37.6 - Entering the home stretch

We've reached "full term", and now it's just a matter of when she decides to make her appearance.    Her nursery is nearly complete, she has teeny tiny onesies and socks folded and matched and put away into dresser drawers, we have diapers that will fit her teeny tiny newborn bottom.  I have a pretty good idea of what's going into my hospital bag, but I've not packed it yet; maybe I should get on that, eh?  (I have the important stuff set aside and ready - stool softeners.  Post-birth poo is no joke, from what I hear.) 

We had two baby showers this past weekend - one Friday night thrown by Jimi's co-workers, and another Saturday afternoon hosted by my family.  Both were lovely and netted us some awesome gifts to help welcome our new arrival.  Maggie came down for the family shower and brought the burp cloths she made after the shower she hosted for us a few weeks back - looking through the messages and pictures from our friends made me teary-eyed all over again. 

I feel very loved right now.  I feel like I'm caught up in a net of love and happy and warm and cozy and safe and good.  I've had a life full of happy and love, but I don't remember ever feeling quite so filled to the brim with good things.  It's a great place to be, my world is these days, and knowing it's only going to get better with this baby's arrival is more than I can comprehend. 

I was very disappointed at my midwife appointment yesterday to learn that I've tested positive for Group B Strep.  I'd really hoped to avoid that, and learning that I'm a carrier has bummed me out.  My midwife was very good about explaining it all to me in detail, since I'd not bothered to do any previous research on it (hoping it wouldn't apply to me), and basically this means I've got to get to the hospital within 4 hours of my water breaking or when contractions (pressure waves) are 6-7 minutes apart rather than 3-5 minutes apart so I can have at least two rounds of IV antibiotics before baby girl is born.  I'd hoped to spend most of my early labor at home, but now we'll be heading out quite a bit sooner than I'd planned.  Fortunately, I was reassured that I can still move around and get in the tub, etc. while hooked to the IV, so I won't be strapped to a bed.  It's all going to be fine, just a bit of a change in my gameplan.  Whatever - I'd even take being strapped to a bed if it meant getting my daughter here safely. 

Perhaps it was psychosomatic, but within an hour of leaving the midwife's office, I started to feel sickly.  It got worse as the night progressed, with my throat getting more and more sore each time I woke for my hourly bathroom trip/flip to the other side.  I called my doctor's office before 9 a.m., hoping he'd be able to prescribe something to head off whatever it was trying to take hold of my body.  I'm usually a "wait three days and see" before calling the doctor sort of gal, but being within 2 weeks of my due date was enough catalyst to get my butt in gear immediately this time.  They were able to fit me into a slot that'd been reserved for a patient who'd done a no-show, but when the strep culture came back negative, the doc was sort of stuck on what to do for me.  In the end, I came home with a $50 Tamiflu script, just in case it's the flu.  I've since decided it's most likely a sinus infection, but I'm taking the Tamiflu anyhow - just in case, and because I paid $50 for it.  I went back to work after my visit, but came home around 1 and slept until it was time to pick up Jimi from work.  It's 8:30 now, and I'll probably be in bed in the next 30 minutes or so - I want as much rest as possible, to give my body a chance to fight this off quickly.  I don't want to be nine and a half months pregnant and sick.  I especially don't want to be in labor and sick.  Immune system, don't fail me now!

There are a million other words to say.  I'll get to them all eventually.  For now, though, Momma's tired. 

29 is a good number.

29 weeks today - baby girl is two and a half pounds and just over 15 inches long.  She's flipping and flopping and kicking up a storm.  I can't believe she's going to be here in less than 3 months - it's happening so fast! 

