationism, true. And the rest of it. All true. All really happened just exactly like that. Science be damned (Wilma is a nurse...) So Kristin did it, she asked her what she believed about homosexuality now. And Wilma started quoting the texts in the bible that say gays should be put to death. The lines about abomination, and rejection, and hatred, and violence.

This is Kristin's oldest friend. This is the second person Kristin introduced me to when we got together. Up until 2 years ago we had thought that we would leave any child(ren) we had to her care if something should happen to us. Saying now that while she may not necessarily believe those things, they WERE written by God and she has a duty to teach them. It wouldn't be her intention to teach hatred and discrimination, but if that was a consequence, then so be it. It is God's work.

Julia and I weren't really invited to the baptism, even though Wilma really wants Kristin to be there. It would mean so much to her if Kristin would come, Julia and I, though, markers of Kristin's sin...

Kristin is not going. We're debating whether or not we will still do dinner next week. We really want our baby clothes back.

The sense of betrayal hit me hard last night and I've only been her friend for 5 years.

I just don't get it. She was our friend. She still claims to be Kristin's friend. She's been in our home, part of our family. How can she believe, how can she teach, this kind of hatred toward us, our family, toward Kristin, her oldest friend, the one who has stood by her through so many changes, so much grief? I just don't understand. I know it's not personal, but still... how could she just start believing those things, and be willing to spread hatred?

My britches are burning!

2006-09-20T07:41:00.000-06:00

Last Saturday Kristin and Julia and I found myself at my parent's house for a barbeque. And then everyone else left. And it was only 6 o'clock. Well, 6:30. So we asked my parents if they wouldn't mind watching Julia for a few hours while we went to a movie. (sidenote: we saw The Black Dahlia because I am obscenely fascinated by that murder (yes, I know, sick sick sick) but it was terrible. Horrible. Just BAD. Not even the vision of Jenny from The L W*rd being horribly murdered was enough to save it. Trust me, if you MUST watch it, rent it. It'll be on video SOON, anyway)

It was at the theater that they got me. The Tr*ndwest vacation time-share people. See there was a sign. Not that kind of sign, but the kind of sign that reads "Ask me how you can see get into this movie with popcorn and drinks for FREE!!!" Well, we're poor, so how could we resist? And THEN they said that in addition to getting a $25 gift card to the theater that we could use right then, we would also get a FREE trip (package includes airfare and 2 nights stay; must be booked 6 weeks in advance; weekends, holidays, and any day that you might actually be able to go on a vacation not eligible) to one of 5 FANTASTIC VACATION GETAWAYS just for attending their little presentation. Now, I cannot tell you how many times I have successfully avoided going to a time-share sales pitch. I know I would be miserable, I know I would make the sales people miserable, and the free trip (or TV, or camera, or whatever) would just not be worth it. Plus there was always the possibility that I would end up actually CAVING to the pressure and BUYING a time-share that I would then never use. But this time they were waving a movie (technically, a movie and a half since Kristin and I didn't use the extra money on the gift card to get popcorn and a drink) right in my face. And they promised that it wouldn't be a hard sales pitch, and they said there would be cookies there.

So I agreed to go.

Now. I'm a softie. I usually say no (now, now I say no, now that Kristin has taught me to be tougher, I cannot tell you how much crap I bought off people when I had no spine) but I feel so bad doing it that it just totally ruins my day. So I was not looking forward to this sales presentation. Not at all. But I said I would go. So I went. Before we I left Kristin said I should practice my refusal. Her suggestion was to say "wow, this looks great, but it just doesn't fit my lifestyle. I prefer to go to foreign countries and stay in small hotels that the locals run. That way you get to experience more of the culture, and it's much cheaper than this." But I could think of ways that someone could argue and pressure around that, and plus I prefer to be a good guy, seem sympathetic and stuff, give a reason that no one can argue around and end discussion quickly. So this is how my sales pitch went:

Saleswoman (SW): So, now that you've seen how our plan works, let's talk about your lifestyle and how we can tailor this to fit you.
Me: Look, I'm really sorry. I signed up for this on Saturday and I was really interested in going. But yesterday I was told that my contract for my job is not going to be renewed and I'm out of work as of the end of October (NOTE: this is NOT TRUE! Don't email me thinking I'm out of work. I may be out work at the end of October, but most likely not and I don't know anything yet, so don't worry) and I just can't justify purchasing something like this right now. Do you have a brochure or something I can take with me so that when I get a stable job I'll still have the information?
SW: Oh that's too bad! What was your job?
Me: I was a secretary. Well, am a secretary. I actually have a Master's Degree in writing, but that's not very practical, so that's why I'm working as a secretary. Well, at least for another 6 weeks I'm working.
SW: Is it hard to find a job in your field?
Me: Well yes, actually, I'm a bit worried about it. It's not hard finding secretary jobs, but finding one that will pay the mortgage and put food on the table and support my family is very difficult. It took me 6 months to find this job and then it was only a year contract. They'd said they would most likely renew, but it's a government job and then the budget was cut and you know the story. I'm so sorry. If I had known that this was really going to happen I wouldn't have come tonight. I feel so bad for wasting your time. But they said that they would charge the $25 for the theater gift card to my debit account, and now I'm really going to need that money for groceries.
SW: Oh, so you used it already?
Me: Well, yeah, that night.
SW: So what movie did you see?
Me: The Black Dahlia. It wasn't very good. I wouldn't see it if I were you.
SW: Oh, it was bad? That's too bad.
Me: Yeah. So, anyway, again, I'm so sorry to waste your time like this. I should probably get heading out, the babysitter will be upset if I'm late.
note: the presentation was only supposed to be 90 minutes. At this point it had been nearly that
SW: Oh, you have kids?
ok, this is the part of the sales pitch where they keep you talking trying to find a way in through your objections -- find a weak spot. I knew that she was going to play the "vacations are great for bonding with kids salvo," I needed to show a strong defense. Unfortunately, this is where my "strong defense" got a little, um, creative...
Me: Yeah, actually, I do.
SW: How many?
Me: Two. I have two kids. A boy and a girl.
SW: Oh, wow! What are their names.
Me: Well, Caleb's three and a real handful. Julia just turned one and is getting ready to walk. I'm sure any day now she'll take off and I'll be chasing two hyperactive kids around.
SW: And you're a single parent...
note: if we were married we were required to bring our spouse to the presentation. I'm sure that's to forestall any "I can't agree to purchase this expensive timeshare without talking to my spouse first" arguments. Since Kristin and I AREN'T married and she didn't want to come (actually, she couldn't come because she had just done one of these a month ago and the rules are you can only attend and get a gift once a year. Things like this it works out to our advantage not to be allowed to be married) I had put "single" on my registration form, so that's why she assumed I am a single parent. Since it worked to complete my picture of pathetic, abject poverty, I went with it
Me: Yeah, yeah I guess I am...
SW: Oh, is this pretty recent?
Me: Well, you know, you just think you can work things out. You think you can just try harder and make it work. And then sometimes it just doesn't. He just finished moving out a few weeks ago, leaving me the house to try to keep up the mortgage on. And now this news about my job, I just don't know what I'm going to do...
now, something you should know about me: I have very sensitive eyes. I'm not certain what I'm allergic to, but often my eyes will just start burning and watering in a reaction to something in the air. During the whole presentation my eyes had been burning, so they looked pretty blood-shot, perfect for a single mother on the edge just found out she's got no stable future. But at this moment, this perfect, perfect moment, just as I said "I just don't know what I'm going to do" my eyes throbbed and began watering and as I finished that sentence A TEAR CAME STREAKING DOWN MY FACE! I dug in my purse for a tissue as she looked appalled and stammered an apology
SW: Oh I'm so sorry to bring up something so painful!
ME: It's ok. It's really ok. I'll be fine.
SW: (changing the subject) Well, let me show you our smallest and most affordable package (begins writing on a piece of paper)
oh my god! She was actually going to keep trying to sell me this vacation package! How evil is that? Here I am, a just-unemployed, recently separated, mother of two small children and she's going to continue to try to sell me a vacation time-share!!!!! Apparently I needed to up the ante
SW: So with our smallest package you get 6000 points instead of 16000, for a one-time investment of $1062 and $152 a month for the next 10 years and you can upgrade when your situation changes and you have more money in your budget. Now we can finance that $1062, but you'll have to pay the $152 a month (and, I'm sure, the payments and interest on the $1062).
I looked down at the paper. I looked hard. I started whispering bills (Mortgage, electricity, phone - no, I could turn off the phone, gas...) while tapping my fingers on the table as if counting up my monthly budget. Finally:
Me: I'm sorry, I just can't do that. My budget is so tight as it is, and I just can't justify dipping into savings to buy this right now. I can't even count on him for childsupport at this point, and this monthly payment is almost as much as my monthly grocery allowance. Besides, I'm thinking I'm going to have to go on public assistance at least until my job situation gets settled, and I'm not about to be accepting welfare while paying for a vacation time-share. No matter how much I want it. Can I at least keep this brochure with all the locations and amenities on it so if my situation changes I have the information?
SW: No, I'm sorry. We only let owners take the book home. It wouldn't do you any good anyway. (She very firmly pulls the brochure out of my firm grip, it leaves my hands with an audible snap)
Me: I understand. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry to have wasted your time, but I really need to get to the babysitter's now. Are we through here?
SW: (blowing her air out in a very frustrated/irritated fashion) Fine. Why don't you just follow me over to Paul and he'll set you up with your free trip.
Me: Thank you. Do you mind if I take a couple of the cookies home for Caleb and Julia?
SW: (rolling her eyes) Go ahead.

