Life is a Highway

Unlike other times in the past, I can say with complete honesty it wasn't my fault when I ran out of gas shortly after merging onto the interstate this morning. Religiously I've made it a habit that as soon as my gas light comes on, I set my odometer and know I only have thirty miles to go before things get ugly. In the past when I was young and that one time last year, I've pushed the limits and several times paid the price. For some reason there has always been a good samaritan nearby who decides to take time out of his or her busy day to rescue me.

Knowing I had a 9:00 meeting this morning, I made it a point to do something I rarely do, which is get to work on time at eight. I knew I'd need that hour to prepare - revise some documents, brainstorm ideas - things that were supposed to have been done a month ago but somehow always got pushed to the bottom of my list. I left for work at 7:45, noticing as I cranked Ol' Bessie up that I would certainly need to get gas at some point today, the odometer telling me I was nine miles into my thirty-mile grace period. Not wanting to waste any valuable time, I didn't even consider stopping for gas on the way in.

I pulled onto the interstate and was serenely riding along listening to the morning talk show. I felt the car hesitate, but that's nothing new or alarming so all I did was double-check to make sure I'd read the odometer correctly. Yes. Why then did the car keep farting like that? Normally it doesn't do it that badly unless the A/C is on and I'm attempting to climb some sort of incline, but neither was the case. Fart, fart, fart, aaaand...dead. Feeling as though I had entered the twilight zone, I pulled off onto the shoulder. Things being how they are these days, I did what anyone would do and reached for my phone. Brian probably wouldn't be too pissed after I showed him what the damn mileage read.

It was at that moment I realized my cell phone was dead. It had been for most of the weekend and when I half-heartedly searched for it Saturday night, I realized the only charger I have for this phone was not anywhere to be found, most likely because I'd left it at the office Friday. So to review: dead car, dead cell.

I got my purse and keys, locked the car and started walking. I figured it was only another two miles until I'd reach a store or whatever, and hey, this way I'd get in some unplanned morning exercise! But before I could even form a complete plan, a car pulled off the road a little ways ahead of me. I walked up to it and inside was a portly, jolly-looking man who asked if I needed help. Yessir, I surely do.

And as always in these situations with me, he wasn't a serial killer or raper of short, chunky, middle-age women, but a very nice man who happened to work at the fuel center at Fort Jackson, the military base located a mile or so back. He took me there, filled up his little red gas container, brought me back to my car, put the gas in the car and told me not to trust my gas guage anymore. He wouldn't take any money for his troubles, but instead gave me a hug and told me to try and go to church soon. Typical Southern Baptist and the total person you want to pick you up when you're stranded on the side of the road.

I made it to work with a half hour to spare before the meeting, got my shit together and spent the rest of the day thanking God and Dad for watching over my stupid ass yet again. After relaying to Brian the whole story, I shook my head and said what a bad day I had...but he stopped me and said, "No. It was actually a great day." And of course like usual, he was right.

Can't say baby where I'll be in a year

Yesterday I had another appointment with the therapist person. I'm pretty sure I like her. I'm almost positive I do. Unlike Brian, who is of the opinion psychology/psychiatry/whatever is for the most part crap, (that's not all his fault; he gets it from his mother) I think it's something that can be extremely beneficial, depending on the individual, his/her situation and the doctor. There's no denying a certain amount of bullshit is involved, but I feel that way about most professions so it's not a biggie to me.

However.

Yesterday's topic was obviously the third failed IUI. I told her my period arrived last Sunday right before Brian was leaving to go out of town but that I wasn't surprised about it like I'd been the previous two times. So besides sleeping most of that day and being a little down this week, I think I'm doing pretty okay. Note: doc wasn't even tryin' to hear that. She looked at me. An uncomfortable length of eye contact time ensued. Then:

Her: So. You're doing okay?
Me: Yeah, I really think so.
Her: So you've cried over it and in a matter of four days have moved on?
Me: Well no, but...
Her: Oh. So you haven't even CRIED yet?
Me: Uh...no?

And it was at that point I believe she made it her mission in life to make me cry. I'm not saying she told me I look fat and my roots are showing. She just seemed very goal orientated. As in her To Do list looked like this: (1) make patients cry (2) make them stop crying (3) go home satisfied I've done my part to make the world a better place. The worst part - her evil plan worked. I kind of laughed as I reached for the tissue box that just happened to be sitting on the small table next to me; it's not often you recognize the moment you become a human cliche.

Her opinion is that I'm practicing the art of avoidance. Okay, fair enough. I'm burying my feelings, not dealing with it, etc. Which, okay - I can see that. And I understand that's not good. But then she told me I need to FEEL my feelings before I can move on. So I said, "Okay, so how do I do that?" she didn't have an answer for me. Her recommendations included write in my journal (check), continue to exercise (I haven't every day, but I've gotten much more consistent) and either talk about it with people or don't, depending on how I feel. Um...okay. That wasn't what I'd call a huge revelation, lady. Your gentle suggestions for me to do things I'm already doing makes me a little cranky. But then again anyone who ends a therapy session by poorly singing Aerosmith ("Sweeeeet Emooootion...") is A-okay in my book.

Weekend! Starts in 4.5 hours!

And I miss her like hell too

We all know by now how I feel about becoming a mother. Not only for the past six months of actively trying (like a bitch), but really it's been a big thing for me for the better part of the last decade. I know some women who don't have the desire and I fully respect that choice. They've made a decision that's the best for them and I'm happy for them, just as I am for the ones who wanted and became mothers. For me however, I konw it would be the most rewarding and amazing thing I could ever experience. So, you know - no pressure or anything.

But. I can say I've been lucky enough to have a God-daughter (unofficial; sometimes she calls me her other mom, sometimes her aunt) in my life for the past thirteen (almost fourteen!) years and it's a relationship that has added so much to my life, it's indescribable.

