October 30, 2004

I Love Armpits

To whomever found my blog by searching for "my armpits" shave OR hair, I don't know why you came to my blog, but I'm flattered. The other links that came up were much, much more disturbing.

October 29, 2004

Sometimes You're Up, Sometimes You're Down

I went to Blockbuster tonight and was looking at the movies. A women with two toddler girls was standing nearby. Suddenly, one of the little girls shrieked in three-year-old rage, grabbed one of the shelves of movies, and ripped it off the wall, sending about two hundred movies cascading to the floor. Her mother and a store employee picked them all back up, the girl still screaming, the mother red with embarrassment. I smiled smugly to myself and thought, "Hey, maybe this whole infertility thing isn't that bad after all--at least I don't have to put up with that."

Then I went next door to the grocery store to get something for dinner. (Kielbasa, if you must know.) I got into line behind another woman with a toddler-age daughter. The woman was unloading her cart onto the checkout machine, and she held up a bunch of bananas to the little girl. She asked, "Honey, what's this? What are these?" The adorable little pink-clad baby smiled sweetly and said, "Na-na." The mom's face lit up with pride and she smiled that smile only parents have when they look at their children, and she said, "That's right, ba-na-na! Aren't you smart!" They looked so happy together, such a perfect mother and baby, that I tried to slit my wrists open with a People magazine.

Okay, not really, but I did feel like God was punishing me a little bit for gloating about the video store kid.

What the Hell Does "Canked" Mean?

The King called last night. Yay! He's fine, but very busy and frustrated about the disorganization of the work he has to do. He also has a cold, which is standard for when he first goes on a trip, and sounds exactly like Daffy Duck. He got a scary call from his boss, who we'll call Master Chief (because that's his rank, and because it's so cool to be called Master), about our orders to move to Hawaii next year.

King: Hey, Master Chief, how're you doing?
Master Chief: Not good, King, not fuckin' good. Shit sucks. But anyway, I called because I got a call about your orders from Ops [Operations, the folks who give out the orders. We have a small temple to them in our closet. They are v v important.]. That usually means your orders have been canked.* Hold on, lemme find that message I wrote down.
King: [heart pounding, sweating, gasping like a dying fish] Orders? Canked? You mean, cancelled? Hawaii? Wha? WHAT? Oh God!
MC: [endless, buzzing emptiness of a line on hold, as King imagines horrible scenarios of trying to tell his lovely wife that not only is her long-dreamed-of move to Hawaii cancelled, that she instead has to move to Oagadougou.** Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.]
MC: King? KING?
King: Yes, sir, sorry, I'm trying not to have a minor brain aneyurism. Don't worry, I'll be fine.
MC: I've got the message from Ops. They called to say they want you to move two days early. 'Kay? Gotta go, got shit to shovel.
King: [clinging to phone, wiping cold sweat from his forehead and shuddering, trying to comprehend that his orders have not been cancelled and that his boss is just an FUCKING IMBECILE for scaring the crap out of him that way. Phone begins to emit dial tone.] "Sir, yes sir," King whispers to it, weakly, before hanging up and collapsing to the ground.

* I have no idea why they say "canked" instead of "cancelled" in the military. If anyone has any idea of the entymology of canked, please do share it.

** Oagadougou is a real city. It's in Burkina Faso, and yes, you can be transferred there. I knew a couple in the State Department who were sent there for two years. Among their other belongings, they had to take two years' worth of toilet paper.

October 28, 2004

Lifestyle Choices

I read an article about this yesterday. The King and I are both severely allergic to cats, which is okay for him because he's a dog person, but I love cats. Love love love them.I would like to have a hypoallergenic cat, and would be the first to sign up, except that I don't have $4,000 to spend on an effing pet. Are you freaking kidding me? Also, the phrase "lifestyle pets" terrifies me.

A Moment of Total Shallowness

Did anyone else see Anthony Kiedis on Dennis Miller last night and think his hair looked like total ass? So just me then?