I've switched medical providers.  At 29 weeks.  Whoa.  Here's the story:

At my last OB appointment, I attempted to have a conversation with my doctor about my desire for a natural unmedicated birth.  She cut me off and said, "That's great.  I'm going to put down that you would prefer a natural delivery but you're open to an epidural."  Um, that's not what I said.  I tried to correct her, but she wouldn't let me get my words out, instead telling me how if I want to deliver naturally, I need to make sure I don't gain too much weight, because she'd wanted natural childbirth but gained 50 pounds and ended up begging for an epidural at 3 cm.  My efforts to steer the discussion back to me, to my birth preferences, were futile, and she breezed out of the exam room when I was still mid-sentence.  I left feeling extremely uncomfortable and very nervous about my chances of labor and delivery going the way I want.  I'd already had reservations about this particular doctor and practice, so this treatment was a tipping point for me.  I'd heard of a group of doctors and midwives across the river, and decided to look into my options.  Imagine my surprise and excitement when I learned they're considered "in network" through my insurance!  I called their office, and the phone was answered by a live person, rather than an answering machine.  Yes, they're accepting new patients.  Yes, they'll take a new patient at 28 weeks pregnant - there's an appointment available on December 5th, would I like to schedule?  Yes.  Yes I would. 

I picked up my medical records from the old OB and cancelled my future appointments with their office, and today I had my first appointment with a licensed nurse midwife.  My impression after the first visit is this:  I feel like I've made the best medical decision I've ever made for myself, and I'm thrilled.  The intake staff, the nurse who weighed me and checked my blood pressure, the midwife herself - they all made me feel so incredibly comfortable and at ease.  They gave me a welcome bag full of healthy pregnancy literature and prenatal vitamin samples and information on the hospital where I'll deliver.  They have signs all over their office encouraging patients to file a birth plan with the office by 36 weeks, and provided a form for mothers-to-be who may need a little help figuring out what info should be included in a birth plan.  They strongly encourage allowing labor to begin on its own and for women to be active during labor.  They encourage women to make the birth experience their own and promise to do everything possible to support each woman's requests when it comes to pain managment and delivery.  In other words, they are exactly what I'd hoped I'd be able to have in a medical team during labor and delivery.  Reading their birth plan form, I was so overwhelmed with relief, I started to cry; sitting in the exam room, waiting for the midwife, crying tears of happiness that I will be able to have the birth experience I'd hoped for without having to beg and fight for it.  The hospital where I'll deliver has an excellent record for non-intervention, and the nurses are very familiar and comfortable with unmedicated deliveries.  They have garden tubs to soak in during labor (can't deliver in the tub, but I can live with that). I can't explain how thrilled I am. 

Assuming I don't get a partial refund of the money I've paid to my former OB's office, I'm looking at this switch costing me an extra $40 over what I'd planned to spend.  $40.  Best money I've ever spent. 

Today, I feel more confident than I have in weeks.  I feel like I've made a choice that will guarantee I've done everything in my power to get this baby here in a natural way - it still may not end up that way, but I can rest assured knowing if interventions become necessary, it won't be because I didn't make the right choice when it came to my medical providers.  I can move forward without fear of regret.  I'm so relieved.  I'm so happy. 

I need some cheese to go with my whine.

I'm sick and it sucks.  I've usually got a rockstar immune system, but this pregnancy is cramping my style - this is the second time in the last 6 months that I've been ill, and I'm not digging it.  This time it's sinus related, which is better than the 24-hour puking binge from last time, but only marginally.  Not being able to breathe is for the birds, and now I'm developing a cough and body aches to go with it, so I guess I'll be headed for the doctor's office tomorrow.  I really don't want to be pumped full of meds, but I don't want to be miserable, either.

Sleeping is becoming quite the challenge.  I'm waking up every hour to pee, which is sort of convenient, because I usually need to roll over to my other side by then, anyhow, thanks to my aching hips.  Oh goodness, I've got another 3 months of this.  Which means it's probably going to get tougher to sleep.  I'm going to be a zombie.  It seems really unfair that we soon-to-be moms lose our ability to sleep right before we have a baby who takes away our ability to sleep.  Doesn't it seem more reasonable that we'd be able to sleep wonderfully right up until the child is born, and then dive head-first and well-rested into the first weeks of parenthood? 