Her name is Elizabeth (a.k.a. Lizard) and this is an email she wrote me a few months ago:
Kimmy you are like my second mother, you have been there for me through everything in life, well maybe not everything but pretty darn close. And i know you didn't get to come school shopping this year but in the dressing room while i was dancing in my underwear and a babydoll shirt i thought of you and how you always sat in the dressing room and every year told me how big my boobs have gotton and today i missed you alot. And even though the older i get and the earlier school starts i will always call and sing to you just to remind you that i love you and i always will and to be honest i think you are my favorite adult well besides my mom obviusly but seriously you never actually talk to me like i was a kid or anything you always talked to me as if i was one of your closet friends or something and thats why i think i'm so damn i mean darn cool. and now looking back on all the years of school shopping and missions and weekends and birthday parties and basicly life now i'm noticing how blessed i am to have somebody like you in my life and how much i appriciate all the stuff you have done for me. Well i love you and call me later.
Do you see? This kid means the world to me; there have been few people who have made me laugh as much as she does. One of the hardest things about moving 400 miles north was knowing I wouldn't be involved in her life on an almost daily basis anymore. It still stings a lot.

Whether or not I ever get the honor of being someone's mother I recognize I've aleady been blessed.

Today's post: definitely falls under the "laments" portion

"It's so unfair."

It's a phrase I hear a lot, sometimes from myself though I try to keep that to a minimum. I don't always succeed, but having been a bitch of a little kid, I have tried to grow out of my propensity to be a whiner. I don't like people who are and I want to be able to like myself - that's a fairly simple way to keep control over it.

For the first time since setting off on the fertility journey, I dreamed last night I was pregnant. I don't remember most of it; only a vague idea of bringing the positive pregnancy test stick into work to show the only person here who knows I'm trying and having her get all happy and then I woke up. And it was the opposite feeling of when you're trying to shake off a disturbing dream; I tried to cling to that excited feeling as long as I could. I'm pretty sure I was even smiling when I woke up, which might be a first. It lasted a little while, but sometime this morning it dissipated and turned on me, leaving me to feel, truly, that it's never going to happen. I hate even writing that; but my hobby is to document and it's the truth. Yes, I'm riding the newest theme park attraction, the EMOTIONS Roller Coaster, up and down and up and down, twisty and turny and oops I think I just threw up! Who wants to hop on board; come on - it's fun!?!

Actively trying to get pregnant has brought about a lot of highs and lows that weren't there before. Yes, it was something that was on my mind almost constantly, but that's different and a lot more vague than having actual real hope for the first time. And then reading all the statistics. And the stories about people who have done this for years. The first failed attempt. It has been a real challenge at times not to turn into a sniveling whiny titty-baby and I'm sure at times I have.

To try not to say or even think "It's not fair."

I've now heard about two different families who seem to be well-known in the blogosphere and who have both lost babies in the past few days. I haven't really looked into it that much beyond what is being said on Twitter, because I know my limits and I know this isn't something that would be at all good for me, especially right now. I hadn't read or known about the families previously, so there would be no real reason for me to give my condolences. They're certainly in my thoughts and if there was a way I could figure out how to do anything in my power to make them feel better, I'd do it. Unfortunately there isn't.

This doesn't mean I think what I'm dealing with has been diminished; I've never felt one tragedy cancels another out or ever dispense this gem to someone who's hurting: "Well, you should feel lucky for what you have because so and so and these and those have it so much worse." I myself do feel very lucky most of the time. But it's like finding out my marriage was falling apart the day after September 11th - I was horrified on both counts and one had nothing to do with the other. I don't think I've ever heard it put any better than Swistle, who has the perfect disclaimer right on the heading of her blog: "I acknowledge my luckiness, without giving up my claim to the suckiness." I don't think I could ever find a better example of the point I'm trying to get across.

Grace has always had this saying, "Whatever Kimmy wants, Kimmy gets." It sounds bitchy when you don't know the entire context of it; she actually says that to encourage me to keep hoping for whatever it is I'm hoping for because things usually do work out okay in the end. (I think. Grace? You're not secretly harboring a voo doo doll of me, right? No, you wouldn't do that after all the time and effort and money you've spent helping keep me alive) During the marital rift she calmly told me one night when I was losing my shit particularly badly, "If you want to stay married, you will stay married," and whaddaya know, she was right. But there are those annoying pesky times like now, when my brain is mocking me, going You actually think this is going to happen, fool? Bitch, please! What even makes you think you deserve it? Oh, you've wanted it so long and so badly and you'll be good parents - that's supposed to justify it? Millions of people want to eat today too, but that shit ain't happening either. And I want to ask Grace, "So how about this one; am I going to get this one too? No really - I want your guaranteed seal of approval, because what you're telling me and what I'm telling me are two totally different things entirely. And I like yours better."

The other day Sister told me there's a good possibility she and Travis are going to England in June. Remember, that place I posted about a couple of months ago, the one I called my number one most dream place? Yeah, that's the one. Now, if you know me and/or my sister, you know there's nothing in the world I want more than for good things to happen to her. She's one of the most generous, giving, hardworking, kind-hearted person in the world, and she's married to the other one. But, and Sister do not take this the wrong way or I'll drive down there and put a rotten baloney sandwich in your mailbox, sometimes I just have to wonder where I veered and what the fuck happened. Come on, I'd be a big lying liar if I didn't admit that. Or maybe it's just simple like when I told Brian's mom about it the other day: "Well, Kim (Kee-yim) I'm sorry, you didn't marry a rich man." She is nothing if not direct and to the point. And this is her beloved first-born she's talking about, so it's not like she meant any malice with that statement. I just had to laugh.

This is starting to head toward dangerous pity party territory and I know it's a slippery slope once you get started. Like I said, I don't like whining so I hope this wasn't taken in that tone because that's not how I meant it. I don't have the talent to sometimes accurately spit out what's going on in my head; I just know it gets a little crowded in there if I don't let some of it out sometimes.

Life. Sometimes it isn't fair. But I will buck up; I always do. In the meantime I'll take the useful advice my prolific husband once said: (and trust me, he was joking because otherwise he wouldn't still be walking amongst the living)
"Quit your bitchin' and get in the kitchen."

Perspective

I've made an effort to try not to bitch too much over the past few days...oh, a little escapes here and there because I am still myself after all, but I've mostly tried to keep the raging, obscenity-laced, whiny, tearful, irrational and almost unrelenting feelings to myself and a few lucky people. I don't get like this very often, I don't like it and I don't want to spread my misery around.