Family Ties

I was walking by a bookstore yesterday, and I saw a display of boardgames under the sign, "Games for the Whole Family." Next to Cranium and Sesame Street Monopoly was the Sex and the City boardgame. What kind of family are they thinking of? Mom, Dad, the Beaver, and Samantha, who can ride the wildest cowboy for far longer than the requisite eight seconds?

In less funny news, I haven't heard from the King in two days. I'm sure he's just very busy, but I always worry. The most we've ever gone was three weeks with absolutely no communication--no phones, no e-mail, no letters. But on that occasion, he was living in a tent on a beautiful beach in Antigua and going snorkeling and fishing whenever he wasn't working, so my only worry was that he might get stung by a jellyfish. And frankly, since at the time I was working two jobs and putting myself through graduate school while waiting for him to come home, I rather hoped he would.

October 27, 2004

Weeping in Blogland

Today is a terrible day. Lovely Cecily, who has been waiting so long for her once chance, just found out that her twin boys, her Zachary and Nicholas, are dead. She lives somewhere not so very far from me, and I keep thinking that somewhere out there, right now, is a woman lying in a hospital bed, her husband holding her hand, who has just lost her whole world.

A Depressing Thought

It just occurred to me that with the King's morphology issues and my anovulatory, hide-and-go-seek eggs, any child we may have is likely to be a freak with two heads and no legs who lives in the attic. Nice.

Why Movie Stars Have It Easier Than Us

Because when regular people have early contractions, they have to lie in their messy bed at home while their husband is at work, terrified and consumed by DBTs (dead baby thoughts). Julia Roberts gets in People Magazine and folks throw her an impromptu baby shower.

October 26, 2004

Ó, Gud Vors Lands, the Icelandic National Anthem

In my comment to this post, I implied that Iceland might not be the nicest place in the world to live. I really shouldn't have done that; in fact, from what I've heard, Iceland is really quite lovely. In fact, the King and I seriously considered requesting a transfer to Iceland before we found out Hawaii was available. I did a lot of Icelandic research while we were considering it, and aside from discovering that I just love the word "Icelandic," I found that the people are supposed to be extremely friendly, they have hot springs, and it's hardly any colder than here in Virginia, with much less snow. Go figure. Also, they have geothermal heating, which is where hot water (from the hot springs, I guess) runs under the roads and houses, keeping everything warm, so that even in the darkest winter, the walls and sidewalks are actually warm to the touch. Cool, no? (Okay, no, I guess. Warm. Whatever.)

The thing about Iceland (aside from the fact that it's not Hawaii) is that they really like herring there. They eat a lot of herring, and very little lettuce. Herring eating seems to be something of a national sport. (They also have cool Viking festivals where they bury a pig in the ground, roast it, and then eat it, but we can do that in Hawaii too, so that comes out even in the Iceland/Hawaii debate.) Now, I like fish as much as the next girl, but small, oily fish used in such derogatory phrases as "Watson, that's nothing but a red herring!" just don't do anything for me. Especially with the subtle Communist overtones of "red" herring.

Aside from the fact that this may be the only post I will ever write about Iceland, I have a lot of parenthetical asides in it. 58 words of parenthetical aside, to only about 200 words of nonparenthetical text. That's a lot.

The Jesus-Loves-Me-and-Not-You Cult

I had a dream last night that I was in Blogland. I've obviously been spending too much time in the Land of Make Believe. I dreamed I was with a bunch of other bloggers, and we were taking a picture of ourselves with one of those cameras that hooks up to your computer (I own one of those cameras, but have never figured out how to make it work). Instead of taking our picture, however, it took a picture of an incredibly sexy man. Do you think that means it's starting to sink in that I won't be having sex for at least three months?

