An Accident of Hope

Changes coming down the pike

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

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

Please?

Pretty Please?

Pretty Please with Sugar on Top?

Thank you.

Mysterious, Maybe Prophetic Meme

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

From Liza...

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

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

Mad Ship by Robin Hobb

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

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

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

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

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

Getting through the 2WW without losing your mind

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

Drink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Solitude Day 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live Blogging Through My Solitude

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

Kristin and Julia are leaving me...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Setting the Tone

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

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

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

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

So, what did you all do?

Elimination Communication

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

WARNING: POTTY LANGUAGE!!

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

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

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

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

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

Now My Life is Complete

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

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

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

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

and, for you, a bonus "Amazon Yell"

An Unusual Request

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

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

My request:

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

Thank you.

Some Moments of Note

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

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

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

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

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

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

and...

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

Hey, look! A picture!

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

Drummer Girl
Originally uploaded by Temmerling.

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

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

A whupping

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am a Bitch: Bah Humbug

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

And now I'm off to crash...

Cyst

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

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

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

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

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

Now don't freak out...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Meme to Sum Up the Year

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

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

Thanks Liza for the idea!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

October: It turns out Julia LOVES the circus.

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

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

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

Vote

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

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

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

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

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

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

An extra special post about some extra special cupcakes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Pictures

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

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

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

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

Damn and Blast this Winter

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

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

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

So that's that.

Now for the real part of this post:

Scene from Saturday Morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Got My Toes Wet

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

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

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

Just so you know...

The Pooplicious Fondue Party

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, now that you put it that way…”

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

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

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

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