And to Think, I Never Had PMS When I Was on the Pill

Despite the fact that my temperatures haven't been really sluggish about reflecting it, I guess that positive OPK I got last week was right, because I am definitely premenstrual now. I was totally exhausted when I got home from work yesterday. I was far too tired to work out, but not too tired to eat a bagel sandwich with egg and cheese, most of a pepperoni and chicken pizza, and half a package of hot wings in three hours. How gross is that? Plus, I have spots. Or rather, pimples, but the British way is so much nicer, don't you think?

Military Romance

This article is fantastic, and I'm thrilled to hear about it. It's almost unbelievable how stressful it is on a marriage when one of the members of the couple is away at war for months on end. The uncertainty, the never knowing if he's okay or when he'll be home, is devastating. I'm glad the Army is trying to help. Although the idea of "romantic getaways" to Opryland is hilarious--only the Army could think of that. What, was Dollywood all booked up?

And I can't help being a tad bitter about the couple in the article who managed to have three kids in three years, despite the husband being away for almost the whole time. Geez, folks, grow a little self-control! Or at least get a diaphragm or something. One of their kids was conceived while he was home on two weeks' leave, which really makes me grit my teeth. Although I guess I shouldn't be too bitchy--my husband was conceived while his father was home on two weeks' leave from Vietnam.

Counting the Dead

I've been feeling like I should say something about the earthquake and tidal waves, but I've been completely unable to think of anything to say. Honestly, it's so big, so overwhelming, that I have a hard time feeling anything about it--it's practically impossible to even grasp it. I watch the news and it feels like, well, watching tv. Like it must be a new re-make of The Day After Tomorrow, because things like this don't actually happen in real life, right? Every time I turn on the news, the death toll has leapt upward by 10,000, or 15,000, or 20,000. It stands at at least 80,000 right now. See, that's just too many. That's up there with Rwanda, and Hiroshima, and Bergen-Belsen--things that are almost mythological, things that could never happen to anyone you know.*

So, I've finally figured out how to have an emotional response to it; I've found my handle. It's this, from CNN: Bush also announced that the Pentagon is 'dispatching...the aircraft carrier [USS] Abraham Lincoln and the maritime preposition squadron from Guam to the area to help with relief efforts.'"

How selfish am I to be thinking that I don't want my husband sent over there? There are so many people going through inconceivable pain, but I want him to come home and stay here. You see, although the pres didn't mention it, the King is a Seabee, which is a Navy construction worker. One of their specialties is going to the locations of natural disasters and rebuilding, bringing in electricity and clean water and working sewers, and building homes for those who are homeless.

That all sounds great, and I really am so proud of him for it, but the thing is, the last time he was sent on a major humanitarian mission, Somali soldiers tried to shoot him and blow him up, and just a few days after he was allowed to come home, Black Hawk Down happened. It was probably the most dangerous mission he's ever been on, including when the embassy in Kabul was bombed while he was inside it.

I know, it wouldn't be that way this time, and the chances of him going are very minimal, but I still worry. Please don't think I'm a total jerk for it.

*Ironically, unlike Rwanda and Hiroshima and Bergen-Belsen, I actually do have an acquaintance who is involved. He grew up on the beach where the movie The Beach was filmed. His entire family still lives there, and as far as I can tell, that beach no longer exists. I hope he and his family is safe, but there's really no way to know.

Fourth Post of the Day, But Who's Counting?

This is the best search term I've gotten so far. Even better than "nomenclature labioplasty."

Something I Liked

I recently watched the movie Jersey Girl, and I thought it was surprisingly sweet and endearing. I say "surprisingly" because who would have thought that a movie starring Ben Affleck and J.Lo could be anything but dreck? Of course, that was before I watched it and discovered that J.Lo gets killed off in the first ten minutes.

Of course, finding out that George Carlin, who plays the gruff but lovable grandfather, is in rehab kind of killed the magic for me a little bit.

Two Gross Things

My skin is so unbelievably dry from the cold weather that it hurts. Would it be totally disgusting to fill my entire bathtub with hand lotion and just wallow around for a while?

Also, last night when I got home from the airport, it was 47 degrees inside my house. I had shut the heat off while I was on vacation. It was so cold, that when I went to take a shower, my shampoo had solidified. I had to melt the glop in my hands before I could rub it on my head.

More Boring Alzheimer's Crap--I'll Stop Emoting Soon, I Promise

Because my desperate, pathetic plea for comments seems to have worked, and because no fewer than fifteen people visited my blog on CHRISTMAS DAY, I figured I'd get my lazy butt up and post. (For those of you reading on Christmas, don't feel bad--I checked all my regular blogs on Christmas too.) So, as I mentioned, my holiday was very up and down. My mother was very, very sick, and it was hard to keep myself upright, much less offer my dad much support as he changed her underwear and wiped her off. However, there were good points too. She was feeling much better on the day after Christmas, and I watched her go into the kitchen, open a sealed bag of bagels, get one out, and eat it. And then she saw me, smiled, waved, and said hi. Just like a real person. I was so happy I almost cried. Okay, I actually did cry, but I managed to do it quietly so Dad wouldn't hear.

Also, my sister, the human resources director, and her husband, the race car driver (yes, really), came for Christmas. My sister is smart and funny, but she is possibly the most self-involved person in the universe. I don't mean she is vain--she isn't, not by any means. And she is kind--she once paid my rent for six months when I was in college and couldn't support myself, and then she wouldn't let me pay her back. But she can be very blind to things she doesn't want to see. Like, say, her mother's dying. Her husband told the King that she has never cried since my mom got her diagnosis. Not once. She has completely ignored the entire thing, somehow managing to pretend that her mother is perfectly normal, despite the fact that she hasn't been able to hold a coherent conversation in more than two years. It's bizarre.

However, that all changed on Christmas Eve. She and the Race Car Driver arrived just as my mom had her accident, and I was freaking out while my dad was getting her cleaned up. I guess that somehow shocked her into sensibility, because she said, "Dad, you've got to let the Race Car Driver and I help out. I can come stay with Mom, and you and the Driver can go out and have fun. We'll have to do that sometimes." I almost died of shock, and I think Dad did too. It's just not in her nature to do something like that. I hope she follows through with it.

This post was supposed to be about our Christmas gifts and stuff, but it seems to have gotten swallowed up by my personal emotions, which I know make for the most boring posts ever. So I'll end here, and write a more entertaining post about cool electronics and my retarded basal body temperature in a couple of hours, after I've avoided doing some actual work.

Christmas Mood Swings

Merry post-Christmas, blogworld! I've missed you the past couple of days. I'm heading home to Virginia at the ungodly hour of 4:00 am tomorrow. It's been a really long, draining few days here with my parents. There've been a couple of really good times, but there was also my mother losing control of her bowels for the first time ever, during Christmas Eve dinner, because she got a bad stomach flu that aggravated her Alzheimer's symptoms terribly. That was not a good time, and I'm still trying to get my balance back from it.

On the other hand, just about an hour after that, I peed on an ovulation predictor stick, and it came back...POSITIVE. Holy shit. Positive. I've never gotten a positive response on any test I'm ever peed on of any kind. I was so shocked I almost dropped the damn thing in the toilet.

So it's been a long Christmas, and I'm looking forward to getting home and writing a long post about it. But first my parents are taking me out to Mongolian barbecue for lunch. I'll eat some lovely baby lamb for all of you.