All I've got are complaints. 

My new favorite topic of conversation...

**Disclaimer:  This shit is TOP SECRET, yo.  Well, as Top Secret as it can be when it's posted on the internet.  I can't not blog about this life-changer, but if you know me in real life, please don't share the news - I can't bear to have to make those phone calls or announcements again if things don't end well.   

Being sick is never fun, but being sick while knocked up is a special form of suck.  I usually take respiratory illness in stride, throwing at it various remedies like extra Vitamin C tablets, nasal spray, over-the-counter cold and flu pills, hot toddies.  I'm trying so fucking hard to not have a miscarriage, though, my only defense against this nastiness that came on Thursday night has been water, orange juice, hot steamy showers (I had to debate with myself over that one for a while), a Neti Pot, and Vick's Vapor Rub.  Oh, and I've taken a total of two Tylenol to combat my low-grade fever.  Friday night's sleep attempt was a joke, and yesterday was the worst, I hope - one nostril completely blocked all day, the other one working at about 70%, zero sense of taste or smell, which of course I didn't realize until AFTER I ordered half the menu at the BBQ joint.  My left ear started hurting yesterday evening, but that seems to have cleared up, and today I only have left a little congestion and the occasional body-rattling cough.  (The cough just showed up late last night, I hope it's not planning to stay long.  Have I mentioned how glad I am that I quit smoking a week and a half ago?)  I'm really hopeful that if I spend the day resting and being good to myself, my rockstar immune system will finally lick this bullshit and I can get on with my makin'-a-baby bad self.  (I have some of my sense of taste back this morning - yay!  Do you know how confusing it is to be hungry and have a house full of great food and not want to eat any of it because what's the point of eating stuff you love if you can't taste it?  Jimi made some pork/rice/bean thing for dinner last night, and I have a feeling I wouldn't have liked it if I could've tasted it, but I couldn't, so I ate the shit out of it.  Winning.) 

Thursday evening, my breasts weren't as sore as they'd been, and in my over-reacting head, of course that meant that the baby was gone and I was going to start miscarrying any second.  Friday morning, I drank my raspberry leaf tea on my way to work...and within three minutes of walking into the office, I was bolting for the bathroom to throw it all up.  That wasn't sinus-infection-induced, and it certainly wasn't thanks to all the booze I'd downed the night before.  Thanks for the reminder that you're still around, kid - 'preciate ya.  And maybe you don't care, but in case you do, my boobs are back to being way sore again.  Symptoms come and go, ebb and flow, just like everything else in life.  I really need to chill the fuck out and just take things as they come.  I certainly don't need to make up any extra drama in my head. 

We've had so many beans for dinner in the last two weeks, it's amazing our house hasn't floated away with all the extra gas.  Beans are so damn good, though.  And cheap!  And nutritious!  And easy!  They're like the perfect food, and I guess I'm just going to have to get used to my house smelling like this.  (I'm kidding.  My house doesn't smell funny.  No more than normal.  I don't have the pregnancy gas thing yet that everyone keeps telling me is coming.  Lucky for Jimi.  I can't wait 'til HE is the one awakened in the middle of the night by the smell of death and sulfur - payback's a bitch.) 

I was supposed to go today with Melinda and Ruth to King's Island - an awesome amusement park in Cincinnati, OH.  I've not been since a few weeks after high school graduation, and Melinda and I have talked about taking a day-trip up there for probably 3 years.  We finally planned it...and I went and got myself knocked up.  I probably still could've gone...I mean, I'm only 5 weeks...but I wasn't willing to risk it.  I can wait until next summer for roller coasters.  (Yeah, right.  Like I'll leave a new baby next summer to go ride roller coasters.  Maybe in a couple of summers?) 