Speaking of which, the King called me last night from overseas. He's doing better than expected. He asked me to send him toilet paper--apparently the TP in the war zone is not up to snuff. His exact words were, "You could read a newspaper through it." He wants to squeeze the Charmin, I guess. He also wants undershirts. I asked, "Can I just send some of your undershirts, or do I need to go buy new ones?" He sighed heavily and said it would probably be okay to just send some of the eight million shirts he already owns. I don't mind buying new ones, really (although it does seem wasteful), but I can't go to the mall tonight, so if he wants his package ASAP, he'll have to deal with pre-owned shirts.

So, now that I know his plane didn't crash and he hasn't been blown up or shot yet, I figured I should put some energy into thinking up a decent post, since it's been a few days since I've had enough energy to do anything but worry about him. So I'm going to write about the funky Christian cult we've got here in Northern Virginia.

It's really not a cult so much as a secret club. (Is there a difference?) Here in NOVA, we're at the northern tip of the Bible Belt. The Bible Belters here, however, are very concerned about not getting mixed up with the lower-class Christians in the more southern areas of the Christian Coalition. They want everyone to know that they're rich and white, they love God, and He loves them back.

And they aren't subtle about it. Acquiring a lot of jewelry, clothing, and other accoutrements that have God's name on them seems to be a very important part of membership in this cult. And I'm not just talking about a little gold cross on a necklace, oh no. The thing here is vanity license plates. For instance, I've seen INHSHND, or "in His hand." And ILVJSUS, "I love Jesus." There are hundreds of them all over the metro DC area.

I was raised Catholic, and my parents were very spiritual. They donate a great deal of their money to charity, and they spent most of their free time volunteering for a million different causes. I don't practice Catholicism anymore, but I do agree with them on one thing--If you're driving past the homeless and poor in the DC ghetto in a $60,000 Hummer, slapping a $150 vanity plate that says ILOVGOD on it isn't going to make you a good Christian.

They also read the Bible. That may sound admirable, but it's really just ostentatious. The thing is, they read it on the metro. And they don't just read it--they've invariably got a $200 pen that they're using to assiduously make notes and fill out workbooks like they're studying for a pop quiz from Saint Peter. We're talking about doing this on a packed train at rush hour--there are always ten or twelve people spread out with a full-size King James, an I Love Jesus pin stuck to their $400 suit, and three or four study guides to help them interpret the word of the Lord. And they highlight. Oh God, do they highlight. Yellow, pink, blue, even green highlighters fill the metro with the scent of God's love.

It's enough to make a person go Buddhist.

October 25, 2004

Why I Must Laugh at Myself

Because every time my dog sneezes, I cannot restrain myself from saying, "Bless you."

October 22, 2004

"Bye-Bye Love...

Bye-bye happiness, hello loneliness, I think I'm-a gonna die. Good-bye, my love, good-bye."

He's gone. Just over an hour ago, a taxi came and took my husband away. I've added a sidebar to count the number of days until he gets home. Now I'm going to go get thoroughly drunk. I miss you, my love. Come home soon.

October 21, 2004

I Got Some

Because this is a blog and not an all-staff meeting or Christmas Day at my parents' house, I can freely talk about my sex life. Yay! Today, that is a surprisingly good topic, because last night, the King and I stayed up way too late and did it. No baby-making crap, this was real sex, like it's supposed to be. There was spanking, there was hair pulling, it was fabulous. Thank God! (Does He prefer not to be thanked for things like dirty monkey sex? Really, what else do we have to be grateful for? Doesn't He wish His ethereal spirit was capable of it? Will I go to hell if I suggest perhaps that's what Jesus was for?)

Our sex life has been less than enthusiastic lately. The Clomid prescribing exactly what days to do it, the Clomid then totally failing to work, and the stress of him going back to combat tomorrow night (34 hours to go, if you're keeping track) have pretty much killed it. Also, we generally only do it on weekends, because we both have to get up really, really early on weekdays. And because we prefer to watch reruns of Friends in the evenings. So last night was a bonus for many reasons, and I really, really needed it, and God, if you exist, THANK YOU!