Airport Etiquette

In an airport, everything is acceptable. Diets are out of the question--there's only gorgeously greasy fast food available. Think eight dollars is outrageous for a slice of pizza and a soda? Hah! It's not your fault, don't feel guilty--you're a captive audience. Desperate for a beer because you're on your way to spending four nights in your childhood bedroom, in the twin futon your parents bought after they sold your bed, but worried that it's only 9:30 in the morning? No problem! Everyone else at the airport bar thinks it's midnight, because they just flew in from Norway. Buy a round and sing a rousing round of the Norweigian national anthem with them!

And manners are not an issue. Running at top speed in a crowded public area while shoving people out of your way and hitting small children with your luggage is no problem. Not only will people not get pissed, they will often cheer you on. They know that is if wasn't for getting that last space in the good parking lot, they would have been relegated to the holiday overflow lot nine miles away like you, and it would have been them running.

In other news, I still miss the King. I haven't heard from him in several days, which means he is either (a) off work and therefore unable to reach a phone or computer, or (b) working insanely hard 22 hours a day because there is only one of him and they need about four of him. Either way, I'm at my parents' house, my mother is worse than ever (her Alzheimer's symptoms have been worsened by a bad flu), and if I don't get some vodka soon, I might kill someone.

What a Downer I Am

I was going to post the most boring blog entry ever, but then I went over to visit Grrl, and she has good news! For once! And despite the good news, I cried. But they were happy tears, because she deserves some good news finally, after so very, very long. Her husband doesn't get a lot of space on her blog, but I know he has got to be absolutely ecstatic too. I hope they're both doing well, along with their wonderful surrogate and their TWINS!

And now to the boring part. You may have noticed that I haven't mentioned my own husband much lately, or my cycle. That's because both are pretty much doing nothing interesting. The King is well, but very busy, so I don't hear from him much, but I know he's safe. He's getting pretty sad because Christmas is only a few days away, so it's really starting to hit him that he's going to be spending it all alone. I hate that, and I hate hearing him sad. We just keep trying to think that this is hopefully the last time we will ever have to be apart for the holiday, and that next year, we will be enjoying the beautiful sandy beaches and ocean waves of Hawaii on Christmas. A Christmas palm tree would be just fine with me.

My cycle is even more uneventful--last month's possible ovulation seems to have used up all my fertility juices, because this month is going nowhere fast. My temps have been totally flat, which is sort of interesting in itself, because normally they're all over the map, but they make for a really boring chart.

Tomorrow I'm flying home for five days to celebrate the holidays with my family. I'm dreading it. My mother's Alzheimer's is definitely getting worse, and seeing her is devastating. My father, who has been caring for her by himself ever since this started, has begun to have to take her to the bathroom. I've suspected that he's been having to do this, but he confirmed it yesterday when he told me she has a bad flu and described her vomiting and diarrhea in detail. Of course, I also feel totally guilty both for not wanting to see her and for not being there with him to care for her. It pretty much sucks.

I miss my husband. I wish he was here.

Experiments in the Visual Arts

I thought I'd try to figure out how to post a picture to my blog. Here's my first try, a photo of my dumb dog, the one the King and I are giving away soon because we are horrible, horrible people.

If you're wondering what he's doing, he's exercising his skills as a brilliant hunting dog by destroying a pillow. He's scared to death of cats, rabbits can outrun him, and squirrels are smarter than him, but pillows? Pillows he can beat the crap out of any day of the week.

Orion, the Dumbest Dog Ever 

The 80s Are Officially Back.

iVillage has this to say about this fall's newest fashion trend: "This fall, dig your heels into midcalf-length boots. Slouchy suede (a.k.a. ruched) leather styles...are the best of the bunch. " Please, God, no. First legwarmers are coming back, and now those slouchy, ugly, wierd boots that look like an alligator ate your legs and then died there? Wasn't 80s fashion bad enough the first time around? I mean, the 80s were the decade of my youth, so I secretly love it, but I'm smart enough to know that, really, it was bad ugly. I distinctly remember wearing skintight, acidwashed, Guess jeans--pegged! of course--tucked into hightop black Reeboks with pink, black, and white laces. On top of that I had an oversized tee-shirt (probably Bedazzled from here to eternity) tucked into an enormous black belt. I then would carefully apply pink and blue eyeshadow (blend, girls, blend!) and top it off with green mascara, and then would tease my spiral-permed hair until it was near death and enamel it in place with AquaNet spray. Of course, you couldn't finish your look until you had curled your (permed!) bangs into two tight spirals, one curled down toward your forehead, and one pointing up to the sky. Oh yeah, I was hot. Yes I was.

My Dumb Dog Is a Genius

I just came upstairs to write, and my dumb dog walked up the stairs with me. You heard me--walked. As in, accompanied me in a sedate and calm manner. As in, did not bound up the stairs, knocking me over the banister so I crack my skull open on the hard, wooden floor below in his enthusiasm to get to the second floor ahead of me so he can greet me, tail wagging and tounge lolling, at the top. I have never seen a dog walk normally up stairs, unless they were aged and decrepit. The dumbest dog in the world is officially a genius.

That said, this new talent of his makes me sad. I know, I should be thrilled, and my non-cracked skull is saying a small prayer of thanks for it. However [drumroll please], we are getting rid of the dumb dog. He will not be able to accompany us to Hawaii, where, if you remember, we are moving in five months. (Whoo hoo!) I spent last weekend doing a bunch of stuff to get ready for our move, and one of the things was finding out whether it would be feasible to take Orion with us. I knew Hawaii had a quarantine period, but they changed it to 5, 30, or 120 days last year, instead of the old 120-day minimum. I thought a 5-day quarantine would be doable. However, it turns out that there is a blood test Orion would have had to have gotten some time ago for him to qualify for it. We didn't know that, and so he didn't get it.

So he would have to stay in quarantine for 30 days at least (at a cost of $655). Then, if we still don't have Navy housing after that first month, he will have to stay in a kennel until we do get a house, which could be several months. I could handle spending the money on it, but he couldn't handle it. He's already extremely neurotic (and dumb, did I mention that?) and scared of many, many things. And when he gets scared, he doesn't eat. For days. The King and I talked about it, and we decided, sadly, that putting Orion through the trauma of a cross-country drive, a 5-hour plane ride, a quarantine, time in a kennel, and then a strange house would just be too much for him. I honestly think it might kill him. I think it would be far less traumatic to let him stay here in Virginia, with a new family.

That's right, we're getting rid of our dog because it's more convenient that way. Please direct your hate mail to blogqueenie@ hotmail.com. Thank you.

Adopting Older Kids

Karen over at the Naked Ovary, recently said, "This is only the beginning. I don't have the luxury of learning how to parent this child as I go along--eight or twelve or fourteen months of her life will already be spent without me. I feel like I'll have to do things right by her from the beginning." That reminded me of a fantastic poster I saw at work recently for AdoptUSKids. They're an adoption group (obviously), and one of their things is encouraging people to adopt kids who aren't babies--babies are easy, everyone wants to adopt them. But after kids get to be about two, people aren't so interested in adopting them. I understand--it's scary to think about raising a child who, like Karen said, has already had a life without you. How do you fit into it, or fit her into yours?

Anyway, their poster was a big picture of a gorgeous little boy, about four years old, with curly black hair and dark eyes, and a big smile. The tagline read:

"You may have missed my first words, but I'll make it up to you."

I don't know why, but it just really got to me. It's true--you may not have breastfed them or had their birthmother hand them to you at the hospital, but they'll make it up to you. Because you're their mother.