Another plan that's been changed, maybe - we were planning a vacation with my parents in late summer/early fall to Washington, D.C.  My Daddy's never been, and it's real important to me that he gets out there to see the sites - he'll love it so much!  Now, though, I'm wondering if it'd be wise to take a vacation and spend the time and money when we've got a baby coming.  You know what, though?  I can't wait until the end of February 2013 to take a vacation.  I'm ready for some time off right fucking now, and I'll end up going crazy if I have to wait 8 more months to get a break.  Besides, I should have somewhere between 3 and 4 weeks of vacation left in February, even if I take a week off in the fall, and I've got short-term disability that will partially cover the weeks that aren't fully paid...fuck it.  It'll all work out. 

All I have to talk about is pregnancy-related.  I can't help it.  It's sort of the biggest thing that's ever happened to me, and it's more than a little all-encompassing.  Jimi tries to have a normal conversation with me, and somehow my brain always steers back to "OMG CAN YOU BELIEVE WE'RE GOING TO HAVE A BABY?!"  And it's still so early, and I'm still so scared, and I want to just KNOW that everything is going to be okay so I can get excited already without feeling like the rug will be pulled from under me at any moment. 

So yeah.  Not a mommy blog, but this is the total beginning stages. 

Here, have some words.

I think I need to have another party so I'll be forced to get my house presentable.  Why is it so hard to get motivated to clean?  Ugh.

Stacy went to the hospital twice this weekend with contractions.  Doctors say she's showing no signs of labor, so by all appearances, these seem to be those notorious Braxton Hicks.  Thank goodness.

I've got a face pain problem.  I burned the roof of my mouth the other night on one of those bullshit french bread pizza things, and it's been tender ever since.  This morning, though, it hurt when I brushed my teeth in a way it didn't when I went to bed last night.  And I've had this bruised feeling in my face all day that I thought was sinus pain until I came home for lunch and realized it hurt to chew on the left side.  Fuck.  Of course, with all the awesome health insurance I've got, I have no dental coverage.  And I've got like $100 in the bank because Jimi was kind enough to give me a break on my part of the mortgage payment this month because I overextended myself last week and I was going to be completely broke till this coming Friday.  (In other words, I don't have the cash on hand to visit a dentist.)  And I don't have a credit card, so that's not a quick-pay option.

How long do you wait to figure out if weird shit like this is "see a dentist" serious or if it'll go away on its own?  My gut tells me I've got an infection of some sort in my gumline because of that burn Friday night.  I don't think this is a rotten tooth thing, and nothing feels loose.  Then again, gumline infections can cause some serious fucking damage - I've got an uncle that had a hip replacement at 50 because of an infection that traveled from his gums (during a teeth cleaning) and went to his hip, dissolving the entire structure within 6 months; he required ridiculous rounds of antibiotics, and at least 2 exploratory surgeries before they had to completely replace his hip.  Because he got his teeth cleaned!!!  So, I don't want to be all nonchalant and shit.

If I have to see a dentist, I will.  I'll borrow the money from Jimi or my boss or my Momma or someone till I get paid Friday, and I'll see someone tomorrow if I have to.  I'd just rather not.

I've really not been interested in blogging lately.  Well, I have, I just haven't had a thing to say.  No Words.  My constant complaint.  I never have the words.

I'm a little worried about my hermit-ness.  I joke about it all the time, but between you and me?  I'm a little concerned.  Even the idea of going to my Momma's makes me get jittery, forget a trip to Wal-Mart or Burlington or Kroger, even.  Contemplating stopping by the grocery on the way home from work makes my heart feel heavy and my stomach flutter.  It's all in my head, though - it's all the IDEA of doing things that is so hard - once I'm out in the world, doing things, it's not so bad.  That's what Jimi says all the time, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"  And it never was as bad as I'd feared it would be, I almost always end up having a good time, but still...I dread having to leave the sanctuary of my home.  I resent having things planned to do on weekends when I feel I should be able to sit in my chair and do nothing at all if that's what I want to do...and OH, that is SO what I want to do!  I don't look forward to anything.  Not if it takes me away ... and I don't even know what I fear being taken away from.  My house?  My dog and cat?  Not Jimi, certainly - he's almost always with me if it's not work or an errand before he's home from work.  There's nothing that I do here that is special or unique; there's nothing I'm missing out on by leaving here - I'm missing out on life by staying, though.  I realize that.  And it scares the fuck out of me.