And she walked quickly away. After a few minutes Paul arrived. He was holding my folder.
Written across the top in spiky (angry?) letters was "UNEMPLOYED".

P: Why don't you follow me and we'll get the information for your free trip to Anaheim.
Me: Do you think you could add "recently and unexpectedly" to the unemployed on my folder, that just sounds so pathetic and final.
P: Sure we can, that's not a problem. So, I hear you have kids...

I kept up my charade, adding details about my life as a newly single parent to two young children -- one of which was a boy who may or may not have ADHD -- till I had my hands on my tickets to Anaheim. And then I walked out of the building and drove home.

Once home I told Kristin the story of what had happened. And we laughed until we cried. And then Kristin told me that I'm going to hell.

Have you ever seen Mad About You? I loved that show. There's an episode where Jamie and Paul go on vacation using someone else's identities (those people gave them permission, they couldn't go and didn't want the vacation wasted) and over the course of the trip they tell everyone they meet different outrageous stories about their lives -- weaving more and more fantastical tales, and having a blast, until people put the pieces together and Paul and Jamie have to make an abrupt escape. I never understood why someone would do something like that.

Until now.

PS - Even if I hadn't lied I would have gotten the free vacation. So it's not like I lied to get the trip. The only think I got out of lying was a good story, a good laugh, my bank account intact, and two cookies to take home.

Avast Ye Mateys!!!

2006-09-19T10:36:00.000-06:00

I nearly lost me head in forgettin' to tell ye that it be Talk Like a Pirate Day today!

Shiver me timbers!

Arrr. I be pleased beyond measure that this day has finally arrived. And such a fine day it be, too. A fine day indeed to be talking like a pirate. And if any of you scurvey dogs be wanting a share in the treasure you'd best be talking like a pirate in my ken or I'll scuttle your skippers and you'll be wishin I had keelhauled your arse and made ye walk the plank to Davy Jones' locker.

Now, arrr, bring me a fine serving wench to bid me me pleasures ARRRRRR!

Your Pirate Name Is...

Pegleg Ladyfingers

What's Your Pirate Name?

Crazy Mixed-up

2006-09-19T09:28:00.000-06:00

For the last 6 months all the cool kids have been swapping mixed cd's around and having a grand old time getting to see what's playing in each other's mp3 players. It's been so much fun, that we've decided to do it again, and since some people in the group have decided to opt out of this round, that means we have space for new members!

We have room for 7 more people. I'm sorry, but any more new members will make the thing too unweildy for practicalities. If you're interested, click the button below and when a little dialogue box opens where you can say something about yourself, don't forget to put your name, that you saw the announcement on this blog, and why you'd like to join. Your reason doesn't have to be compelling, I'm just nosy. And if you're a lurker who wants to join, say that, too, so I don't just dismiss you as a stranger; although, to be honest, we're going to be giving preference to people whom we know in some fashion -- people's real names and addresses are at stake and I need to respect their privacy. I'm not saying that just because you're a lurker I'm NOT going to let you in, I'm just saying I'm going to be looking at you a little harder if I don't know who you are... oh, on that note, if you've got a blog, and you're not sure if I know you, leave your blog url in the dialogue box with your name and why you want to join...

Do I sound cliquey? I don't want to sound like I'm running a clique. It's just that there are practicalities and other people to consider...

Click to join crazymixedup