In Which I Get to Use the Word "Salacious" Twice

So, Fox is going to be putting a new show on the air, "Who's Your Daddy?" In this show, an adopted girl will win $100,000 if she can correctly pick out her birthfather from a group of men. One Fox exec said, "You might get the impression from the title that it is somehow salacious or exploitive. But nothing could be further from the truth." Exploitive? Salacious? Fox Network? Never! I mean, who would think that the channel that gave us "Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire," "The Swan," and "Totally Outrageous Behavior Caught on Tape," would ever show something that is vulgar or tacky?

In the article linked above, the author of a famous adoption book is quoted (I'm not mentioning his name because I don't want Google searches for him to come here, because I'm sure he searches for himself, and he would totally have me fired). His quotes allow me to totally name-drop about all the famous people I know (okay, there are only two, and I met them both at the same time). Or semi-famous, anyway. This author, call him Mr. Bighead, came to a conference I worked at last month, and he took part in a book signing I ran. His book is a huge seller, and he was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for it. Which, naturally, makes him God. Or so he thinks.

My company doesn't publish his books. We let him take part in our signing because we're nice. I had six authors that we do publish also signing their books, and they all needed much fondling and hand-holding. But Mr. Bighead, he definitely wanted me to know that he was the important one. He began by taking his books out of the neat stack I had put them in, next to the stacks of the other authors' books. He then put them on top of my authors' books, covering them up! Asshead. Then he told met that he'd done "many, many signings" and he knew much better than I did how to arrange books for maximum sales. Apparently his strategy primarily entailed hiding everyone else's books and saying the phrase "Pulitzer-Prize nominee" approximately eighteen times in ten minutes. What a prick.

The other important person, Ming Na, the Chinese surgeon on ER, I also met at that signing, and she was a totally sweet, perfectly normal chick, and I completely humiliated myself by acting like a thirteen-year-old girl who just met Justin Timberlake.

New Years Is Going to Suck

As if New Year's Eve wasn't irritating enough for those of us who sit at home and get drunk alone, they had to hire the only person in the world more annoying than Dick Clark to do the TV special.

I Must Be Out of Touch

I was watching the Comedy Central end-of-the-year show last night, the Last Laugh '04, which was somewhat funny, although not nearly as funny as I was expecting. I did notice something really odd, though. A bunch of times, whoever was on stage said "Goddamn," for whatever reason. Each time, the censors bleeped out the first syllable of the word, but not the second. So what you heard was, "Go-[bleep!]-damn!" You could quite clearly hear the word damn, which is ostensibly the "bad" word, but they bleeped out the word "God" completely. I prefer to think that the Comedy Central folks were just trying to make sure you could tell they were cussing, while sticking to the letter of the law requiring them to bleep obscenities, but it still seemed really odd that they would eliminate the name of God but leave "damn." Go figure.

They also bleeped "blowing," which is a perfectly normal word, although it was being used to describe a sex act at the time, but left "ass," although it definitely was not being used as a synonym for "donkey."

Also, I have two questions: Who the fuck are Modest Mouse, and why was one of them wearing the Where's Waldo shirt??

Oops

This post over at the Naked Ovary reminded me of a really dumb thing I did at Blockbuster while trying to rent movies one day. I was in a hurry and there was a long line, so by the time I got up to the register, I was already fairly irritated with the teenager manning the cash register. I slapped my movies down on the counter, with my Blockbuster card already pulled out and on top of them...

BlockBoy: [picks up movies and my card, and puts card back down on the counter] Ma'am, I'll need your card.

Me: [looking through my wallet for money, annoyed] I gave it to you.

BlockBoy: [looking embarrassed] Um, sorry ma'am, but I can't check these out without your card.

Me: What is your problem? It's right there! [still looking through wallet, gesturing to my card on counter]

BlockBoy: [stiffly] That's a library card.

Me: Oh.

My Eyes, Oh God, My Eyes!

Today while walking through the metro station, my eyes fell upon a horrifying sight: a girl in a skirt wearing legwarmers with sandals.

Read that again: legwarmers...with sandals. Picture it in your mind.

It's a sign; our world is about to come to an end. It is time to accept Jesus into your hearts, because lo! the Rapture is upon us.

Telephone Hate

Bank One Representative 1: Hello, thank you for calling Bank One. How may I help you?

Me: Hi, I just got a letter from you guys about my credit card, saying you're merging with some other company. But I don't have a credit card with you, and I wanted to make sure this is some sort of mistake.

BOR 1: Oh, yes ma'am, let me check. Can I have your credit card number?

Me: I don't have one. I don't have an credit card.

BOR 1: Oh, yes. Can I have your name?

Me: Queenie.

BOR 1: Oh yes, you have an account with us.

Me: I want to close it.

BOR 1: I'll have to transfer you, hold please.

[click, click, buzz]

BOR 2: Hello, thank you for calling Bank One. How may I help you?

Me: You mistakenly opened a credit card for me and I want to close it.

BOR 2: I'll have to transfer you, hold please.

[click, click, buzz]

BOR 3: Hello, thank you for calling Bank One. How may I help you?

Me: By not transferring me to anyone else. You guys opened a credit card for me by mistake and I want to close it.

BOR 3: Oh, I'm so sorry ma'am! I can help you with that. What's your account number?

Me: I don't have one. I don't have an account.

BOR 3: Oh, yes. Can I have your name?

Me: Queenie.

BOR 3: Oh yes, you have an account with us. You have $10,000 worth of credit!

[Momentary lapse while I consider buying a horse. No, wait, stand firm.]

Me: I never opened the account, it was a mistake, and I want to close it.

BOR 3: Certainly, ma'am. First, let me tell you about our new package of personal loans...

Me: No, I just want to close the account.

BOR 3: I see that the account has been open for four years, and has a zero balance. That means we've
been keeping it safe and sound for you all that time!

Me: I don't care. I don't even have your credit card, it's a mistake and I just want it closed.

BOR 3: I'd be happy to send you a replacement card ma'am...

Me: You can't replace something I never had.

BOR 3: ...and we can even lower your interest rate to 6.5%!

Me: NO! Close it! Close it!

BOR 3: Certainly ma'am. [click click] I'm closing your account now. Be sure to destroy your credit card.

Me: I DON'T HAVE A FUCKING CREDIT CARD! IT WAS A MISTAKE!

BOR 3: Thank you very much, ma'am. Have a nice day!

Why Dracula, What Nice Hair You Have

Last night, I watched Van Helsing. I expected it to be a vampire action/adventure movie, as promised on the box. Instead, I discovered the most hilarious Dracula movie ever committed to film. In in the opening scene, we find Dracula in 1887. He is wearing his long hair pulled back with a rather fetching banana clip, circa 1987, and he has two girlish tendrils framing his face. It looks rather like the style I wore my hair in for my junior prom. In the next scene, we are taken to Notre Dame. Rather than the expected hunchback, however, we find Mr. Hyde hiding in the cathedral. He fights Van Helsing, but is defeated when one of the bells tolls. Apparently, ringing bells are his weakness, the only thing that can hurt him. So I wonder, why the fuck is he hiding in a BELL TOWER?

Skip ahead. Van Helsing meets the lovely Princess Anna (Kate Beckinsale). Anna is supposed to be living in the 1880s, but she has the carefully plucked eyebrows and over-collagened lips of any porn star. Go Anna. At this point, I actually checked the box the video came in to make sure it wasn't listed as a comedy. Nope, action/adventure, that's what it said. So I continued watching, thoroughly enjoying myself and laughing hysterically.