I wasn't always like this.  And I won't always be.  I'm working on it.  One step, one drive, one visit, one party, one shopping trip, one day at a time.

Doing things when I'm here is hard too, though.  I said that once already, didn't I?  About the cleaning?  Yeah.  Cleaning, and re-potting that hibiscus, and that Wandering Jew, and folding all that laundry and finishing the ones that need to be washed...

Ugh.  I'd rather read my book, read the internet, play the Sims Pets, watch Judge Judy - I think I'm a perpetual 17 year old, hoping Momma's gonna clean up after me.  (And Jimi does, a lot. Bless his heart.)

I felt better when I was watching my calories closely and exercising every day.  Imagine that.  I wonder if my sudden stop has anything to do with the funk I've fallen into?  Wow.  I may have just worked that shit out myself, yo.

So, how's your Monday night?

I missed "The Walking Dead" last night.  I went to bed at 8:30.  I figure they'll show it again before the next episode.  I'll see it eventually.

About your Monday night...

I say dumb things. A lot.

A neighbor we hadn't met came over to introduce herself on Halloween night.  I was able to shake her hand, say it was nice to meet her, offer her a seat and a drink, all normal, the way normal people do.  I can handle that much interaction with strangers without putting my foot in my mouth.  Once she sat, though, and our getting-to-know-each-other officially began, that's when my social skills became a trainwreck.

Within moments of her ass hitting the chair, she asked if we had many trick-or-treaters last year.  My response was something like, "We didn't pass out candy last year - we were going to, since it was our first Halloween in the house and all, but I don't like to leave the house much, and I guess picking up candy was just too hard."  What.  The.  Fuck?!  Who says shit like that 45 seconds into a conversation with a stranger who lives across the street?  She sort of nodded like she understood the crazy coming out of my mouth and mercifully moved onto another topic, which I obviously didn't fuck up too horribly, because I don't remember what it was.

I was thrilled to learn she's a Librarian!  A real, live Librarian right across the street from my reading porch.  How awesome is that?  We chatted for probably half an hour, Jimi joining us mid-way to introduce himself and say hello.  I don't think I was too bad after that initial flub, but Jimi insists I shouldn't have referenced "smoking a bowl" when we were talking about things to do when you're floating downriver on a canoe.

A few weeks ago, the weekend of Melinda and Gary's wedding, I went to a housewarming party at the home of some friends.  I was brilliant that night!  I got like 5 high-fives for funny shit I said, and I replayed those snippets of conversation over and over in my head for the next 3 days, congratulating myself for being brilliant and hilarious.  I wanted to tell Jimi about the time we were all talking about the well-known fact that Gingers don't have souls, and someone said, "Well, then what about Ben?  Ben's not a Ginger, but he doesn't have a soul" and I was all, "Yeah, but he's Jewish" and the crowd went wild.  (Ben high-fived me for that one, for the record, so I totally wasn't being a nazi cunt or anything.)  The whole night went that way - someone setting up a punchline that came into my head with perfect timing - that happens to me so rarely!

But that party was full of people who know and love me.  They've known me for at least 5 years, and they invite me to things because they enjoy my company, despite my quirks (like how I rarely show up to things I'm invited to).  I was comfortable there, completely at ease.

