Award shows are funny.

Hey Jude,
Don't be sad,
Chris Rock was kidding 'cause
He's a comedian.
The minute
You let him under your skin,
That's when Sean Penn
Will make it better.
(nah nah nah-nah nah, nah-nah-nah, heeey Jude.)

T Minus 1 Day

Not that I'm doing a countdown or anything, but..

A Peek Into My "Night Mind"

Here's a brief peek into how my brain works in the night, when I am experiencing high levels of stress. (This is from last night.)

11:30pm: [awake thoughts] My vegetarian meatballs. I must figure out what will help them stay together better. No soy. No gluten. Must think. Egg and bread crumbs, definitely. Maybe black bean paste? Hmm... quite a dilemma.

12:30am: [dream sequence] ABBA just lost two members: Agnetha and Ani-Frid! I must help Bjorn and Benny find replacement members before it's too late. And their names have to start with "A" or it won't be A-B-B-A! Bjorn: "Make sure they're hot!" Oh great, and I have to narrow the search down by looks too. Thanks, Bjorn.

1:45am: [awake thoughts] CHEESE! That will hold the meatballs together. YAY! But it get gooey when hot. Gooey means they might fall apart in the sauce. Dammit.

1:55am: [awake thoughts] I just heard a cat sneeze. Which cat? Kitty count.. hmm. ok, Tweaker is sleeping over my head. Effie is to my right. Lola and Mojo are at our feet. Shit, it's Nixon. Great, the diabetic cat has a cold. Urrrrgghhh....

2:00am: [awake thoughts] I have to think of a way to make more money. Maybe if you got off your lazy ass and wrote that book you keep talking about. Yeah, because that's guaranteed money! You are so arrogant.

2:30am: [dream sequence] I'm at work! AAHH! No, wait. It isn't work, it's a work party. We're watching movies on a screen. And I have a drink in my hand. Awesome. Oh shit, who gave HER control of the movies? Crap!! She wants to show political consipiracy movies and talk about them! NO!!! Screw this, I'm going to hang out in the lobby. Uhhhhh, wait, is the room flooding? Yes, it's flooding. I have to get to the lobby, but it is really hard to walk in all this water. Good thing I know how to swim. It's coming in so fast, though. Wow. It's kinda warm though. Warm? No, that's not the right word. It's getting hot. Really hot. Oh wow. Can you sweat while emersed in water? Yep. Ok, pshew! I made it to the lobby. Ummmm, there are gigantic white snakes in here. Lots of them. Eep!

2:45am: [awake thoughts] I just KNOW there's a giant white snake at the foot of the bed. I can't put my feet down there. I just hope it doesn't eat my cats. Cats. Nixon has to go to the vet. She needs her teeth cleaned, and while there the vet can check out the sneezing. Ugh. So much money.

4:00am: [dream sequence] I am eating CAKE!! Yummy yummy cake! So much cake. The room is full of cake, white cake, yellow cake, chocolate cake. Oh yuck, now I have a tummy ache.

4:30am: [awake] Sneezing!!!! My nose is itching me into insanity!

5:00am: [awake thoughts] I should add protein powder to the meatballs. Meat is a protein and if I don't have meat, I lack the protein. I must replace the protein. Oh right, I'm adding black bean paste and that's protein. What time is it? 5. Ok, will yourself back to sleep now.

5:30am: [dream sequence] I have to go to work. Sad clown. They bought me a doggie though and it's cute. Except that it just peed all over my office.

6:00am: [awake thoughts] It's Saturday! I don't have to go to work. Why am I awake at 6am? Aw screw it, I'm getting up.

The mood swings wide

It's been a while, so I guess I was overdue for a blue day. I got it tenfold today.

I tossed and turned all night, having one anxiety dream after another. One was that we'd adopted an embryo from Colombia. It was implanted and began to grow, but I didn't know it had. I expected it to do just as the others, miscarry. I drank, I took migraine medications, I did all the wrong things. I had an ultrasound that revealed that the baby had grown but I killed it by my negligence. The second dream was quite simply that I had donor eggs and my body killed them.