A very satisfied woman

October 20, 2004

I Just Can't Think of Anything Funny to Title This Post

Sorry about the lack of a post yesterday. In approximately 58 hours, my husband will be getting on a plane and going into a combat zone, and I won't see him again until almost February. I can't say exactly where he's going yet, because he's got this high-security job that requires him to handle a lot of classified stuff. I know that sounds melodramatic, but it's true.

So the world is going to end for me on Friday at 7:00 p.m. He's been in combat three times before, once since I've known him. The last time was to Afganistan. He was sent there one week after we returned from our honeymoon, and two weeks after our wedding day. He was at the US embassy in Kabul (the capital) for three months. One morning, I came to work, turned on my computer, and CNN popped up as my homepage, as it always does. The headline that day was, "US Embassy in Kabul Bombed; 9 Americans Dead." I can't even describe how I felt when I read it--it was like I was the one who had been bombed. I staggered into a coworker's office, crying. I don't really know what else I did that morning, but two hours later, my phone rang. It was my husband, and he was okay. He told me he had wanted to call me every minute since it happened, but he had to help carry the wounded and the dead out of the rubble to safety.

58 hours left to go, and then three months of waiting. 90 days. 2,160 hours. 129,600 minutes. If you pray, please pray for my love. He's my life.

October 18, 2004

I Eat Like a Three-Year-Old

I do not like to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; instead, my sandwich of choice is peanut butter and honey. Unusual, yes, but not what I would consider bizarre or freakish. However, no matter what is on my sandwich, my method of eating them is the same: I always nibble around the edges of the sandwich first, biting off all the crust. That leaves the best part of the sandwich for last, the soft middle. Because I'm already going in a circle around the outside, I continue this way and eat the good middle part in circular bites, working my way into the center and the last, best bite.

My method for eating pizza is equally precise. For the first piece of pizza, I always pick the toppings off one piece at a time and eat them. This allows me to get the full flavor of the pepperoni or grilled chicken or sausage (we don't do vegetable pizzas at my house) by itself, uninterrupted by the rest of the pizza. After eating the toppings, I pull of the cheese and eat that. Then I eat the bottom of the pizza. When I get to the crust, I take one bit off each end--this keeps them even. Something bothers me about taking a bite from one end, rendering it uneven, while the other end is still crisply sliced from the pizza cutter.

After the first piece, I eat later pieces the normal way, without taking the toppings off.

Once, a coworker who had eaten pizza with me the day before, watched me perform my particular ceremony on a peanut butter and honey sandwich. He stared at my circular crust eating in stunned silence before saying, "You eat like a three-year-old."

For the record, when I actually was three years old, I did not eat peanut butter and honey sandwiches, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I ate peanut butter and butter. How gross is that?

Fluffy Sugar-Coated Marshmallow Joy

Preface to this post: Whenever I pass by a display of holiday Peeps in the grocery store, I cannot stop myself from crying out, "Peep! Peep! Peep!" in a high-pitched faux-baby chicken noise, and flapping my arms. The King, who doesn't like candy and thinks Peeps are completely bizarre, laughs at me hilariously.

The actual post:
Last night, the King and I went to Outback Steakhouse for dinner. He ordered a steak, well done. The waitress brought our food, and his steak was dripping blood, completely rare. He sent it back, grumbling and annoyed, and told me to go ahead and start eating. So I did. He was in a pissy mood all through dinner because of the steak issue, and then his cocktail was too strong (yes, you read that right, too strong), and various and sundry other annoyances. He was just being a dweeb.

At the end of the meal, all these various irritations built up, and he snapped at me and said something rude. I was surprised and hurt, and I didn't cry, but I wanted too. We then drove home silently, not speaking to each other.

We stopped at a gas station and he ran in to get some soda. Then we went home. I went to the bathroom, and when I came out, there was a small box of orange Halloween pumpkin Peeps sitting on the coffee table, in front of my seat on the sofa, and the King was standing by them looking very, very sad.