(I'll be honest, though, if Steve hadn't been there, my night probably wouldn't have gone quite as swimmingly.  He's like my Jimi surrogate when Jimi's not around - he provides that security and safety that I rely on when I'm not in my home.  I feel like he wouldn't let anything bad happen to me - he'd save me from a rapist, or he'd punk out some asshole that was mean to me...not that either of those situations have ever presented themselves, but I feel confident he would defend me and my honor.  He's like a big brother I never had but always wanted.)

The Tuesday after the housewarming party, Jimi and I went to Lisa's for dinner.  The tentative plan was to order in, catch up (we'd not seen her in over a year!), and then meet up with her fiance' for drinks and fun later.

Before I go further with that, I should give you some background on Lisa and Jimi:  The first night I went to Jimi's apartment in Old Louisville, hanging on the wall in the center of his living room were two large pieces of framed art; cut-outs of a beautiful platinum blonde, staged in all different poses, wearing all sorts of costumes - it was Lisa, and the piece is called Paper Dolls.  It hangs in our living room today.  Then, though, I thought it was proof positive that he had a relationship with this gorgeous woman, and I immediately saw how inadequately I measured up to her in beauty and creativity and all-around awesome.  Of course, they weren't a couple - she is what he refers to as his "Sissy".  Likewise, he is her "Sissy".  They are 3 days apart in age and joke that they are twins.  Lisa is deeply involved in all things ART, and Jimi loves all things ART, and on this level they meld and mesh in a way I will never be able to with him.

Obviously, I'm a bit intimidated by her.  I didn't realize that's what it was or call it that until after Jimi pointed it out to me on Wednesday, when I sent him an email apologizing for being a drunken slore and drinking half a big bottle of wine and half a beer and eating 2 huge slices of pizza and nearly puking in Lisa's bathroom and then falling asleep at Lisa's kitchen table.  His words were, "I told her you're intimidated by her, and that you get a little over-excited and over-indulge, but once you're comfortable with her, you'll norm out."  I wanted to argue, but I couldn't.  He's so perceptive, that man of mine.  I'm terrified that I won't measure up, so I make a fool out of myself to prove it.

I feel like that in most social situations where I'm not well-known and already loved.  I feel awkward and not good enough and strange and uninteresting and uncool, and I throw out the very worst of me to try to disprove these thoughts that probably only live in my head until I say or do something to show it to everyone else.

Thank goodness there's something underlying my crazy that doesn't make all people turn and run in the opposite direction; thank goodness there's something there that says "Wait, maybe she's funny sometimes, and maybe she's the sort that would buy a round, and maybe she's pretty smart when we're not talking about a subject that's way over her head, and maybe she's the type who'd be willing to give me a ride to the airport, and maybe she's one of those people who won't notice that I haven't called for two years when I need a shoulder to cry on."  I have good qualities, I swear!  Maybe they're just not so obvious when you first meet me; maybe that veneer of awkward and strange is just something you just have to look through, like one of those 3-D pictures that you have to stare at for a few seconds before you can see the image.

Is it completely obnoxious to compare my personality to a 3-D picture from the 1990's?  "I am so deep and hard to understand."  Yeah.  Like a fishbowl.

I love Saturday.

Today is the best kind of Saturday; the sort where you have nowhere to be, no commitments to keep, no chores that MUST be completed.  (Of course, there's always laundry and cleaning to be done, but I've been good this week and haven't let my house become a sty, so I can totally put off domestic chores until tomorrow.  After all, isn't that why God made Sundays?  So we can wash our dirty clothes and homes and prepare for the upcoming workweek?)

We've got a costume party scheduled tonight, which, contrary to what I said in that whole first paragraph, means I do have to hunt out my footie pajamas and wash them, and locate the gloves and ears and tail that make up my Max costume.  Jimi's going to be a Wild Thing again - we spent a lot of time and money on those costumes last year, dammit, so yes, we're totally recycling.  Besides, most of our friends never saw the costumes last year - just Karen and Gary and the crowd at the gay bar.  (Speaking of which, remembering the gay bar last Halloween makes me REALLY want to go back.  I wonder if they're open Monday night?  Wanna go with me?)