Obviously I am really disappointed with the unsuccessful first IUI. It took a few days I think for me to get over the fact that even though everything happened as it was supposed to and that there are no obvious problems, it just didn't happen this time. I also had to get used to the idea of round two, which started this morning. When you start riding the Fertility Express, all the experts advise not to live your life in thirty-day increments and to keep living your life as normally as possible. Well I tried that, but it is hard not to think about it every single day, when most days involve either peeing into a cup, getting prodded in your baby-hole, taking this pill, taking that pill, taking this shot, etc. Inspecting your underwear, for the love of God.

This morning, for instance, started with the special treat of the Day 3 ultrasound, which is a bloody mess of a good time and fairly painful as well. Again, a new nurse in training was there in attendance with my regular hole-poker and she was teaching her how to read the screen and pointing out where my eggs and whatever were. All while putting intense pressure on my girl region with the large phallic Wand of Invasion; it was a bit much today. It also caused the exam to take a full five minutes longer than most times and five minutes is a long time when you're in pain. I thought about farting on her for spite but then figured I better not. It wouldn't strike her as a revenge thing so much as it would just look like an accident and then I'd have to act embarrassed and who has that kind of energy at 8:00 in the morning? Anyway, starting tonight it's back to the pills and shots and in another week we'll see what kind of follicle action I have going on.

Which just so happens to completely screw any plans I had for going to Florida. Even postponing it for a week wouldn't really work, as Brian's truck is going to need tons more money thrown at it before it will run again. Tons. And as anxious as I was to get away for a little while and go be with people I love, I can't come close to justifying it. "Okay Honey, you stay here and deal with all this shit by yourself while I go traipsing off on vacation. See you next week!" That's not me; I guess I don't qualify to be a Real Housewife of Whatever County, because I'm quite sure any of them would have no problem with it. That's the problem with having a conscience. And a soul. And not starring on a Bravo reality show.

So yeah, I was feeling pretty poopy thinking about all this on my way back into work this morning. Then I sat down to the computer to read a few blogs while drinking some coffee (YES, I AM DRINKING COFFEE RIGHT NOW; DOES ANYONE HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THAT???) and got a shock. A blogger I've read for awhile and really enjoy, well, her husband passed away last night from heart failure. Right around the time me and the dog were taking our nice nightly walk. It was almost a screeching tire sound effect that happened in my brain as soon as I read that. My heart broke for her. And I felt like a complete and total schmuck. THESE are the problems I'm bitching about? Not getting pregnant on the first try, postponing a vacation and car trouble? What the hell is wrong with me. Yesterday when I was at a low point, I called Brian and burst into ugly, hiccuping, hysterical tears. He does what he always does and helped me to get a grip and even made me laugh before we got off the phone. That? Is everything to me. I'm so lucky for that. I'm done complaining. I'm sure it won't last forever, but that was a little wake-up call right there.

For that lady's husband, for my Dad who passed away seven years ago Sunday and for my friend Lisa who has been gone one year this coming Sunday:

"and, when he shall die...
take him and cut him out in little stars and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night" - William Shakespeare

"Turn around and say good morning to the night/For unless they see the sky/But they can't and that is why/They know not if it's dark outside or light" - Elton John

Some of the best laid plans

Woody Allen has this great quote (well, he has a lot of great quotes and also his books are so much better than his movies and a lot of people don't know that except I do want to see Vicky Cristina Barcelona if only for the Scarlett Johansson/Penelope Cruz make-out scene) and anyway the quote is this:
"If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans." He also said "Why are our days numbered and not, say, lettered?" but that's not really relevant to my point.

You know how in job interviews they sometimes ask Where do you see yourself five years from now? Just once I'd like to have the balls to answer truthfully: I have a hard time seeing where I'll be five days from now. Because I should know better than to write things down on my calendar(s), in pen anyway, until after they've occured. That is the number one way to jinx myself, such is the power of my pen to paper.

We were supposed to go bowling last night. Until Brian's truck took a dump and he spent two days working on it only to find out it's going to cost another five hundred dollars or so before it's fixed and I don't know about you, but we don't have five hundred lying around the house anywhere. Well, I shouldn't assume - you may very well have five hundred lying around somewhere, but I can assure you we do not. This might take a few days. He was gone from 7:30 yesterday morning until 9:30 last night working on it and all we did when he got home was eat bacon, watch part of a fishing documentary (still impatiently waiting for Deadliest Catch to begin) and went to bed at 10:30.

I was supposed to leave for Florida on Tuesday. Then things at work started happening so that this coming week looks a little like a guided tour through hell, the aforementioned truck took all our money and it started making a lot more sense for me to go the following week instead. And although I don't want to be cynical about it, I hesitate to get too excited until I actually wake up one morning next week, look around, and realize I'm at Sister's house. I really want to be at Sister's house.

Treat yourself as if you were already pregnant, the nurse said over two weeks ago. Okay, that's easy enough, I guess. Until I peed on a stick that turned very rude and said NO when all I asked of it was for it to say YES. I'm sorry, but NO doesn't follow along with the plans I was excitedly, if tentatively, making. In my head, not on my calendar(s) of course, because even I'm not that stupid.

"Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." John Lennon said that one. So, I guess that's what's going on right now. Life sounds much better than in the interim, limbo, or purgatory. It's just life. Which is still better than the alternative.

Take this job and shove it

Catching up on some blog reading this morning and I ran across the always amusing Whiskey, who wrote about some bad jobs she's had in the past. This is a topic that never gets old for me, as whenever I'm having a less-than-fun day at work, all I have to do is reach back to the dusty files of my mind and pull a wretched job memory from my past. There are plenty to choose from and it never fails to put things into perspective.

This subject also came up the other night while talking with two friends who had both just quit working at a horrible place, the only benefit being they'd met each other during their short tenures there. They told some horrifying things about it; the building that had no windows, the broken promises especially when it came to their pay, the no-breaks rule, the no-talking to co-workers rule, the having to sneak next door to grab a soda since the bastard owner didn't even supply a vending machine rule. Answering phones all day to people who threatened lawsuits. I could literally feel their relief at having this place be in their past; I've been there quite a few times. Those jobs you leave on Friday afternoons like Fred Flintsone leaving the quarry, all Yabba Dabba Doo, blasting loud music in your car, relishing the two days of freedom ahead, only to have Sunday night arrive all too quickly, when you then experience the dread in the pit of your stomach wondering how you will be able to bear another week of the place. There's nothing worse.