"Those are because I was such a jerk earlier. I got them at the gas station while I was getting the soda," he said. "I'm sorry." And then he grinned, flapped his arms, and clucked, "Peep! Peep! Peep!" I had to forgive him.

And after we made up, we went upstairs and looked at Internet porn together all night long.

October 17, 2004

I See Dead People

We were driving past a house in our neighborhood whose lawn had not been mowed in almost a month. The grass was about two feet tall and looked like a small forest, and the bushes were untrimmed and hanging out into the street.

Me: "Do you ever wonder if the people in those houses that don't mow their lawns are dead in there?"
My husband, looking at me as if I were insane: "I do now."

October 15, 2004

Stupid Ovulation Crap

Well, the nurse-practitioner from Walter Reed called today to tell me that the Clomid didn't work--I didn't ovulate and my progesterone levels are "very, very low." I already knew that I didn't ovulate, so I didn't think it would matter much, but it was actually very painful to hear it from a medical expert. She prescribed me a double dose for the next, and final try at Clomid, but I know that it's going to be four months before we are able to use it, because of the King deploying.

I know that my suffering is so much less than theirs, but I feel like I've joined Grrl's list of women in pain even more today than most days. I haven't had eight miscarriages, or found out that my eggs are nonviable, and I feel awful for the women who have, but like Grrl herself says, it's not a competition. We're all just feeling shitty together.

Stupid Ovulation Crap

Well, the nurse-practitioner from Walter Reed called and confirmed what I already knew--the Clomid didn't work, and I didn't ovulate. She said my progesterone level was very low. I didn't think it would be so upsetting to hear, since I really already knew it, but hearing it from a medical expert was hard. She didn't have any problem with prescribing a higher dose for one more shot at it, which I appreciated, but it still is crushing to know that we won't be able to take that last try at Clomid for four more months, because of the King deploying.

I know my suffering is so much less than most of the women listed on her posting, but I feel like I'm joining up more than ever with Grrl's women in pain. And like Grrl herself insists, it's not a competition--I may not have had eight miscarriages, or found out that my eggs are nonviable, and I feel absolutely awful for the women who have had that happen to them, but that doesn't make it any easier to hear that my progesterone is shitty. It just means we're all feeling shitty together.

I'm, Like, Totally Famous!

I just got my first positive search result!! I was number 3 on Yahoo for this search. Why anyone was searching for that, I don't know, but I don't care--I'm famous!

Common Sense

My husband has insomnia. He's suffered from it for several years, and I frequently nag him to either learn some relaxation techniques or see a doctor about it. He once did capitulate. When the military doctor who was giving him his annual physical for the Navy asked, "Is there anything else I should know about?" he said, "Yes, I can't sleep. I wake up three to four times a night for at least an hour at a time. I haven't slept through the night in five years." The doctor said, while busily filling out the forms to get the King out of his office and back to soldiering, "Well, good then. Have a nice day!" And you thought your health care was crappy.

So, last night the King came to bed carrying his iPod. I'm all for kinky marital fun, but I thought that was odd. He explained that he thought listening to music might help him get to sleep. Fine by me. So we shut off the light, whisper sweet nothings in each other's ears ("Get your foot off me." "What is wrong with this sheet? I don't have enough of it." "Heh, heh, I'll give you some sheet, baby." "What? Is that supposed to be like a double entendre? 'Cause it wasn't."), and I fall asleep.

Cut to this morning:
Me: Morning, baby. Did the iPod help you sleep last night?
Him [growling and rubbing his eyes]: No. It kept me up.
Me: Oh, I'm sorry. That sucks. What were you listening to.
Him: Metallica, mostly.

And that's the reason I'm the one in charge of reminding him that throwing lighter fluid onto a lit barbecue is a bad idea.

Darn It

Last night, just before I fell asleep, I had this great idea for a totally hilarious blog entry. This morning, I can't remember it. Bloody hell.