I got up just after 6 all week long; sleeping in until after 8 today makes me feel spoiled and pampered.  8 is still REALLY early for a Saturday, but I like getting up early on the weekends - I can always take a nap in the middle of the day, for as long as I want, if I start to get yawn-y.  Weekends are awesome.

I bought and downloaded The Sims 3 Pets last night.  Jimi gave me some shit over it, saying it's stupid and dumb and a waste of money.  And it is, but it entertains me and I enjoy it.  And we have separate bank accounts so I can spend my money the way I want to spend it and he can't say shit about it, so maybe we've got a shot at this happily ever after thing.  Cause last night, had our accounts been joint, I probably wouldn't have bought the game.  And I would've been pissed about it.  And I would still be pissed about it.  And it would be all his fault.  But he has his money and I have my money, and well, we're just going to keep it that way because it's safer.  (I haven't played my new game yet, but I'm greatly anticipating diving in after I'm finished with this here blog post.)

I'm trying to take a picture or two every day of things that make me smile (or say WTF?).  I like scrolling through them at the end of the week and remembering the little things that made up my otherwise mundane and routine week.  With that being said...

 Pictures from the Karaoke bar last Friday night:

Think the dude in red was doing "No Diggity".  The lady on the right was gettin' down.

I met Sarah's friend Robbi for the first time, after hearing his name for years.
We got along swimmingly.
I stole the hat from Robbi's friend, but I eventually gave it back.

chicks taking self-portraits in public bathroom mirrors.  WTF?

Oh here, random stranger, hold my phone and do this for us, will you?

And then there was the rest of the week:

This bug just appeared out of nowhere, on the inside of my car.
It's a good thing I was pulling into my driveway, otherwise this surprise could've had tragic consequences. 

Murphy the Office Dog.
Doing his Buckwheat impression.

 I think it was Tuesday when I'd let Finn out back and he started going crazy at the corner of the breezeway.  I walked over to him to see what the fuss was about, and this little guy scurried across the walkway and under my car.  He was hanging out under the back tires first...

But he ran to the front when I tried to shoo him out...

And my next attempt resulted in this:

"I'm just gonna hang on the back of this here tire, and maybe she can't see me and will go away."
That's what I did - I went away and left him alone and he found his home.

.   

The trees in our front yard have been so beautiful this week:

I made fire (and subsequently cut my finger and had to dig rust out of it and decided to get a tetanus shot).

The doctor's visit was cool, though.  My appointment was at 8:15, and at 8:30, the doctor came out from the back with a bowl of cereal, crunching away happily on his breakfast as he chatted with another doctor's patient about their children, who apparently attend the same school.  Fifteen minutes later, a nurse calls me back for intake and puts me in a room.  10 minutes after that, I see the doctor.  

I want to be mad and be all "what the fuck, doc?" because I was missing work and getting behind and all I needed was a needle jabbed in my arm and when it came right down to it, the waiting time was three times as long as the treating time.  But I really like my doctor.  He's good, and he listens, and he takes notes on a computer, which I just really really love.  I don't know, he came to me highly recommended and accepts my insurance and I feel like he's thorough and I like that I can get a same-day appointment if I'm sick as hell.  

Anyhow, so I let him talk me into a flu shot.  I've never had one of those, either, and I told him why: I don't get sick very often, and I haven't had anything that resembled the flu in years and years and years and I don't want to get a shot and get sick.  He told me the flu shot is not for me, it is for those around me with compromised immune systems.  And I thought of Stacy's baby, who's going to be born at the end of January, when everyone's got a runny nose and a cough, and how I want to kiss her new sweet face without worrying I'll give her some awful respiratory funkiness.  He also told me that people don't get sick from the flu shot, and I decided to take his advice and believe him until I have a reason not to and so I let them give me two shots rather than the one I came for.  Knock on wood, I'm 48 hours into it and nary a sniffle or chill has visited me.  