Until I got to the plot climax. Van Helsing and Anna discover the Count's true goal, the secret he's been hiding--Dracula's wives keep giving birth to dead babies (seeing as they themselves are dead, that makes sense), and he's trying to develop a way to bring them to life.

That's right. Dracula is infertile. Perhaps he could be our mascot.

Doctor Hate

Akeeyu's volcanic death puppies (otherwise known as her anxiety about doctors not knowing what the fuck they're doing and not believing their patients when they tell the doctors there is something wrong) reminded me of a couple of conversations I had with a new doctor a few years ago.

Me (sniffling, coughing, sneezing, hacking up fluid in my lungs): Doctor, I have bronchitis.

[Application of freezing stethoscope to chest for a bare moment while doctor checks his watch in boredom, apparently anxious to get to the club for a round of golf and quickie with his mistress.]

Doctor: No you don't, you have allergies.

Me: Um, actually I have recurrent bronchitis. I get it about twice a year, just after I get a cold. I just moved here so you haven't seen me before, but it's quite normal for me. I just need some amoxycillin...

[WARNING! WARNING! Arrogant patient trying to act like they're the doctor, using fancy medical terms and such. Abort! Abort!]

Doctor: No you don't! That's just bad medicine, prescribing antibiotics willy nilly!

Me: I agree, the overprescription of antibiotics is the reason for the evolution of drug-resistant viruses, but...

Doctor: You have allergies. Here, take these sample medications some drug company sent me in the mail. You'll be fine.

[Patient chucked ignobly out of office.]
Ten days later...

Me (wheezing, barely able to breathe, turning blue): Doctor, I saw you ten days ago and told you I had bronchitis. You gave me some crappy sample drugs instead of an antibiotic. Now I have pneumonia.

Doctor (outraged): You certainly don't! You have allergies! Let's do a blood test and find out.

[Fingers painfully pricked a dozen times with needles, due to anemia and poor circulation.]

Doctor (returning to exam room with test results, staring at results in a fury): You have pneumonia! Why didn't you come in sooner?

Me: I hate you.

Language Arts

I've been reading a really pretty good book called Tropic of Night, and I was quite enjoying it, until I came to a certain line in it. It's a man speaking about kissing his girlfriend, and he says:

"She really had an excellent mouth," he thought, "like a teacup full of hot eels."

Sorry, what? Eels? In her mouth? And a teacup? And the eels are hot because...they're like hot tea? In a cup? In her mouth?

It's shit like this that makes us editors look bad.

Cycle Day 2

That's right, folks, yesterday my period arrived with a bang. If my temperatures were telling the truth, that means I ovulated (!!!) and had a 14-day luteal phase, according to Fertility Friend, or an 11-day one, according to me. Eleven days is a bit short, I believe, but 14 days is exactly perfect. Ideal, even. A 14-day luteal phase, and a cycle complete with three days of EWCM*, would make me some sort of reproductive rock star. A cycling prodigy. Which is why I'm inclined to believe that this is all just a dream, and shortly Humpty Dumpty will show up and say, "Ha ha! You're dreaming! Your eggs suck, and they're even more broken than me!!" And then, snap, I'll wake up.

* Egg white cervical mucus, the mucus of the gods.

Ewww.

I just heard a funny commercial. It was for a spray that gets animal smells out of fabric. They guarantee that even the worst pet odor with disappear! "It's just like magic!" the happy housewife crows. Then the voiceover said, "Even if your carpet is continually soaked in cat urine, this spray will make the odor vanish instantly!"

All I can say is, if your carpet is continually soaked with cat urine, it's time to think about getting a different cat.

Fun with Missile Launchers

The King just called, yay! He's doing well. His boss has finally left, so he can actually do some work now. Apparently his boss brought along an assistant, a young woman who had never before left the United States. Lucky her, her first trip abroad and where does she go? Afganistan. They are flying directly from there to Pakistan, and then to beautiful downtown Calcutta. Nice.

He was very upbeat, but he mentioned that what with the whole Karzai inauguration taking place approximately ten feet from his office, people are going ABSOLUTELY BONKERS preparing for bombings, shootings, sarin gas attacks, and all manner of fun. I very momentarily freaked out when he tried to reassure me by saying, "Don't worry, baby, I'll be perfectly safe, everybody around here has a gun. Or a missile launcher." So do please keep your fingers crossed that all goes well this weekend, both for his personal safety and for and the baby democracy that is trying to be born in Afganistan. They deserve it.

Good News All Around

My husband is okay. I just got an e-mail from him assuring me that he was not on the plane that crashed yesterday. Thank God for that. He's doing fine; his boss is over there checking up on him and generally making trouble. No, really, they're having fun. Apparently they broke into a safe together, which is a bonding experience for a couple of old safecrackers like them. (No, I'm not kidding.)

And there is some other fairly momentous, and actually infertility-related news. (I figured since this is supposed to be an infertility blog, I should occasionally mention some sort of reproduction issue, otherwise they're going to throw me out of the Barren Bitches Brigade). Drumroll, please. For the past three days, my basal body temperatures have been high. Before that, I had the much-vaunted egg white cervical mucus. That's the good stuff, for you non-infertile folks out there. It is to conception what a big fire hydrant is to a dog. (Not that you pee on it, but that you really like it. You know what I mean.)

Anyhow, what the combination of EWCM and subsequent high temps means is that I may have ovulated. I can't be sure, because I wasn't checking my temps over Thanksgiving, but if I did ovulate, I'm about 10 dpo right now. If my period starts in a few days, I'll be ecstatic. I'm totally tempted to pee on a stick despite knowing full well that I can't possibly be pregnant, seeing as I haven't had sex for over a month. I almost can't help myself. This is the first sign of normal fertility I've ever had. In my life. Before I went on the Pill, I was totally irregular. Since going off it 14 months ago, I've had no sign of normal hormones whatsoever. This is a big thing for me. Would I be totally crazy to take a home pregnancy test? I don't think so. Which just goes to show that I am, in fact, totally crazy.

A Good Week in Blogland

First Julie has her baby, and now Grrl's gestational surrogate is PREGNANT!!! How awesome is that? Okay, now I don't want to totally jinx it for her, and those three exclamation points are definitely bordering on too much positive thinking, so that's it. No more celebrating.

Fucking Fuck

This news brief was the first thing I saw online when I booted up my computer this morning. I'm trying not to freak out, because really there's no reason the King would have been flying yesterday. None. For sure. Fuck. I'm trying really hard not to get hysterical, because I know he's fine and I'm sure I'll hear from him soon. I got an e-mail from him this morning (just after I read that damned article) saying he's well and has been busy, and that it's raining there. It was written before the plane crash, though, so of course I'm still totally freaked out. He would have mentioned it, I'm sure, if he was flying anywhere. Unless he kept it from me because he wouldn't want me to worry. There's no point in crying and throwing things at the wall now, because the soonest he could possibly contact me would be if he called late tonight, and that's unlikely given the poor phone situation there, so more likely he might be able to e-mail me tomorrow. So until then, I might as well just not worry. Yeah right. Fuck.

Get Off My Land, Crazy Lawn Man

My next-door neighbor is a very nice man. He lets us borrow his ladder, invites us to parties when they're going to be loud so we won't complain (and provides free beer), and seems to be a good father and husband. He is also very slightly obsessed with lawn care.