If I ever wrote a completely HONEST resume' (and who really ever does that?), it would have to include the following:

- Call Center for Dell computer tech support - I lasted the three-week training period, period. After hearing about how bad it sucked there from the full-time employees and seeing for myself the lack of will to live I felt every time I entered the building, I knew the sooner I got out the better it would be for everyone, mostly me.

- Data Entry/Customer Complaint person for well-known satellite TV company - This was one of those places that had no windows and a very factory-like atmosphere that also included no breaks. Excuse me, but having a basic knowledge of human resources, I am aware that employers are required to give two fifteen minute breaks for every eight hours an employee works. I don't know how these places get away with not providing that, except maybe no one has ever complained? I don't know. I lasted there for about a month, until I bugged the temp agency enough and they found me something else. Don't put a smoker on a job assignment that doesn't provide breaks, assholes. Actually, don't put a NON-smoker in a Nazi place like that at all.

- "Paralegal" for small desperate lawfirm - The lawyer who owned this firm had just recently parted ways with the larger lawfirm in town and was Very Bitter and also ready to Prove Herself. Some of the office staff's duties beyond the scope of legal assisting included: making her nail/hair/facial appointments, making her dinner reservations, picking up/dropping off her dry cleaning, vacuuming and dusting the office including the upstairs which was also personal quarters for she and her husband...and this woman was a cold-hearted bitch on top of it all. She was on her third marriage at the time, something I'm still sad I didn't bring up when she gave me my 90-day review and told me she had accomplished so much more than I did by the time she was my age (27 at the time). I walked out of that review and quit via phone call the next day. Later I found out within several months of my leaving, her law partner had also left and she only had one person from her original staff who loyally stuck by her side. And that person was related to her.

- Jewelry Counter Person at Walmart: I also lasted only the duration of the training period, plus one shift. I hear it's not a bad company to work for; I wouldn't really know.

- Accounting Drone in small town courthouse: I really thought I'd enjoy this job. We were back in my hometown for the summer so Brian could work as an intern on a golf course before starting school. I knew I wouldn't be there permanently and did feel guilty about that...at first. After three months of bitchy catty office women, non-stop gossip and monotonous boring pencil and paper pushing, I could barely contain my glee upon turning in my resignation letter. They were not pleased with me leaving after three months, but hey - shit happens. To you, fuckers! Hahaha!

- Bookeeper for small construction company: This was a job I took after we first moved back up here, while waiting an agonizing month to get an interview at USC. I didn't mind the twenty mile commute. I didn't mind the 7:30 to 5:00 work day with half-hour lunch. I didn't mind it was out in the middle of nowhere so the half-hour lunch was spent reading in my car. I might have minded the fact there were no paid sick or vacation days until after you'd worked there for a year and they only gave five paid holidays per year as well. I might have minded that, had I stayed long enough. What I did mind was the owner of the company and his male-chauvenistic, tightwad, Type A Heart Attack at Any Moment Screaming Fits at his entire office staff almost daily.

I loved how I ditched this job so much; in fact it ranks among my favorite cut and run stories of my whole life. On a beautiful sunny early October afternoon after working at this place almost a month, I got the call I was waiting for; the college had decided to hire me. My now-boss apologized for the lengthy hiring process and asked if I could start the following Monday. I told her I couldn't wait. I then started thinking about how I could make my great escape with the least amount of awkwardness (for myself). That night, I didn't sleep. Instead, I stayed up scheming and wrote them a three page letter about how I was sorry for having to leave on such short notice, but that maybe they should show their appreciation to the poor girl who I was leaving behind; the one they were paying nine bucks an hour and no benefits who worked her ass off for them. I saved a copy of the letter in my journal.

The next morning, a Friday, was payday. I drove out there with a spring in my step and a song in my heart, though I was pretty nervous. Because of stressing about it all night, it had taken on Mission Impossible-type logistics in my head. I parked at the edge of their small dirt parking lot, as close to the road as possible. I walked into the office and straight to my desk, where I knew my paycheck would be. The office was one big room; everybody could see you at all times. I didn't see the check there at first and started to freak, until I noticed it sitting on my keyboard, no envelope or anything, just a plain check sitting right there in front of the construction guys and everyone to see. Professional. But whatever; I grabbed that bitch and replaced it with my letter. I told girls I needed to get something out of my car and they barely noticed, with the early morning commotion going on (which was a key component of my evil plan). I calmly walked out of the building, my steps quickening the closer and closer I got to my car. I got in and without looking to see if anyone saw me, got the fuck out of there. I drove straight to the bank they had their account with and cashed the check immediately. I didn't know if they would try to hold the money or what, but I wasn't taking any chances. After that I went shopping and bought myself a new outfit to wear on my first day back to work at the college; the job I'd been waiting to go back to for so long. It was such a happy day. And to this day, whenever we pass that stupid place on the way out to my inlaws' house, I give it the ol' one-finger salute every time. With a big-ass smile on my face - suckers!

Lest you think I'm a bad person or without a conscience, let me just say this. Most of my jobs have been great experiences and I'm a very caring and loyal employee. I am still in touch with a lot of my past co-workers to this day and they're now more like family than anything else. I've cried and been cried over several jobs upon leaving them. When you work for good people, you want to do the best job you can possibly do for them; at least I do. But if you're an asshole of a boss? I have no kind thoughts or words for you. If you can't at least FAKE treating your employees with respect, go fuck yourself.

Anyway, those are some of my horror stories. If you ever feel the need to share some of yours, I'd love to hear them.

We'll make them turn their heads everyplace we go

One of the running jokes in the movie Baby Mama was Sigourney Weaver's character, a woman in her fifties, who is still cranking out babies the old-fashioned way, while poor Tina Fey stands by helpless and barren. I laughed at the obvious gross-out factor, but then I thought about it: I'M (hopefully) going to be an "older mom" too. Excuse me while I go pop my prenatal vitamin and my Geritol.