I worry every day about IVF. I am scared to death. I am scared that it won't work. I worry about the financial burden. I am scared that whether it works or not, the stress will be too much for Brad or myself or both of us. I am scared that I will want this more than anyone else. I am terrified.

I have a tangle of feelings and thoughts about everything. I always feel that my body let me down. I feel like I'm creating a nuisance by my persistence to have a child. I am angry. Why didn't my body do what it was supposed to do? Why do I have to feel miserable because I want to have a child no matter how much it costs or how long I will be in debt to pay for the procedure?

The most common reply I have been getting lately is to the effect of IVF is our answer. It's just a matter of time before we have a baby. I lack this confidence. I don't think it is that easy. The experiences over the last three and a half years is that nothing is guaranteed. And just because it happened for you or cousin Jane, doesn't mean it will happen to me. And that makes me sad.

I want someone to say it's ok to want these things. I don't want skepticism. I want there to be joy at the prospect of children. I am tired of feeling anxiety and fear.

Is that too much to ask?

I'm back.

I just returned from our mighty trip to Louisville, Kentucky. We drove straight there and straight back and DAAAAAAAMN I am tired. We did go tour Mammoth Cave, at least the Frozen Niagara portion. Now I can't friggin' walk from the sore muscles in my legs.

Also, me--big time subscriber to "Acrophobia". I am terrified of heights. Big bad phobe. And the "New Entrance" to Mammoth Cave is straight down 200 ft of moist stainless steel stairs that are over a super long drop. And of course it is a tight squeeze (good thing I am not claustrophobic too.) To top it off, the people in front of me went sloooooooooow and keep peering over the side, further freaking me out as I was stuck in the middle of a stairway. It sucketh.

However, we got to the bottom and it was completely worth it. So beautiful. I love Mother Nature's work, when she isn't busy screwing around with my reproductive tract.

Ok, time to go soak in epsom salt and then watch me some Lost Hobbitses.

"Some may never live, but the crazy never die."

-Hunter S. Thompson
(July 18, 1937–February 20, 2005)

R.I.P. Raoul Duke

Die maus ist mausetot

We live in a 100+ year-old house in a very old neighborhood in Atlanta. Mice sort of came with the mortgage. There aren't many, they are very cute, and we have an arrangement of sorts. They don't come in our house and we give them free reign of the crawlspace and any food-like debris that exists outside our home.

Occasionally one ventures into the home. And sadly, inevitably, it is murdered. But not in the way you'd expect a mouse to perish in a house with five female cats*. Perhaps it is because our cats are lazy. Perhaps it is that the fortune we've spent on rattle mousies have de-sensitized them to the true sport of chasing a live mouse. Perhaps they think rodents taste the way we expect them to taste--very bad. Whatever the case, mouse death is not on their consciences.

We kill the mice. Completely and utterly by accident. In tragically botched search and rescue missions designed to capture and transport said mousie to the outdoors where it would be free to return to the confines of the crawlspace at his or her liesure. It never goes according to plan.

Once upon a time, a little darling mousie stupidly came into our home. Nixon, the fattest of our five, thought to chase it into the guest bedroom. That's when Project Mouse Amnesty began. I saw where the frightened little fuzzball was hiding. He or she had crawled under the ammo box where I store my mementos (doesn't everyone?). I got suited up for the mission.

Rubber gloves. Check.
Tall mouseproof boots. Check.
Empty shoe box. Check.

I approached the hiding spot. Lifted the ammo box and...

...accidentally dropped it on the mouse.

...and then cried for four hours.

Brad removed its body and we held vigil for the lost beastie.

Well, today, stupid mouse #2 entered our home. He or she must not have gotten the memo that is tacked in visible locations throughout the crawlspace breakrooms. We didn't know there was a mouse in the house until we started doing our housecleaning ritual.

Search and rescue mission was on.