His lawn is green and lush, and is mowed twice a week without fail. He's owns more than one type of lawnmower, plus an assortment of clippers, shears, and other scary implements that he then uses to hand-trim the bushes and trees in his yard.

The right side of our house borders his property, and there is no fence in the front yard. Therefore, we have about a five-foot wide strip of lawn that touches his. When we first bought the house, it was brown and overgrown, and very embarrassing compared to his perfectly green, perfectly trimmed lushness. So we fertilized and mowed and generally got it looking pretty fabulous, all due to the King's hard work.

Fast forward to today. The weatherman is predicting snow on Sunday. It's been barely above freezing at night all week. The leaves have fallen, and because I am lazy and also because I believe in letting nature pretty much do her own thing, I didn't rake them. So they were lying on the grass, which is now a tad shaggy, but mostly just dry and dying because winter is coming, and that's what happens in winter. Everyone accepts that, right? In winter, you no longer need to mow your lawn, because it stops growing when the ground freezes.

Except my neighbor. Today, while I was at work, he mowed my lawn. That's right. He mowed his own lawn (presumably being careful not to mow down his Christmas decorations, which went up yesterday right on schedule), and when he was done with his part, he just kept on going, right onto our lawn. He did the entire half of the yard that abuts his property. There are now no leaves, and the mostly dead grass is shorn off. It's neat and it looks good, and it matches his yard perfectly.

I'm trying to be nice about this. I'm trying to be the bigger person. I'm trying to think he was just bored, or he knows the King is overseas so he figured he'd be sweet and help me out by mowing it for me. Really, I'm trying to tell myself that. But it's no use. I know why he did it. And I'm pretty goddamned offended by it. Because, really, this is it: He did it because my yard was not pretty enough to be next to his yard. Yes he did. What the fuck kind of person does that???

You Learn Something New Every Day

I learned a new word today, the name of a surgical term: labioplasty. Labioplasty is the cutting off of parts of one's labia minora so they are smaller and don't poke out from the labia majora. For an illustration (you may want to make sure no one else can see your monitor) see here. The primary reason for labioplasty is that some people (or, perhaps, their husbands) don't like the way their labia look after they've given birth. According to one plastic surgeon, "Many women bring us Playboy and say that they want to look like this." Seriously, how fucked up is this? I thought I'd heard it all with tummy tucks, chin lifts, and calf implants, but no. You just had a freaking baby--do you really want your vagina to look like that of a thirteen-year-old girl?? Why do women do these kinds of things to themselves?

Happy, Happy Holiday News

Batman has arrived! Julie and Paul must be so, so thrilled that he or she is here and doing well. I hope they are doing well, too--this must have been a bit of a shock, but even though the baby is a tad early, well, maybe that just means he or she will be advanced for its age! (No, I don't know yet whether it's a boy or a girl.) I'm so, so happy for them--they've had such a long, hard trip, and they wanted this baby so very much. Hopefully soon Julie or Paul will be back in blogland to tell us all about their baby themselves. Until then, a great big CONGRATULATIONS to them!
_____________________________
Updated to include:

There's another baby to report! Squid's new baby girl arrived yesterday as well! Much congratulations to her, and let's hope little Iz and Leelo are nice to their new baby sister! I know she's worried about the 1 in 20 chance that baby Mali will have autism like Leelo, so many good thoughts go out to her and her husband that all will be well.

When Art Imitates Life

Last week, I watched the pilot episode of House, MD, the new medical show. I don't think I'll be watching it again. Basically, it's about an arrogant, prick doctor who treats his patients like mentally deficient three-year-olds who should be verbally abused for daring to waste his precious, doctory time by hassling him with their medical problems. Thanks, I get enough of that at my RE's office.

Gobble Gobble

Happy Thanksgiving Day! Or, Happy Beginning of the End for the American Indian Day, if you prefer the less P.C. version. Am I the only dork who's bloggin on Thanksgiving? It's an odd sort of day for me--I'm home alone. The King and I have spent lots of holidays apart, and Thanksgiving really isn't a big deal for us, so I don't mind that much that he's not here. Primarily, it saves me having to drive 12 hours to Georgia to eat turkey with my in-laws. However, normally when he's overseas during a holiday, I go home to my family. But since I just went home a couple of weeks ago, I decided not to fly back there again now. Turns out it was a good decision, given the crappy weather and crazy delays at airports we had yesterday, but it's still a bit odd to be home by yourself on a holiday. In fact, it's my first time at it (except for one New Years Eve in college, and to be honest, I was pretty much drunk the whole night, so it hardly counts). But I don't mind. I'm having dinner with a very cool neighbor this afternoon, and her husband is from Hawaii, so they are making a traditional kalua pig (the kind you bury in the ground and cook for like twenty hours, except they're doing it in the oven, which is good, as it's raining out right now) along with the turkey. I always harass him to tell me all about Hawaii and what living there will be like. So I won't be totally on my own, and for the rest of the day, well, Netflix has provided me with six episodes of Nip/Tuck to thrill myself with. Rock on! Happy Turkey Day, everyone!

More Guilty Pleasures

I've just discovered my new favorite blog, Go Fug Yourself. Not only are the comments every bit as funny as the posts, but I have a secret addiction to looking at pictures of celebrities when they look like crap and making fun of them. Okay, maybe it's not that secret. Also, I love that this blog proved that I'm not the only one who thinks Anthony Kiedis's hair has gotten just really, really hideous. So sad, too--he used to be so, so, so very hot.

Very Quiet, Very Discreet Congratulations

I hadn't planned to post today, primarily because I am boring, secondarily because I just weighed myself and now feel like I need to go out and buy those appetite suppressing diet pills that are really just packed-together speed in a gelcap, and thirdarily because I'm supposed to be making lasagne for Thanksgiving tomorrow. (I know, the irony of the lasagne and the diet pills.) However, then I read this post, and I just had to jump up and down a tiny, tiny little bit, because NBHHY* for Getup Grrl, and she so, so deserves for it to continue not happening.


* Nothing bad has happened yet.

I Eat Like a Three-Year-Old, Redux

I often eat macaroni and cheese when I'm dining alone. It's never the good stuff, with the creamy cheese in those little silver packets, oh no. It's got to be Kraft, with the powdered cheese, in the blue box. And only the original, not those newfangled spirals and dinosaurs and crazy Spongebob shapes. No, I'm not down with the modern mac'n'cheese, it's the O.G. gangsta mac for me or nothing at all.

Once I've made the macaroni and cheese, I sprinkle a healthy dash of Lawry's Seasoned Salt on it. Don't ask me why, that's just how it's done at my house. Always has been. Then I eat it, normally, for the most part, but several times during each meal, I have to enact a special ritual that I have performed every time I've eaten mac'n'cheese since I was a little girl. I have to slide four macaronis onto the fork, one on each tine. And no fair using your hands for this--you've got to catch a macaroni on the end of the tine, then use the side of the bowl to push it on. And all the way, with no macaroni dangling off the end of the fork. Some of the macaronis are too curved and will split, so the ideal is a shortish, fairly straight macaroni. Once you get all four mounted on the fork at once, you put the fork in your mouth and use your teeth to pull off all four at once, and eat them.

How much of a freak am I? Do you think the fork-mounting macaroni are some kind of weird, subconscious, prepubescent sex thing?