I just turned forty. With luck and all that, say I get pregnant this spring. Figuring in the gestation period, multiplying by three, solving for X, that means by the time the baby is actually here, I'll be close to or actually be forty-one. Okay. I know that's not the big deal it used to be and it still doesn't quite put me in freak category, but it is something to think about. Some of my friends have teenagers already. Two of my friends who are barely two years older than I am are GRANDMOTHERS already, both three times over. Lisa, may she rest in peace, left behind three kids and three grandkids as well when she passed away at forty-two. Judging from this scale, I'm WAY behind schedule.

But I try not to judge from a scale or make too many comparisons, because if this is the way it worked out for me and let's hope it does, I don't feel bad about it. I don't think I'll be shunned in any social circles for it and if I am, well I guess there's not much I can do about it. Also, with my young-ish looks and the miracle of modern science, who says I can't fool people into thinking I'm in my MID-THIRTIES anyway! This though, would mean I give two shits about what anyone really thinks about it. I'm realizing more and more that I don't. One of the benefits of getting older, I guess.

Fertility treatment has been in the news a lot lately, what with that psycho mother of fourteen and all. It's brought up a lot of questions regarding the ethics and morals of this practice and the fact it probably should be regulated a lot more than it is. I agree with that. But I also think if this is the only way I could become a parent (besides adoption of course) and that it helps many other women similar to myself, it's a very good and positive thing. It's a damn miracle, actually.

Sometime in the next week or so, I start taking drugs, man. Fertility drugs, that is. Of course I've done extensive research, spending hours of internet time, reading about all the positives and negatives of the particular drugs I'll be taking. One thing I can say about all this. I used to think all it took to make a baby was having sex. Oh ho HO, how wrong I was. I've learned more about the reproductive system, bodily fluids, and long hard-to-pronounce words in the last two months than I ever thought possible. And I'm about to learn a whole lot more. Whoa.

Worry #1,205: Embarrassing my kid at his/her high school graduation when I fall down the bleachers and break my hip.

Older, wiser (?)

It just hit me: This is the last day of my thirties. I called Brian to freak out a little and he said, yeah but you have a whole year before you're actually in your forties. Logically that is wrong, but I'll take what I can get. Then I thought, wait. If I was alive from Day 1 to Day 364, which I was, I've actually already been in my fortieth year for a whole year and didn't even notice. So it must not be that bad. Right? Right. Forty is the new thirty. That's something only forty-year-olds say I think.

I've never actually been impressed or bothered by pivotal birthdays. Witness:

Sweet Sixteen - Eh. I didn't live in a town where it was requisite to have a big rented place type blow-out or keep with the traditional Jewish sixteenth birthday present and get a nose job. My parents took me out to dinner at Inverness's finest restaurant located in the historic Crown Hotel, and I had prime rib. There's a picture of my dad and I dancing from that night that's awesome, and that's about it. I lost my virginity ten days later. Oops.

Eighteen - This was actually a good one. My dad bought me my first car, a Suzuki Samurai. (Unfortunately, I skipped school a few weeks later and got it taken away for a month, right around the time I finally got comfortable using the stick shift, damn it.) The day of my birthday, I shot the best round of golf of my life, with only my friend Mikey as a witness. The weather was a perfect February Florida day and the golf course was insanely busy, but I wasn't giving up on that game. Two over par - a record that has yet to be broken.

Twenty-one: Again, my parents took me out to eat, this time along with some of my friends. I don't remember what I ate, but I ordered my first legal drink, an Alabama Slammer. I was between boyfriends at the time, so spent the rest of the evening drinking with the girls. I don't remember much else about it.

Twenty-five: Is this an important one? Oh yeah, my car insurance went down. That was exciting. But I was just under two years away from meeting Brian, so actually my twenty-seventh birthday was way more memorable because it was on that night we did it for the first time. Before that, he made me dinner and we'd rented the Antonio Banderas movie Desperado, a movie that was so interesting, we decided having sex would be way more preferrable. Twice.

Thirty: Most of my friends freaked out over this one, but I avoided feeling weird about it by having a party to celebrate our engagement instead. Some smartass still snuck a 30th birthday cake into the festivities, but I don't ever really mind extra cake.

And so now this is forty, which - cool. The most important thing about this one is this will hopefully (hope, pray, every finger and toe crossed, every penny tossed, wishing on every star, ask the Magic 8 ball, etc.) be the year I become a mother. I think that overshadows any angst about getting older; there are plenty of legitimate things coming very soon to worry about; how convenient for me. I like that my decade beginners, both this time and last time coincide with the bigger, life-changing events. It's certainly one way to keep perspective. I'm not sure what this means for my fiftieth, but I'm looking forward to finding out. Maybe that's the year I'll win the Nobel Peace Prize. You never know.

This isn't the first time it will fall on a Friday the 13th either, but I'm not scared. Thirteen is my lucky number, obviously. And the more I look around and take stock, the more I do feel very lucky.

Hope I don't regret this later, but whatever

I've been sort of hinting around and going back and forth on whether or not I should write about this, but what I've found in the short time since I started this silly blog thing is many new cool people and a lot of unexpected support about stuff I'd normally only share with one or two close friends. It's my favorite part of this whole business.

So here's the deal. As you may have gathered from past posts, I've been married a long-ass time (almost ten years, WHAT!) and we're childless. You've probably also noticed I desire one of those baby-things pretty much more than I want to continue to breathe fresh air every day. Basically I'm Heather-opposite. She and I were discussing it the other day and it was really interesting to compare notes with someone who's about my age (though she still has one more year before the big 4-0 and I have but mere weeks), yet has very good reasons for why she doesn't desire to procreate and is at complete peace with her decision. I wish more people were that self-aware and that all women who felt as I do get their wish and all women with her feelings realize they can lead a full life without being a mother. I've seen too many examples of women who end up with a baby and then treat the child like an inconvenience; something to deal with as minimally as possible so they can concentrate on other important things like shopping or partying or screwing around...whatever. I've tried to remain positive and not become (too) bitter throughout the years.