It had crawled under our backdoor rug. Brad didn't realize that was its location, and attempted to smooth out the rug with his foot.

*SQUEAK!*

Dammit. If only they'd stick to the notorized Mousie-Human Co-Habitation Contract we drew up NONE OF THIS would happen.

*female cats are typically the mousers of the breed. Except in this household, where they are the canned food eaters, strictly.

-------------------------

News item I don't give a rat's ass about #25321: Posh Spice has reproduced.. AGAIN. Woo-friggin'-woo.

Obligatory "Keyword Phrases" post

Every now and then, I check my webstats to find out HOW people find my website. It's truly fascinating to see what keywords direct people this way. I'd like to take a minute to address some of the more interesting keyphrases that I feel deserve a spotlight.

is ollie fertile after her period ... Hmmm... Not likely.

horses suck ... They do! It's true! They swallow, too, from what I hear.

chicken donkey chicken river ... Sounds vaguely like a shitty Kevin Costner-Native American flick to me.

pineapple juice female genital .. Just add Rum!

teen lesbians ... I was drunk. No one can prove anything! Shut up!

pictures of olivia and my baby .. That falls into the "always a bridesmaid, never a bride" category.

ass parade olivia ... Every day of my life.

soper boobs ... I don't know how Soper got mixed up in this, sorry S! Or maybe searcher meant "SUPER boobs", cause I do have the Mighty Bosom of Valhalla. They can CRUSH YOU with their lightning bolt prowess. Shaaaaaazam!

how can i make olivia feel special and happy ... Buy her a box of donuts, snappy!

why is hurt my womb what is it? ... Obviously Britney has internet access now.

how is aviophobia diagnosed ... It's like this. When suspected patient gets on a plane and then from the moment the door is closed until the door is opened again there is non-stop screaming, pacing, sweating, swearing, drinking, gulping, and constantly looking out the window for little green men---your patient is aviophobic. (At least that's how I was diagnosed.)

how to pronounce ollie? ... "sek-see beest"

stupidbitch ... That would be moi.

why dont you have kids? ... Why don't you have a soul?

optimum time to get pregnant ... I'm guessing, ten minutes after being told to relax for the 8000th time.

Bloglonely

Who's out there today? This is just me, saying hi.

LB: When the pigs try to get at ya, park it like it's hot.

“Tonight I propose a three-year initiative to help organizations keep young people out of gangs … and I am proud that the leader of this nationwide effort will be our First Lady, Laura Bush.”
-George W. Bush, State of the Union Address, February 2, 2005

I don't know. It seems to me that she's a bit too biased on this issue, when she's so OBVIOUSLY a Crip.

Bloggiversary

February 10, 2004 was my first entry into the world of Blog. I've been bitching about my suck-ass body ever since. And you, lucky readers, are the recipients of such a wonderful gift.

Do you feel special?

You should, because I think anyone who still reads my tales of woe is special. You're all special. Special because you are there, you read, laugh, cry, yawn or slam back a shot of tequila with me. Can't buy that kind of special at Bloomingdales. YOU WILL FEEL SPECIAL, ya' hear me?!

So what's next in the year to come? Hell if I know. I thought I had the answers last year, but turned out it was just a copy of the class dunce's scantron.

------------------------------------------------------

I think I am going to start a band. I have some ideas:

Roadkill Belly Button, a punk band and I play bass.

Vagina Delight, a 70's pop retro band and I play the synthesizer and wear an afro.

Miss Carriage, an entirely percussion hiphop group. I play.. drums. Of course (entirely percussion).

Auntie Flo's Rainbow-Flavored Happy Pills, a hippy-dippy folk band, I play acoustic guitar.

Babydance, kinda like Evanescence--one of those shrieky ethereal fairy-sex kind of bands, except with lots more stage pissing. I sing lead.

Thom Yorke's Bitch, it's not really a band, I just follow Radiohead around and get Mr. Yorke sandwiches and the newspaper.

Valentines Day Spectacular!!