Things That Make Me Want to Vomit

This story, courtesy of this week's News of the Weird. Chuck Shepherd, please don't be mad that I borrowed this story, but I couldn't find the original links to it online at AP or the Raleigh News and Observer:

North Carolina state Sen. Sam Ellis' bill to change a section of state law that actually gives an enormous right to rapists failed in committee this year, with the result that some rapists may inevitably go free. If a rape victim chooses to carry her baby, and then place it for adoption, state law requires that both parents agree to the adoption in writing, with no exception for babies conceived by rape. Thus, rapists might withhold their consent, thwarting the mother's wishes, unless she agrees not to press charges for the rape. According to a September Raleigh News and Observer story, at least three women have recently been in that situation. [Raleigh News and Observer, 9-6-04; Associated Press, 7-17-04]

If you live in North Carolina, could you please write to your state senator/representative, and tell him or her now revolting this is? Thank you. [end public service address]

Goddamned Crappy United Nations Flight Schedules

The King just called. He's not coming home when he was scheduled to. His homecoming has been pushed back about two weeks, to the first week in February. Damn it. I'm not shocked, and I guess I should remember it can be much worse--the last time he was in Afganistan, his homecoming was pushed back by two months. But it's still really, really annoying. Looks like I'll be selling our house by myself, just like I bought it by myself, last time he was in Afganistan. There's a certain sucky balance in that.

Other than the yucky news, he's doing well. It's late at night there, and I have no idea why he was calling me (although it was totally sweet), because he's planning to get up at 4 am to watch the Busch car race live, and then staying up to watch the final NASCAR race of the season in the evening. So it'll be a long day for him, but he loves racing more than just about anything else except me and the Corvette he used to own.

All right, I've got to go change the date on my countdown sidebar. Damn it.

Nomenclature

I live in Virginia, near towns called things like Accokeek and Occoquan. I love the crackly taste of their names in my mouth, all those carefully delineated syllables. Our town goes by the far more pedantic name of Dale City--could it get much more white bread than that? I grew up in Southern California, where all the roads and towns have Spanish names like El Camino Real, the Road of the King, which if you pronounce it with the proper rolling r, sounds very royal indeed, and El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles, the City of the Queen of the Angels, which always sounds like a melody to me, like the babbling of a syncopated river, even if you only call it by it's shorter pseudonym, Los Angeles.

And Now, on a Cheerier Note

On the airplane, as the stewardess approaches with the drink cart...

Youngish mother sitting next to me: Sam, honey, what do you want to drink from the nice lady? You can have whatever you want, sweetie boy!

4-year-old Sam: Milk, mama! I want milk!

Mother: Honey bear, you already had milk twice today. I think it's time for some juice. How about juice, sweetie?

Sam: Milk, mama! I want milk! You said I could have anything I wanted!

Mother: You can, baby! You can have anything you want. As long as it's juice.

The Worst Thing

I've been preparing myself to write this post for a long time--as long as I've had a blog, really. It's really hard for me, but I think it's finally time for me to address the biggest source of pain in my life. All you infertility folks who probably think I'm a dork for writing about infertility when all I've done is a round of Clomid, well believe me, I really do belong in the Barren Bitches Brigade, I just make up for a lack of miscarriages and years of IVF with a whole other kind of sorrow.

My mother is dying.

Fuck, I actually wrote it. I've never said the words out loud, although I think them constantly, dozens of times a day. I wasn't sure I'd actually be able to type them. I'm crying as I write this, though, so it's not without difficulty.

She's not dying today or tomorrow, but someday soon. I guess in the metaphysical sense, we're all dying, but my mother's death has a name. Alzheimer's. Rare, early-onset Alzheimer's that is frequently passed on through families, to be specific. After three years of misdiagnosis and random drugs given to treat hormone imbalances, weird menopause symptoms, and a host of other meaningless "illnesses," a year ago this month my father called to tell me that my mother had Alzheimer's. The King and I went out to Romano's Macaroni Grill that night for dinner. I haven't been able to eat there since.

For the past year, I've tried to come to grips with it. She's had symptoms for almost five years. The average Alzheimer's patient lives for eight years with the disease. Of course, the average patient also doesn't get Alzheimer's until he or she is about 70. My mother started forgetting things when she was 50.

I try to tell myself that I probably won't get it, that she probably doesn't have the genetic kind, because she has five siblings who are okay, and her parents didn't have it. She did have an uncle who had the regular, late-onset kind. I try not to think about that too much. Because it's incurable, you see. So I just try to tell myself it's not worth worrying about, because if it does happen, I can't stop it. I tell myself that I'm only 27, that even if I got it at 50 like she did, that still gives me 23 years with my husband, and to raise my children, if I ever have any. I try not to think about the King telling my 23-year-old child that his mother is going to start forgetting how to order meals in restaurants, and how to flush the toilet, and what his name is. I think that the first time my mother cannot remember my name, I might die myself.

I'm finally posting this because I hope it might help me face it better. I already cry every day a little for her, so crying while I type is not that hard. I find myself hideously jealous when I hear people say things like my sweet coworker, when I asked her how her day off went, and she said, "Great! My mom and I went and got facials at a spa; you know, that whole mother-daughter bonding thing." And I smiled and nodded like I knew, but I don't. My mother never did things like that with me; we had a lot of tension between us, and I always thought in a few years, we'd have one of those heartfelt moments where I apologize for all the crap I gave her as a teenager, and she hugs me and says she's sorry she couldn't accept my living with my boyfriend in college, and then we'd go to a spa and get facials. But now we never were.

I'm also hideously jealous of Getup Grrl, with her wonderful mother, who I wish was my mother so much. So because I feel guilty about feeling jealous, I'm going to emulate the better type of person (that would be Grrl), and try to find the humor in the whole dying-slowly-of-a-calcifying-brain thing. Cut me some slack if it's not funny; this is my first try:

Top Ten List of Why Infertility Is Like Alzheimer's Disease

10. Your doctor administers many painful and embarrassing tests, tells you he cannot give you a specific diagnosis and has no idea how to cure you, and then says that will be $500, please.

9. Your insurance company tries to avoid paying the $500 by saying that you have a preexisting condition that they don't cover. You say you're thinking of blowing up their building.

8. Your doctor instructs you to shoot very expensive, barely tested drugs into your body or swallow them although he has no idea what's actually wrong with you. And you do.

7. You wander in and out of the bathroom mumbling to yourself and pulling your hair out because (a) you can't remember why you were going in there, or (b) the fucking OPK stick is negative for the eighty-ninth day in a row.

6. Your body changes freakishly and you get fat or skinny, and you are either always too cold or always too hot, because (a) you are bloated due to the damned injections, or (b) you can't remember to eat.

5. People avoid you because they're afraid that whatever is wrong with you might be catching.

4. You curse loudly in front of small children because, at this point, why the fuck not?

3. Your husband starts giving you baths because he's afraid you might drown yourself in the bathtub if left alone too long on a bad day for either (a) your dementia or (b) your beta test.

2. Your family members give you ass-heady advice, such as "Take a vacation," "Eat more vitamins," or "Maybe more exercise will shake those plaques in your brain loose!" Fuck off, stupid people. I hate you.