However, I did call for the results of my cycle day 21 blood test yesterday, and after being told a doctor would return my call "within three days" even though the receptionist had the results right there in her hand, she mentioned that Dr. Stupid-Bitch, who made me cry within five minutes of meeting me, no longer works at that hospital. Yay! I couldn't resist asking if she got fired, but sadly, she left of her own accord.

I'll try to remember that really funny post I was planning and get it up here shortly. (Hee, hee, I said "get it up." Am I the only one who thinks bad erection jokes are funny?)

October 14, 2004

And in Disgusting News...

Pregnant women are almost always constipated, because their bodies are using every possible nutrient to grow a baby. Therefore, many prenatal vitamins include a mild laxative to counteract this. However, when you are infertile, you are taking prenatal vitamins, and their laxative, for a long, long time without actually being pregnant--or constipated. Therefore, if you're infertile for a year, you experience, ahem, loose stools...FOR A YEAR. And you thought the worst thing about being infertile was not being able to bring life into the world. Shows what you know.

October 13, 2004

The Big Move

Well, my dog ate three bites of his food last night, and several more this morning, so it looks like he's going to survive this latest hunger strike. You would think that would be a good thing, but in fact, it leaves the King and I in a bit of a quandry. Starving himself to death (or, alternatively, getting some painless but terminal illness) would solve our problem.

Here's the problem: In six months, we are leaving Virginia. Now, moving with a dog isn't normally a big deal, and I'd be happy to take him with us. However, we aren't moving just anywhere. We are moving to HAWAII!! Whoo hoo! The Navy is transferring us to paradise, and I am thanking the God I don't believe in every day for it. I cannot wait--I grew up in Southern California and living this far from the ocean has left me parched. We will be living in base housing on Pearl Harbor, and when we get there, I'm not going to get a regular job. I'm going to work freelance as an editor (which I now do full-time at a regular office), and hopefully, am going to get pregnant, in which case I won't be working at all for several months. I am totally, completely thrilled. DH and I thought we were quite possibly going to be transferred to Iceland, so Hawaii was very welcome news (although I've heard Iceland is actually quite a lovely place to live).

So that's our big news, and our big problem, with regard to the dog. The thing is, he's scared of everything. I'm fairly sure the two plane rides (here to CA, CA to Hawaii) would kill him. And even if they don't, there are some major logistical issues. We are taking a month off to visit the King's family and mine, and we will be driving across country to do so. Neither my parents nor the King's mother have the room or inclination to put up a large dog in their backyard for ten days, and he probably wouldn't enjoy driving across country, although we could probably force him to. Then, when we get to Hawaii, we will be living in a hotel while we wait to be assigned to base housing. We might only have to wait a few days, but it might be up to several months, during which time the dog will have to be in a kennel. We can't afford to keep him there more than a couple of weeks, and it's really hard on him (see the previous discussion about him starving himself to death to punish us for that).

So that's our quandary. Please don't say we're evil people for considering getting rid of our dog because it's inconvenient to move him--believe me, I torture myself with that all the time. He'd be dead if it weren't for us adopting him from a shelter, and we will only give him either to a neighbor who adores him, or a rescue group that never does euthanasia and will give him foster care until they can find him a good family. So, got any advice for what we should do with him?

October 12, 2004

My Dumb Dog Hates Me

My dog hasn't eaten in three days. Not a bite. I know he's hungry, because he'll eat treats I give him, but dog food from the dog bowl? Oh, hell no. He's angry at DH and I because not only did we put him in a kennel while we were in New York, but when we got home, he got to come home for two days, and then we took him BACK to the kennel for another week while we were in Georgia! We are a pair of Satans, I know. And now he hates us. So as punishment, he's starving himself. Lovely.