In September of 2002, I suffered a miscarriage when I was very newly pregnant, and when we'd just gotten over our little marital hiccup (I like to quote Ross from Friends: "We were on a BREAK!") and had very recently gotten back together. The morning I took the test, I called Brian at work and he got so excited, he immediately called his parents. I neglected to tell him we probably should've waited awhile longer before telling people since there are risks at the beginning, but because he told them already, I also told family and a couple of close friends. We couldn't help it; we were both really happy. That's not a good thing when a few weeks later you have to call those same people and tell them "Nevermind." That part SUCKED.

The reason they gave me for the failed pregnancy was that I had low Progesterone, a hormone necessary to carry a baby successfully. I have a friend I met two years after that who suffered one in the same month and year and for the exact same reason. Since that time, they've come a long way toward fixing that with very simple measures - they check your levels and if it's low, you take Progesterone supplements throughout the pregnancy.

We were both understandably upset and disappointed, though coming off of the year we'd just had, it almost seemed like just the last bad thing to happen to us in a long line of shitty things. I think we were more happy about the fact we finally knew we COULD get pregnant, since it hadn't happened at all up to that point (and I stopped taking birth control the month we got engaged, December 1998).

Obviously it never happened again. Not that we were actively trying during all of the subsequent years, but I did buy ovulation tests and thermometers and counted days on the calendar and had sex during the right times. On and off, trying to take everyone's advice with the "Just relax and it'll happen; so and so tried for X number of years and..." or "So and so tried for so long, finally adopted and then boom, pregnant!" or "Don't think/worry/stress about it; it'll happen!" You know how useful advice like that are when it DOESN'T happen year after year after year? About as useful as playing the lottery to secure retirement funds.

So. Fast-forward to last month. Brian was having lunch with his stepdad one day and they were just shooting the shit, not talking about anything in particular. Out of nowhere, George asked Brian what he was getting me for Christmas and Brian said, "I don't know; I think she mentioned something about wanting a new watch." Then George said, "What about if I help you all try to have a baby. I've done some research and I know In Vitro Fertilization usually costs around $10,000 and I could probably help out with the cost if you want."

Keep in mind this is the same man who once didn't buy eggs for Brian's mom when she needed them for cookies she was making for a family get-together because they were too expensive in his opinion. He uses his pocket knife to unwrap gifts to preserve the paper for later use. He reimbursed me a dollar the other day because I bought plastic cups at Dollar General for an open house he was having. He is Very Careful about where and how his money goes. I make fun of his cheapness, which is kind of dumb considering he has a very lucrative real estate career going on and I have to sometimes use a calculator to see if we can afford two different kinds of cereal some weeks. And while he's always been generous to us, you can imagine how completely dumbfounded we were.

Brian came home that day and told me the news the night I'd made my first lasagne (which up until that point I thought was going to be the big news of our day - "Look, Baby! My first lasagne!") and actually told me the news as I was taking my first bite. Needless to say, I did not eat lasagne that night. And damn it, I'd been craving that shit for over a week. I spent the evening online for hours researching local fertility places and the next day I'd made our first appointment. Not that George would say something like that then go back on it, but you know - why take a chance?

It's now been a little over a month of doctor's visits, bloodwork, consuming an ever-growing handful of pills and vitamins every day and living with the knowledge that after all this time, we finally (yet oh-so-very cautiously) have hope again. Based on how everything works (and you can believe me when I say I now know more about the reproductive process than I ever thought possible), it looks like the first attempt at insemination will happen sometime around the end of next month.

Well! I feel so much better now; how about you? No more evasive discussions about my thyroid issues or why I'm quitting smoking (down to six cigs a day and I don't want to hear from any Judgy Judgersons about why it's not zero yet - quitting smoking is HARD, dude) or why I'm talking so much about my health. This is obviously a highly personal topic, but you know what? So is marriage and family issues and a lot of other things I write about here. Like I said, I've found almost nothing but positive feedback from keeping this blog and right now I need all the good thoughts, positive energy, and prayers I can get. The most common theme you read about with infertility is staying calm and staying positive and while those two things have always been a significant challenge for me, it now needs to be a way of life.

So, I guess...wish me luck?

Hither and yon

One of the (many) side effects of this new thyroid medicine I'm finding is the snapping wide awake every morning between 4 and 5 a.m. And when I say awake I mean A-FUCKING-WAKE. I'm not even trying to roll over and hug those warm beasts in my bed anymore; not even pretending like I'm going back to sleep. I know later on that night I'll be nodding off between 8:30 and 9 anyway, so what difference does it make? It also makes no difference whatsoever if I get twelve hours of sleep or five; I'm crackhead-hyper in the morning and heroin-junkie tired in the early evening. It's the most awesome thing ever. If you find emails from me at some strange hour of the day or night, do not be alarmed. The doctor assured me things will even out after a few weeks. I said, That's cool. After I few weeks I won't be a crackhead or a junkie anymore, I'll have just passed straight on through to hallucinating like I took the brown acid at Woodstock.

What's with all the drug references today?

So I was on Facebook this morning (don't ask me why; that shit is so annoying), looking at that thing that allows you to list all the cities you've been to. So I did it for fun, woohoo. But it made me realize how many cities I've actually lived in and the number surprised me. Here are the eleven towns, in chronological order:

Kerhonkson, NY
Sarasota, FL
Wildwood, FL
Inverness, FL (I was there during my formative years, from 12 to 23 years old, and it's here I think of when I hear the word "hometown")
Montgomery, AL
Tallahassee, FL
Lexington, SC
Columbia, SC
Lake City, FL
Brandon, FL
Riverview, FL

Now keep in mind, this list is way different than the list of times I've MOVED, since Inverness, Brandon and Columbia are all repeats and I've moved back and forth, thisaway and thataway and it's way too confusing to go into; all I know is that for awhile my cousin and I were in a contest to see who was moving the most often and everyone we knew started writing our addresses down in pencil, if at all. After getting together with Brian especially, we've lived a somewhat nomadic existence and he'll be the first to admit to enjoying somewhat of a gypsy-like lifestyle. He's also the type that when things are too calm and halfway normal he starts to panic, but hopefully that's settling down a little now. I have quite a long resume', as you might imagine and while it's good to have a well-rounded working experience, it's not so good that the longest I've ever stayed at a job was a little over three years.