1. They both suck.

In Which I Brag About My Husband Ad Nauseum

Good morning, everyone! Thanks for waiting so patiently for me to get home from my endless trip. I'm finally back and trying to pretend that it wasn't 2:30 in the freaking morning Pacific time when my alarm went off this morning. I had a decent trip home yesterday, except for the 4-year-old boy in my row who, when we began descending for landing at Dulles, began shrieking, "We're falling out of the sky! We're going to crash!" Even more alarmingly, he was laughing hysterically and seemed thrilled about the whole thing. His vegan, curly-haired mother responded, "Sam, honey, shh. The other people on the plane don't like to hear that. Honey, shh!" It didn't work, and he continued predicting our imminent deaths for 45 minutes. Then we landed and he jumped on my head in an attempt to be the first one off the plane. Cute kid.

So anyhow, I promised you an update on the King, so here it finally is. First of all, he's doing well and is more or less safe. He's been gone nearly a month out of the three that he's scheduled to be gone, so I think I'm safe to 'fess up to where he's been. I'm sure most of you have assumed he's in Iraq, but actually he's not: He's in Afganistan, specifically in Kabul, which is the capital. The reason I couldn't tell you that before is because his job is this fancy high-security super-secret thing (no, I'm not breaking any laws by putting this on the Internet, I promise). You're probably thinking, "What a pretentious bitch, making her husband sound all important and making us think he's off getting shot at in Iraq like all the real soldiers." My apologies; I'm really not pretentious and he really does have a pretty important job in the area of security. And it is dangerous there, although CNN has stopped bothering to report on Afganistan--it's old news, right? Two days before the King flew over there, a suicide bomber detonated outside the building he's working in. Nice.

He was there once before, two years ago. He was sent to Afganistan two weeks after our wedding, just a few days after we got home from our honeymoon. He was gone for three months that time too, during which I sold our house, bought a new one, and moved all our belongings into it. I also very nearly had a nervous breakdown from sheer terror--I didn't sleep more than two or three hours a night the entire three months. It's better this time, but I don't know how the families of the men in Iraq do it, especially when they've been there FOR OVER A YEAR. It's just insane.

But I digress. So, he's over there now, doing his fancy schmancy security thing in the interests of national security. Or so they tell me. He got a terrible flu the first week he was there, but assured me that he'd gone to the doctor and gotten some antibiotics:

Me: "Good, I'm glad you're taking some medication to get better. Be sure to take all of it--don't stop until you run out of antibiotics."

Him: "Yeah, it was weird though. The doctor had to send all his real drugs to Iraq because the guys there don't have enough supplies, so he bought my antibiotics from some Pakistani guy he met on the street."

No, I'm not kidding. Please write President Bush and thank him for his part in making my husband take medications that will probably cure his cold but give him cholera.

Homecoming

It's Sunday night, and tomorrow I head home to Virginia after ten days on the road. I have a long, confessional post to write, and I'll try to get it done tomorrow night, but it'll more likely be Tuesday before I can work myself up for it. Being on vacation has killed my complexion, as usual, so I feel that tomorrow night will involve spending at least thirty minutes with my face slathered with $18 Origins black charcoal mask, which turns me into a terrifying Halloween mask for a while and then leaves my skin feeling oh-so-soft. Also, I'll be shaving my legs for the first time in almost two weeks, as I forgot a razor and was too cheap to spend $6 for one at the hotel in Beverly Hills. Oy vey, the King would say. "Baby, that's gross. Don't tell me things like that." I can hear him now.

I'll try to pick up some good Overheards at the airport tomorrow, but since it's going to be like 6:00 in the morning, I don't have a lot of confidence that my brain is going to be working well enough for that. So in the meantime, if you have any good ones, please share them! Leave them here or write me at blogqueenie @ hotmail.com. (How much of a slacker am I, getting other people to write my blog for me?)

Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

Someone from Eugene, Oregon, has recently discovered my blog, and read pretty much every page in it in the past two days, according to my statistics counter. He or she has driven my page hits way up, and I appreciate the attention immensely, but I have an ex-boyfriend (THE ex-boyfriend, I should say, as in the one I thought was "The One," before I found the Actual One, the King) who lives near Eugene, and I'm wondering what the chances are that it's him. Greg, is that you out there?

Why CNN Sucks

I just had to post really quickly to vent about how much I hate journalists--they are incredibly biased and inaccurate. Normally I try to just ignore them, but I just couldn't let this sentence, about a 57-year-old mother of twins, go:

"She gave birth Tuesday by in-vitro fertilization at New York City's Mount Sinai Medical Center."

Ahem. She gave birth by in-vitro? What kind of stims do they give you for that protocol?

Honor

So, 18 of our soldiers were killed on Veteran's Day this year. I believe we're up to 23 as of this morning, with almost 200 wounded, and who knows how many hundreds of Iraqi people killed. I weep for our men more, of course, but I always remember that every one of those Iraqis have families just like our soldiers do. Kitten reminded me that I haven't updated about the King in a while--thanks for thinking of him. I can't tell you how supportive it feels to know that someone besides me is thinking of him. I promise to give a thorough update once I get home from this so-called vacation on Tuesday. For now, though, suffice it to say that he's safe and well, and thankfully, far, far from Fallujah. I wish I could say the same for all the rest of our friends and heros.

Family Ties

As promised, I'm back again. I'm sneaking some time in at my parents' ancient computer, trying not to go blind staring at their old-fashioned monitor--I've gotten totally spoiled by my flat screen at home. Their curved screen is making me go all cross-eyed.

I grew up less than 50 miles from Hollywood and Beverly Hills, and lived here for 22 years. I never once met a celebrity, except for sitting next to Sigourney Weaver in a movie theater in Santa Barbara once and seeing Ricky Schroeder at a LA Kings hockey game (does he count as a celebrity?). However, I have now officially met someone famous. Ming Na, the female Chinese doctor who had a baby a few seasons back on ER, showed up at my booth at our conference and introduced herself to me! We shook hands and chatted. She's interested in writing a children's book for us. I was totally cool and pretended I had no idea who she was.

Okay, that's a total lie. I turned around from helping a customer, saw her, and shrieked, "You're famous!" while pointing at her and jumping up and down. I'm not kidding, I actually did. And she was only like three feet away, so it's not like she didn't see me. I'm now totally embarrassed. But after that first shock, I was cool as a cucumber.

Someone else said they saw Mel Gibson dropping someone off at our hotel, but I missed that. To be honest, I would have preferred to have gotten to shake (okay, lick) his hand. Sorry, Ming.

The conference went well. We stayed at the Beverly Hilton, which was fabulous--chocolates on the pillow, terrycloth robe in the closet, Nintendo in the room ($6.95 for an hour), a balcony, and a pool heated to the temperature of a bathtub. I loved it, although I will say it was totally chintzy that they didn't have HBO. What's up with that? I was completely counting on finally getting to see uncut episodes of Sex and the City. We used to have HBO, but when Sex and Oz went off, we dropped it.

I got room service the first morning. It arrived on a table covered with linen. There was a rose in a vase, chilled juice, and a teeny weeny bottle of ketchup that I was seriously tempted to keep as a souvenir. And a very, very hot waiter in a tuxedo. Seriously. I almost threw him down on the bed, but 7:15 am seemed a little early for that sort of thing. And I hadn't brushed my hair in two days, so he probably didn't feel the same way about me. His loss, I say.

The King told me not to start expecting him to throw on a tux and bring me breakfast in bed, but since he forgot our anniversary last year, I'm pretty sure he's going to have to put up and do it at least once in the near future.

Ooh, I think Mom and Dad are back from their appointment. You know how when you go home, you instantly remember every distinguishing sound in the house? The toilet dripping, the annoying chirpy bird that lives outside your old bedroom window, the creaky floorboard in the kitchen? Well, I just heard the garage door open, so I must run and get dressed, because they want to take me to Uncle Herb's, the best diner this side of the Mississippi. And it's not just the best because they have a little train that runs around the walls, although I admit that I totally, totally love that little train.