It doesn't matter at all that he loves the kennel. There are great veterinary techs who adore him, he gets to play outside with tons of other dogs constantly, there are cats and assorted other animals to bark at, and the kennel is certified as one of the top 10% in the state for care and cleanliness, but none of that matters. What matters is that WE ABANDONED HIM. So now he is a roiling fount of doggy rage, and it'll take more than a couple of cheap dog bones to bring him around. No, what is required in cases like this is groveling of far greater magnitude--we're going to have to take him to Petco. God save us all.

October 11, 2004

Why Some Old People Are Mean

About a year ago, the King's grandmother was forced to put her 88-year-old husband in a nursing home. She didn't want to, and had just sold their home of 30 years and moved him into a new house with tons of special amenities to help him, as he is now wheelchair bound and can't get around much. However, just after buying the house, he got very ill and she couldn't care for him anymore.

It is imperative to her that his life be as much like it was before he moved into the home as possible. Therefore, every day she goes to the nursing home and picks up his dirty clothes, takes them home, launders and irons them, and returns them, although she herself is 83 and can hardly drive or walk much. She also changes his sheets and diapers and cooks him homemade meals, which she delivers to him at the nursing home.

In exchange, and after over 55 years of marriage, Grandpa has turned into a total prick. He acts as if she isn't in the room when she comes to visit, and his only words to her are often, "My underwear are dirty. Why didn't you bring me the new ones yet?" Otherwise, he ignores her. However, he is in lust with the pretty, blonde nurse who bathes him at the home, and he gives her candy and food that his wife brings him, in an attempt to get her to bathe him more than every other day. Apparently she works seven days in a row and then gets four days off, and when she's off work, he's ruder than ever to his wife and loudly asks, "Where's the nurse? I want her to take care of me!" while craning to see around his wife, as if the nurse might be hiding behind her. Jerk.

People Who Annoy Me

People who leave their phone numbers on my voicemail, but neglect to leave an area code. We don't all live in John Doe County, Wisconsin, ma'am.

Those who leave their complete phone numbers, but say them so fucking fast that I have to replay the message four times to get it written down.

People who don't know what their phone number is, and leave my voicemail on hold for 15 minutes while they're rooting around their office trying to figure their shit out.

Those whose letterhead stationery has their address with the state name written out completely. Yeah, your letterhead looks very classy, dipshit, but now I have to figure out what the postal abbreviation for your state is if I want to write you back. This goes double for those folks who live in one of the 87 states that start with M.

People who do not understand how to use the out-of-office auto reply when they're on vacation, and set it to "reply to all" instead of "reply to sender," thus ensuring that when an all-company e-mail goes out, we all get their damn auto reply. Then, all the other idiots who did the same thing send their auto reply to all the initial auto replies, and it goes back and forth until the fucking network goes down.

And in a non-work-themed annoyance:

People who think Washington, DC, is in Washington State. There are more of them than you would think. My sister-in-law is one...and she is a schoolteacher.

Updated to include:
My mother-in-law, when she says, "Don't go out in this chill without a sweater; you'll get sick." And all of the King's relatives and the King himself, who heartily agree with her that cold temperatures cause diseases. Have you heard of germs, people?

October 10, 2004

It's Official

I'm back from Georgia and I'm infertile. I know, I knew this before, but now I definitely qualify as a member of the Barren Bitches Brigade. First of all, for those of you who were anxiously holding your breath (and thank you for your concern), the Clomid didn't work. We screwed on schedule, every 48 hours for ten days (more on that nightmare later), but my temperature never went up, so despite the fact that I can't have my cycle day 21 test until CD 23 because the stupid lab is closed for Columbus Day, I'm pretty sure it didn't fucking work. Goddamnit.

On top of that, I finally got the comment infertile women everywhere hate: "You just need to relax." My sister-in-law, who is sweet but not the most tactful person on earth, picked us up at the airport in Atlanta and the first thing she said was, "So, do you have any big news yet?" while leering at my stomach. I slitted my eyes at her and said, "No," through clenched teeth. The King pretended to be busy getting our bags into the car so he didn't have to answer. She then gave me the sad, sympathetic eyes and the "Oh, I'm sure you just need to relax" line.