There are pluses and minuses to all ways of life of course, but I'm actually thankful for all my movement. Though I detest packing and unpacking and pretty much everything else that goes along with the actual physical move, I've gotten to experience and be challegned by a bunch of cute and/or weird houses, learn to live with the personalities and quirks of different places and have been lucky enough to make some beautiful friendships along the way from everywhere I've been. Of course this means I'm ALWAYS missing SOMEONE, but that comes with the territory. And lucky for all of us living here in the age of the www, I'm able to keep in touch with them all! On a very regular basis. That's some crazy shit if you stop and think about it.

Ever since leaving here, I wanted to come back, even though I do love me some Florida and also many Florida people. And Upstate New York? Thems my ROOTS, baby, and just the smell of the Catskill mountains makes me happier than almost anything in the world. NYC is my favorite city in the world. As a teenager I vowed I'd live there again someday and I do get sad sometimes that didn't come to pass. But hey, the show ain't over yet; you never know. I've always fancied Seattle and the Pacific Northwest too. And if there's anything I've learned in my almost forty years on this freaky planet - it might be okay to unpack and settle in for a little while, but don't ever get too comfortable.

Is it any wonder this has always been my favorite quote:
"All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring; renenwed shall be blade that was broken, the crownless again shall be king."

I know you know who said it, but to save you a Google, it was J.R.R. Tolkein. I guess there are worse things one could compare one's life to than that of a Hobbit's.

Forty's going to be precious

In preparing some work for next month, I realized in a few weeks my birthday is happening. Then I realized I'm turning 40. Then I thought, huh.

I stopped caring too much about my birthday a few years back because they used to be so awesome that if one year it happened to fall in the middle of the week and was a total dud, I wouldn't be so disappointed. It's a birthday. Biggie. But I think birthdays ending in 0 should be sort of recognized more than usual. I guess. My only real wish is to see snow, which sounds idiotic to those of you in northern climes, but it's true. It's been a few years since I've seen any - last winter we got a couple of "wintery mix/freezing rain" days, but no fluffy white stuff. It's horseshit.

To see snow, I merely need to travel a hundred miles or less north/northwestward and it's really not that hard to do. So, now it's official: that's what I want to do. Honey, do you hear that? Wait, I don't call you Honey. Baby? That sounds stupid when I say it here. What's your name again? Dude. I want to see snow; you think you can make my birthday dream come true? I'd be so excited and happy. That was the plan last year until the entire month of February was taken up by people coming to visit me from Florida. Which I will never turn down. This year no one has any money and/or has stopped wanting to see me. Not to mention my birthday is on Friday the 13th, so what better plan than to take a truck that's not running very well up into the mountains to look for inclement weather. I didn't get to be this old without being this smart, let me tell you.

Forty. I still enjoy seeing the jaw-dropping looks of disbelief when I tell people my age, I'll admit that. Besides a few lines around the eyes and a couple of stupid gray (I typed gay by mistake; that works too) hairs, I don't think I look my age. Unless this is what forty looks like. Which, cool. But what I say to people who at first act like, Wow! and then give me the side-eye, is it's probably going to all fall apart at once - I'll wake up one day (hopefully a long LONG time from now) and look something like this:


I'll start calling everybody My Precious and become obsessed with yellow gold rings again, just like in the 80's. Then I'll toss myself into a live volcano.

Thanks, Tolkein, for always having the answers.

It's FUN being a girl

Tomorrow I get to go to an appointment where I'll strip down to almost nothing but a paper shirt, sit back on a reclining chair, put my feet up in stirrups (DAMN, gotta do toenails tonight) and let a stranger nose around and check out my innards. It's not like this is anything new; I've been subjected to this atrocity for almost twenty-five years now. But no matter how many times I go through it, it NEVER gets any easier or more fun.
I realize I'm lucky to be able to afford healthcare.
We're lucky to have the technology to prevent a slew of problems by doing nothing more than getting a check-up. We live in amazing and wonderful medical times and I shouldn't complain.
But.

I was thinking about it. As with household chores, men sort of most of the time almost always get off easier than women. What's the most humiliating thing a man goes through at the doctor - the prostate exam and that ball-grabbing, turn the head and cough thing? Please! If I knew tomorrow the doctor would only have to grab my boobs and make me cough, I'd be a hell of a lot less freaked right now. And I'll admit I don't know exactly what goes on in a prostate exam, but I'd be willing to guess it doesn't involve a cold sharp speculum.
And...say we're ever in the position to become parents...I just wonder how it got arranged so that the balance of jobs got tipped so far one way in the woman's favor. Of course I WANT a child, of course I'm willing to go through whatever hellish nightmare lies in store in order to GET a child, but damn. It's scary.

I like being a girl. Most of the time when you catch me saying stuff like this, it's the day before a doctor's appointment or something similar. Maybe one day out of the month, every twenty-eight days or so. But now is not the time for complaints. It's time to buck up and be a brave little soldier. Did you know a certain tribe of Indians used to stick tiny pieces of pine into a person and light it on fire so the person could actually watch themselves slowly burn to death?

Sorry for that visual, but what I'm trying to say (and convince myself) is that it could be worse. Much worse.

I also just found out my cousin is having breast reduction surgery today. This is what I mean. Through no fault of her own, she got stuck with huge and I mean humongous boobs ever since she was thirteen and has dealt with backaches and bad jokes for twenty years. Now she's going through a painful surgery trying to get rid of both, I'm guessing.

I'm done. I'm not bitter or unhappy, just nervous.

Welcome to my brain

I've talked a lot about my neurosis. I'm a champion worrier, so much so that if there's actually nothing for me to actually worry about, I get worried because things are going too well. It says a lot about me that I can only relax when something is wrong. Luckily, there's usually something wrong, so I'm usually fairly happy. If not, I will either create something random (What if one of our cars break down? What if we become the victims of a drive-by shooting while at the convenience store? What if that big, sort of dead-looking tree falls on our house?) Don't laugh at that last one; during a hurricane one year, trees were dropping like flies and we ended up with a crunched fence but had it blown the other way, we would've had a brand new tree-made skylight in our bedroom. Or else I'll get excited over the good things that are going on, but for me excitement feels a lot like anxiety.

Issues.