Country Roads, Take Me Home

Or in this case, it was the 405 Freeway that took me home. That's right, the conference is over and now I'm at my parents' house for four days. Their Internet hookup is ungodly slow, so I can't do much on here, but I promise to tell you all about the conference soon. Let me tantalize you by saying that there is nothing more awkward than going to a racy Hollywood comedy club with two devout Mormons who are trying to schmooze you for a book discount for their publishing company.

And I Thought Kids Shooting Each Other in School Was Bad

I love our military and my soldier husband, and generally I am so proud of him and everyone else who serves. But sometimes I just have to say, seriously, what the fuck???

Non Illigitimus Carborundum*

Blogger is sucking hard today--sorry for the late post.

In honor of Grrl's new Trollies, the award for jerks who offend and hurt people's feelings in their blog comments, I've discovered this, the best of all websites. There is also this, which does not include as many insults, but really, how can you not love a site that tells you how to say "Stand aside, little people! I am here on official business!" in Latin?

In other news, there is a Twilight Zone marathon on Sci-Fi today, and because I'm working at home, I got to watch it on my lunch hour. I would like to propose that there has never been a better tv show committed to film than the Twilight Zone. It's just brilliant.

And in yet other news, I'm packing. Tomorrow morning I'll be heading off to my home state of California. I have to work at a conference in Beverly Hills for a few days and then will be spending the rest of the week visiting my parents. However, I will have Internet access the whole time, and I'm sure the conferees will provide me with many funny items for the Overheard column, such as:
"Where do I register?"
"See the huge sign hanging from this desk that says 'Registration Desk'?"
"Yes..."
"Well, does that give you a clue?"

Now, I shouldn't be mean. The conference is about adoption, specifically how to make the adoption system in this country better, fairer, and more positive for the children and parents, both birth- and adoptive, involved. I often dislike working for a nonprofit, particularly when I contemplate not having had a raise for the last three years because we have, um, no profits, but we really do some good work sometimes. Hopefully this will be one of them.

* Don't let the bastards get you down.

I Just Can't Help Myself

I have a secret addiction, and I'm finally ready to 'fess up to it, here in front of the whole world. (Or at least the few people who read my blog.) Here it is: I love America's Next Top Model. It's the only reality show I watch--I think reality tv, in general and including Top Model, is complete dreck. I'm embarrassed to admit to it, but I just can't help it. Please don't tell anyone; I promise to get help.

The thing is, it's so, so empowering. Basically, you've got a bunch of tall, thin, beautiful young women all living together in a little apartment, sharing bedrooms and couches and showers. It's pretty much your typical porno fantasy land. (There was a recent episode where they all put on teeny weeny bikinis and got into a very small bubble bath together.)

And they're all extremely beautiful and thin...and miserable. They cry in every episode. They go through humiliating scenes of measuring the width of their thighs or staring at their pores in the mirror. They eat low-carb brownies and sigh over how many calories ketchup has. I watch them and I think, "Ha! You stupid, pretty girl! My mother was right--being beautiful doesn't make you happy!" I know, it's anti-feminist to laugh at them and make fun of them. Undoubtedly I should be sending them e-mails via UPN's website and recommending that they meditate and read Saving Ophelia, but really, fuck it. They need to grow up and get a life. Sorry, girls, you might be pretty, but you aren't women yet.

Send in the Clowns

So, hopefully soon Kerry will concede and we can all go on with our lives. That will be a little sad, but not unexpected, at least for me. I didn't watch most of the returns last night; I was exhausted, so I watched until they were about tied, with about 100 electoral votes each, then I crashed. Lo and behold, they were still tied this morning. No shocker there.

There was one big thing that disturbed me, though. I'm fully aware that the Bush campaign worked very hard to get out what they refer to as the "evangelical Christian" or "Christian Right" vote. Those are what the rest of us refer to as "crazy fundamentalist fanatics." That's right, let's get out the fanatic Christian vote! They're the ones best suited to telling the world that fanatic Muslims are wrong and shouldn't hate us! That makes perfect sense!

Well, apparently they did a pretty good job of getting the folks who think evolution is a joke to the polls. That's fine, they're Americans too, they get to vote. What alarmed me was the election of three new members of the House of Representatives. I think two of them are from Texas, but don't quote me on that. In any case, here is what these three new men believe:

Rep 1: No gay people should be allowed to teach in schools.
Rep 2: No gay people or unwed mothers should be allowed to teach in schools. (There was no word on his opinion about whether unwed fathers would infect our children with their moral turpitude.)
Rep 3: Any women who has an abortion should be eligible for the death penalty.

So, that's nice. I'm seriously considering joining Mollie at Greener Pastures and moving to Canada. The King and I have talked about it before, semi-seriously, but have never really given it too much thought because neither of us like being cold. But I just don't know if I can continue to live here if the move toward fundamentalism in our government continues. I know it's normal for historical shifts like this to happen, but I don't want to live through one. Besides, the Canadian national anthem is so nice, and their flag is pretty, too. So who's with me?

This Is the End

Of the election season, I mean. Not of my life, or the world, or anything like that. So go vote! I honestly don't care who you vote for. I'm a Kerry girl myself, but as long as you vote, that's fine by me. I'm just hoping one of them wins by a decent amount so we aren't forced to listen to weeks and weeks more discussion of the lawsuits and polls and all that. I'm pretty passionate about politics, but honestly, I am sick to death of that being the only thing on the news for the past month. We aren't the only country in the world, despite what CNN thinks. The UN is considering sending more "peacekeeping" troops to Africa as the people in the Sudan are dying, and there have been several bombings in Pakistan. But what is at the top of the CNN homepage? Parents of high school students protesting the students having to wear IDs at school. Given the incredible level of violence at American schools, I hardly think that's a major civil rights issue. How about the right of students not to be stabbed or beaten to death by their schoolmates?

Oh, the Irony

I'm copyediting a new book for teenage girls about teen pregnancy. It's full of all the same alarmist warnings that I heard throughout high school: You can get pregnant the very first time! You can get pregnant even when you're on your period! You can get pregnant in a swimming pool! And my favorite--You can get pregnant even if the penis never even enters the vagina! The demon-seed can just jump up on you and swim up to your hapless little egg, and then where will you be?

Now, I realize that it's very bad when teenage girls get pregnant and makes their lives and the lives of their children very difficult. Also, teenagers are in their peak fertile period and tend to have irregular ovulations, so just avoiding the middle of the month doesn't work so well for them. But it still chaps my ass to be reading this, knowing that not only can't I get pregnant by having sex at the optimal time, I DON'T EVEN HAVE AN OPTIMAL TIME! All those years I panicked every month--what if the condom leaked? What if I took a pill twenty minutes earlier one day than the day before? Oh God!--were so pointless. I was fanatical about never, ever missing a pill, for more than ten years. The King was equally religious about asking me regularly if I'd taken it, just to make sure I hadn't forgotten. Let me tell you, we're kicking our stupid selves now. I've been off the Pill for, Jesus Christ, almost 500 days, and I've had ONE period. One. Damnit.

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.

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.
[Click]
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.

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.

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.

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.

Why I Must Laugh at Myself

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

"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.

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!

Sincerely,
A very satisfied woman

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.

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.

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."

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?)

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.