I traditionally/historically don't care for Valentines Day. Why, you ask? I will tell you. I think it is a mean non-holiday.

I used to be a lonely girl. I had spouts of companionship from time to time, usually of the long-distance variety. But in high school, I was not terribly popular (think, "Square Pegs"). When "the day" would come around, the popular pretty girls would get roses from the popular pretty boys. I would wait for my name to be called, perhaps from a secret admirer, but it never came. I learned to despise February.

In elementary school, we would have obligatory valentines candy and cheap paper valentines cards. Inevitably I would get the generic stuff from the boys. "You're a swell pal" or "Happy Valentines Day!" It was so heartwarming I could vomit. I felt less loved than if I got nothing. At least then I could just claim invisibility, that if they only could SEE me, they'd fawn all over me. But when you get generic crap, you know it was thought out. They can see you, they just don't care. And don't get me started on the boys I'd send mushy cards to, only to be laughed at mercilessly.

As I got older I tried to ignore the day when it came around, but as an employed person, there would be Valentines Day around the office. That's when I got to see the men's side of the day. The poor guys would be sweating the week leading up to VD. Hallmark and jewelry dealers had done a smashing job of making women feel they deserved expensive jewelry, flowers and candy along with a card on this day. Men felt the pressure to get exactly the right thing, plus dinner, plus sentiment. They were wrecks. I felt bad for them. Also, I was alone and the day didn't matter to me anyhow.

I have come to see Valentines Day as the day when you are made to feel like shit if you are alone; made to feel like shit if you are not alone but don't get something "spectacular"; made to feel like shit if you are getting something for someone and can't think straight because of the cultural and commercial value placed on "love"; made to feel like shit if you are in an early relationship and don't feel close enough to do something, yet you MUST or be a pariah; made to feel like shit if you are in a bad relationship and can't break it off for several days ahead of VD because you'd be deemed "evil" for doing such a ghastly thing before that day. It's just not worth the $100 on dead flowers, or $100 on fattening candy or the pre-printed card that "expresses the welled-up feelings inside your soul".

Brad and I have an agreement about Valentines Day. We can do something if we want to, but it isn't obligatory. It means more to me to have spontaneous sentiment for no reason the rest of the year than a forced sentiment on one day.

Weekend, Feb 2005

Saturday
9:30am: From the Cliffs of Dover to the Meridians of Chi, my acupuncturist stuck me good. It was the 2nd helping of extra-special endometriosis needles and she found neato places to thunk a needle. She said she was "opening the meridians of chi". I believe that means, "Every needle I have is about to have a crazy dance party on your belly."

11:30am: I return home. The sun is shining. Four yellow flowers have started blooming in my front yard. Awesome.

12:00noon: We load fresh batteries into the digital camera and decide to document our neighborhood. Yes, we are that nerdy. Here's me:



12:45pm: We have yummy all-beef hot dogs (Chicago-style) at Uncle Harry's in the Martin Luther King Jr. District. Chased it with blueberry pie a la mode. Then we cast scornful glances at some suburban dirtbag who didn't understand why no one would let him demolish an old duplex in the area. It's called HISTORIC DISTRICT ya moron.

2:00pm: We pretended we were rich and went into a $500K townhouse open house. Wee!! It was teeny and overrated. La-ti-da.

3pm-8pm: We didn't do anything of note. We goofed off, basically. TV was watched, the net was surfed, video game characters were demolished.

8:00pm: Thai delivery.

8:15pm: We watched a Jim Jarmusch movie starring Tom Waits (Down By Law)--it was quite excellent.

Then I fell asleep.

Sunday
10:00am: I went to Kroger to get groceries. Some guy flirted "at me", in spite of the fact that I had a frizzy post-braided ponytail, no makeup and whatever cat hair-covered clothes that I picked up from the floor and threw on. I gave him my best "What-ever" look. His dolled-up girlfriend/wife/partner/whatever got ALL UP IN MY FACE about flirting with her man. I repeat, WHAT-ever.