And she should know better. She suffered from secondary infertility to the tune of four miscarriages and nearly died giving birth to the second child she so desperately wanted. After she finally managed to have a second baby, her OBGYN told her if she continued getting pregnant, she would quite likely die, and he could not in good conscience continue to be her doctor if she didn't stop. So she had a complete hysterectomy at 33 years of age. She should be a member of the barren bitches brigade for sure, but she's not. Instead she asks me why we don't just take a vacation and accidentally calls me Patricia, which is the name of the King's first wife. It was a long vacation.

It actually wasn't that bad, except for the King's family's constant questions about why we don't have a baby yet. His very-fertile cousin, who doesn't wear pants because Christian women shouldn't, asked while bouncing her new baby son on her knee and feeding her two-year-old daughter with the other hand.

As for the Clomid, I took it and guzzled gallons of green tea, and the King and I made up a strict schedule for screwing to make sure we wouldn't miss the big ovulation day. Gosh, that was fun sex. (Can you hear the sarcasm? 'Cause I can.) The worst was Day 13. We needed to have sex, because Clomid is supposed to make you ovulate around Day 14. It started out great--we were actually necking and giggling like teenagers. Having to be really quiet because we're at his mom's house always seems to make the King randy. Odd, I know, but it works for him, so whatever.

But then we got down to serious business, and it stopped working. My poor husband was panting and thrusting and doing his thing for ages, and he couldn't reach orgasm. Now, he's 36 years old (I'm 27), so he sometimes has a bit of trouble under normal circumstances, and this time we had the whole Clomid pressure to deal with. It was not a good thing. It got worse and worse, until he finally collapsed, furious and cursing, and I cried with frustration and the unfairness of it all. We lay there in the dark for a long time, trying to make each other feel better, and the King kept trying to make his erection stick around, but nothing was working. It was awful.

"Think about Shania Twain and Claudia Schiffer," I said.

"I have been. It's not working. I'm afraid to try again," he said, laying next to me.

"Maybe you need to think about something new," I suggested. "Like a Corvette. Or a new Porsche. Or a Corvette and a Porsche having sex." We laughed, a much-needed break from the tension. "Or maybe you need to think about having sex with my armpits!" I giggled.

"What?" he asked.

"No, I'm seriously, I've seen Internet porn about it--some guys like to screw women's armpits!" He started laughing, and so did I, and I added, "And sometimes they do it with women who don't even shave!"

That did it--he rolled over, slipped into me, and came in a wonderful release.

Hairy armpits and laughter. Who knew?

October 01, 2004

It's Goodbye Again, I'm Sorry to Be Leaving You

That's right, I'm off again. Tomorrow morning we're off to Georgia for a week with my in-laws. They're lovely people and very sweet, but very, very Southern. No doubt they will make for some excellent blog entries. Like the King's cousin, a world champion bow hunter who can kill a deer with a bow and arrow at 500 yards and who is also a devout, fundamentalist Christian minister. Or his wife, who is always, always pregnant and who doesn't wear pants, only dresses, because she thinks it's unChristian for women to wear pants.

Also on this trip, we will learn the outcome of the great Clomid experiment. I'm on Day 12 today and have been pissing on ovulation predictor sticks frantically, but to no avail so far. Hopefully this afternoon I'll get a positive, because I think the King is getting damned sick of sex on demand. And to tell the truth, so am I.

So we'll see--by the time we get home next Saturday, I should know whether it worked or whether we'll be waiting three months for him to get home from the Middle East so we can try yet again.

Hopefully I'll be able to get online sometime this week, so I'll try to post in a few days. Similar to Tertia in South Africa, the Internet in Georgia is powered, not by ibex, but by Georgia white-tailed deer, shy animals that can run very fast if they feel like it, but generally prefer to hide in the forest and emit high-pitched AOL busy signals of death to ward off intruders who wish to access their forest and surf their tree sites. But I'll try. Take care!