Last night I was up until three, excitedly anticipating my trip to see April today. Unfortunately the trip got postponed, but that doesn't mean I'll sleep any better tonight. After all, I only have three days of work left before the long vacation and there's a lot I'm excited about. Going to Florida, seeing my favorite people, Christmas and its related activities, etc. But, there's always the chance that the dog could fly off the back porch after a squirrel and break his leg, causing a vet bill that could wipe out our bank account. You never know. And then what? THEN WHAT???

It makes me wonder about how I'll be should I ever become a parent. Grace has teased me about this before and I had no choice but to agree with her. If my anxiety level is like this with just two people to worry about (not that I just worry about us, but you know what I mean), add another person into the mix and let's see how jacked up over nothing I can get! Luckily Brian is the opposite, or maybe I should say more normal one, who only worries about things when it's warranted. Oh, to be that serene. Without the aid of drugs. I wouldn't know what to do with myself with all that extra time and energy.

I ended up going shopping with Iris yesterday and though it was unplanned, had a really nice day. She is so cute. She has a lot of people to shop for, but to keep things fair in her mind, she has a little notebook she keeps with her so she doesn't end up getting somebody more than somebody else. This even includes George, her husband. I don't know - it does seem a little anal, but on the other hand it's not a bad system. (Aside: Linens 'N Things is going out of business. Or at least the one here is. While I do prefer Bed, Bath & Beyond it was still depressing to go through a nearly empty store and realize in nine days it would all be gone. If I ever had that experience at a Gap or Target store I might need a strong drink afterwards.) (But we did get great deals on Yankee Candles, so there's that.)

I just noticed the date and realized I missed my annual tradition of having a moment of silence for John Lennon the other day. I suck. Also, on this date in 1983, I made out and almost went to second base with Pat, the guy I wrote about the other day, the one I drove twelve hours to see for twelve hours.

Now do you understand a little more of the things that float around in my head all the time? I went from anxiety to happy to sad about a store closing to remembering the first time I ever got felt up in the space of ten minutes. It takes talent.

Consider the source

Before I say what I'm going to say I'll remind you this post is being written by someone who does not have a child, who has tried a very long time to have a child, who tries to stay positive and not be bitter about it most of the time. It is however, something that exists somewhere in my mind at all times. All. Times. Whether I'm actively having a sad day over it, or I'm doing okay, it's there.

This time of year is obviously a little bit more of a challenge. In case you haven't noticed, this is a pretty kid-friendly holiday. I smile through getting together with our families and being the only ones kid-less. I feel a little stupid for putting up decorations just for us and whoever happens to come over, but I do it. When we get cards with pictures of everybody's beautiful kids and I send ones of our dog with antlers on. I enjoy this time of year enough so that I'm okay with everything most of the time; I certainly don't want my bullshit to take away from seeing all the babies and kids I live to see.

Considering all that, you'll understand maybe why the following story makes me want to climb the nearest bell tower and start shooting.

Over the weekend we stopped by the redneck friends' house for a few minutes to drop off some firewood. Brian and Nick did their thing unloading the truck and standing around the burn barrel for a few minutes, while I went inside to see Sheri and the kids. Making small talk, she happened to tell me some news about a good friend of hers, someone Brian also grew up with but never liked too much. My husband has never minded a skank here and there, but this girl goes beyond that. Anyway, he only likes hot skanks. This girl is hot-opposite. She even has the perfect skank name - Crystal. Sorry if I've offended any Crystals out there - I'm sure you're enjoying great success in your stripping career.

An aside: The first time I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Crystal, rather than saying "Hi" or "Nice to meet you," she turned to Brian and said, "Is she cool?" Neither of us knew how to respond to that, so she translated. It meant did I smoke pot. I'm telling you, this one is KLASSY.

Anyskank, Sheri told me in a very concerned way Crystal had had her baby prematurely. Not having totally remembered she'd been pregnant, I feigned interest and acted appropriately concerned. She then said the baby is in the hospital still and he's doing a little better now but they were really scared for a few days and he'll still have to be there probably through Christmas. That's sad, I'll admit and at this point, I was feeling a little bad. Until what she told me next.

You have to understand one thing about Sheri - she's a very sweet girl, someone who doesn't have a bad thing to say about anyone. This is why we'll never be really close friends; I'm way too cynical for that shit. But especially since Crystal is one of her friends, she tried to say this in the most diplomatic way possible, without being harsh or blaming Crystal. Not sure why she even told me this in the first place, but whatev.

Apparently when Crystal got pregnant this time it was a surprise (even though she has three kids already - I don't know, by now you'd think she'd understand what happens when she has lots of unprotected sex?) Her husband is like eighteen years older than her, but hey - at least she's married to this one, right? Way to go, Crystal, being all old-fashioned and shit. Regardless. After learning she was pregnant, she just couldn't seem to make herself stop smoking (obviously weed, but also cigarettes), nor from enjoying the occasional beer. She also has back problems, so Sheri thought maybe she took muscle relaxers as well. I guess since she'd done that with all of her other pregnancies and those babies came out just fine, she saw no reason to change anything this time around. Completely logical; I totally see her point.

Sheri continued talking but by then I'd stopped listening and sort of unfocused my eyes. Until she told me she was on her way over to visit Crystal and the baby in the hospital and asked if I'd like to go along with her. I politely declined. I then excused myself to go outside and told Brian it was time to go home. Like, now. On the way home, he asked if something was wrong. Sometimes he's observant like that. I told him the story. He sighed and said it didn't surprise him. And then, like he's told me many many MANY times, "Please try not to be upset," grabbed my hand and held it all the way home. He was working and trying so hard to get me back into a good mood, I did what I always do and buried it. It's a friend of a friend, someone I've only met a couple of times and who has no impact on my life whatsoever.

Retards have babies every day. Bad parents are everywhere. Kids who don't deserve it get treated like shit in ways I don't ever want to think about. It doesn't matter what I want or what I think is right; it's not going to change a fucking thing. But the next time someone gives me that old stand-by cliche, my all-time favorite "Everything happens for a reason"? They might not like what I say back. I guess it'll depend on what kind of mood I'm in, whether or not I fakely agree or slap them in the mouth. We'll just have to wait and see.

End rant.