11:00am: I went to the drugstore to buy condoms (weird to be WANTING children and having to buy instruments to prevent such a thing). I had to forge a path through the pretty boys who were collected around the condom aisle.

11:30-8pm: Nothing of interest happened.

8:00pm: Charmed. It's on now, and so that's where my dialogue ends. Good night.

P.S. I am really pissed at Vin Diesel. I used to think he was really hot, but now he's doing a Schwarzenegger castoff movie involving children. Car blow-em-up movies I can respect, but I can't respect that.

The Infertility Game

Hey kids! It's a new, fun game from the makers of EPT Pickup Sticks!

*Ok, I didn't actually draw the images this time. But I coulda!

Why I like my job.

I know I have complained about my job before. But just like any relationship, there are good days and bad days. Most of them are good days though. I stick around my job because I like it. I like being a designer. I like my coworkers. And I am in a situation that not many recurrent miscarriers have. I will explain.

When I first started my current job, two years ago, I had just had one of many in my list of miscarriages. I was hired as a contractor to fill in for a graphic designer who was going on maternity leave...And I had to train with her daily to learn her job until she went on leave. That was a hoot, man. She even informed me of every single move her little tyke made. Oh yes, that is exactly what a freshly recovering miscarrier needs. And then there was her baby shower that was on my first day. Can you say, "Stab me with that fork over there?"

Meanwhile, every other female of reproductive age in the building was cranking out kids right and left. Big round pregnant bellies everywhere. It was a nightmare, like that scene in Being John Malkovich where he goes into his own head. Except it was "Baby? Baby baby. Baaaaaaby. Baby, baby, baby." They would stand right outside my cubicle talking about the woes of pregnancy. I would go to the restroom, only to overhear pregnancy talk from pregnant woman A and B in opposite stalls. It was everywhere. I left work crying more than ten times, I assure you.

When my contract ended, my boss decided to renew it, but gave me the option of telecommuting. I jumped on it. I was a telecommuting contractor for the next six months. When my boss decided to bring me on as a permanent employee, she took me to lunch. We talked. I told her about my history, reproductively speaking. I simply opened up. She had known about one miscarriage because I missed work that day, but had no idea about the rest of it. I told her about the rest. Ordinarily, I'd have been afraid it would scare off a future boss, but she was different. She listened and did her best to sympathize.

I accepted the job.

Since then, the Marketing Department gained new members. My boss is the same, however. We have weekly meetings and we all know weird little things about each other, we all have slightly twisted senses of humor (some more than others). And we all have mutual respect.

But the big thing is this. My coworkers, all 13 members of the Marketing Group, know about my fertility issues. How did this happen?

I got pregnant in late April 2004. It was a bit unexpected for a change. And it lasted for a while. When I was being bitchy at work and the tuna casserole that someone cooked in the microwave was making me want to hurl, I decided to take an HPT.. at work, no less. It was SO FREAKING POSITIVE I almost lost my composure. I'd never had one that dark before.

I slowly let it leak to my coworkers, as I was apologizing for the bitchiness. They were happy for me, but when I explained my history, they somehow understood that pregnancy didn't always mean baby so that's why I was not 100% happy yet.

Then the dreaded day. June 4. The bad ultrasound. The d&c. I emailed my boss from the hospital room and asked her to let everyone know, and that when I return I simply would not be capable of talking about it.

I got the sweetest card and flowers from the entire department while I was out that week.

...and they held to their promise and let me talk about it when I felt up to it upon my return. They didn't come rush to hug me or anything that they thought might make me cry. They just gave me considerate space, but I always knew every single one of them was there if I needed them. You don't find that in FAMILIES sometimes.

Since then, I created The Infertile & Hormona. The Infertile adorns my weekly Marketing meeting task sheet. Everyone knows my alter ego. I decided that it was far easier to be around a fertility challenged sob story if she was laughing about it too. They laugh with me, and know not to laugh too hard.

When I had my laparoscopy, guess who knew? All of them. As I am approaching IVF, guess who knows about it? All of them. And they are all supportive, including and especially my boss. Do I feel like they are invading my personal space? No way. As little privacy as this body has had in the last three years of infertility treatment and testing, I feel like I have nothing to hide anyhow. But these people are genuinely concerned.

I've only gotten one asshole comment from one of them, and I try to forgive her because she's clueless about a lot of things. But I've never received assvice from any of them. In fact, I had a lengthy discussion with a male coworker whose wife suffers from endo. Another from a male coworker whose wife and himself are looking into adoption. I've hosted educational luncheons with a few female coworkers who were interested in learning about some of the procedures.

This is why I couldn't quit my job. It is hard, if not nearly impossible, to find a situation like this. To find a group of people like this. How often do you find that kind of thing?

The Red Sea

So the flood began yesterday afternoon. And it brought with it some cramping.

"Some cramping"...

un·der·state·ment n.
1. A disclosure or statement that is less than complete.
2. Restraint or lack of emphasis in expression, as for rhetorical effect.
3. Restraint in artistic expression.

Let's run down the checklist of warnings I received regarding this event:
SUUUUU-UUUUUCK!!! levels of pain.(CHECK!)
Heavy. (CHECK!)
Clotting (Not yet.)
An alien will pop out of my lower scar. (The day is young.)

I will be spending my day today busy, busy, busy. At 9am, I will be meeting my long-lost acupuncturist so she can lecture me on missing three months of ass needles. She will stick me like a pincushion for a good hour of hopefully relaxing needle sleep (I always sleep my best when covered head to toe in tiny metal shards--it's true!)

At 10am, either myself or Brad will be purchasing tickets the Queens of the Stone Age concert. My hormone level will slightly surge as I think of how close I will hopefully be to Josh Homme in March.

At noon, we are joing Brad's family for a birthday lunch for Brad's sister.

At 2pm, I will meet with Sigourney Weaver to discuss what measures to take when the alien DOES emerge from my incision scar.

At 4pm, Charleton Heston will come by to help the Israelites pass by me.

At 7pm, I will pass out cold on the couch from my Darvocetic approach to cramps.

Grumpy me.

Here's a riddle.

Q= What's pink and brown and pink and brown and attracts dark clouds?
A= The 100-year Spot.

I have been spotting and cramping for what feels like 100 years (although it is actually just a week) and still no period. Today, the cramping is accelerated. I am sure the red tide is just around the corner. At least it had the good grace to hold off until the weekend when I can properly dope my ass up. Today, however, it's making my mood very grey.

Adding to this day of hell are little piddly irritants that when combined with that sour ambrosia of hell, otherwise known as Estrogen, create a very grumpy ME.

Piddly Irritants

I'm back on Glucophage. Therefore, no more sugar. No more Potato Marathon Snarfing ("PMS"). More of what I don't want: meat. Soy has too damn many carbs and makes the Glucophage angry.

It's cold. I hate cold. I hate wearing layers of clothes. They get wadded, they make it hard to move your arms, hard to turn your head, make your bra straps fall down and they make your waistline look thrice its actual size.

I have never been to Europe. My mother is taking my teenage cousin to London this summer and I am so jealous I could cry.

My office looks like a toxic waste dump and because I am not the only one in here, I have zero control over how it looks.

My jeans are tight. And therefore, they are very, very stupid.

I just ran out of Evian. No other water will suffice. When Cachat Springs runs dry, so will I.

Woe is me, huh? I must be the most pitiful person on the planet. At least in my head I am. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go cry myself a freaking river.

--------------

Instead of crying a river, I took my self-pity to Target. I figured I'd buy myself a new HEPA filter for my office purifier (clean air can't hurt, right?) and some pretty things for myself. It was a wonderful experience. Target has this limited line of stuff, imported from all over the world. Lots of dark woods and rich colors. Like Pier One when everything is reasonably priced. Only available through Feb 18, though. I got a few things for the bathroom.

It helped.

Damn. Broken or not, I guess I AM a woman, after all.