Crossing the tracks to work.
That's downtown Louisville there in the middle, that lit-up building.

Sitting on my back step, with a book and a smoke, this is my view: 

My sink has been this empty all week.  I'm not even lying.  (If you don't know me personally, this is a really big deal.  Huge, even.)  I'm very proud of us for being so responsible and grown-up.

I've probably posted six dozen pictures of the shit that lives in my office at work, but here are some more:

The zombie is coming to get the monkeys.

Pirate duck says fuck your zombies.  And your dusty monitor.

My Chick-fil-A boycott didn't last long.  Their nuggets call to me in my sleep sometimes.

This My Little Pony dates from my childhood.  

Hi Kimmie!

There was frost on the ground this morning.

Winter, I'm going to need you to hold off for a few more weeks, okay?  I'm not ready for serious cold yet.

Happy Weekend!

To Tetanus, or not to Tetanus, THAT is the question...

I cut my finger (a teeny, tiny little cut) last night on our rusty half-drum fire pit.  I cleaned the cut really good with antibacterial soap and lots of peroxide, but I had to dig out a piece of rust with my tweezers and, for the first time in my life, I reacted to this minor surgical procedure by getting light-headed and nearly puking.  I had to put a cool wet cloth on my head and go lie down for a few minutes.  This is highly abnormal for me, I need you to understand.

So today, I'm all, "Hey guys, I cut my finger on a rusty drum, should I get a tetanus shot?" to which everyone replied, "When was the last time you had one?" and I was all, "Um, never" and they're all, "Yeah, you need to get one."  So I called my doctor's office, and as it turns out, getting a tetanus shot requires an office visit.  The lady on the phone warned me of this like it would cause me to back away, and offered the name of a local urgent care center.  "Oh, I've got insurance, an office visit is no big deal, if that's what I need to do."  I forget the times in which I'm living - insurance is a rare valuable commodity, one traded for health, and if you don't have it, well, maybe you'd rather take your chances at lockjaw?  (Honestly, I would take my chances if I didn't have insurance.  I assume no insurance would equate with little disposable income, and that means a $160 office visit would probably be out of reach on the spur of the moment.  I remember - I've been there.)

Tomorrow morning, 8:15 a.m., which means I'll likely see the doc at 8:45 or so, but whatevs.  I'll get my shot and I'll feel as if I've laid one fear to rest for a while, and I'll be much more careful (sober) when shoving kindling into the fire pit.

What do you think?  Am I wasting my $10 co-pay and 2 hours of work time and an extra hour of valuable sleep?  When was the last time YOU had a tetanus shot?  Is it just a bunch of hokey, or is this serious bidness that I shouldn't be making lame-ass jokes about?

Natalie For Congress!!!

I'm starting my own political party.  It's called the NAT Party - the National Alliance for Truth.

It's a no bullshit club - you join if you're tired of dirty old men who cheat on their wives telling you that Planned Parenthood is America's Enemy Number One, what with all their affordable HPV screenings and Pap smears and low-cost birth control distribution and (legal!) abortion-providing.  You're a NAT Party-member if you want to know why in the fuck our treasury gave billions of dollars in back-door loans to European nations while our government officials directed our attention to the bail-outs of Wall Street tycoons.  You're a NAT Party member if you want to know why it's okay for you and your friends to lose your jobs while the people who created this grandfuckery got to keep theirs - and they got bonuses?!  WTF?!

I'm just so sick of it all.  The people running this country are fucking it up royally, and we, the masses, are such good blind little sheep that we allow them to systematically steal our rights under the guise of restoring family values and protecting us from terrorists.

And about those terrorists.  We lost 3000 people on September 11, 2001.  Ten years later, how many hundreds of thousands have died in their names?  Who're really the terrorists in this scenario?  The only difference is we do it under the banner of justice.  You know what?  There's no such thing as justice when a woman's child is blown to bits because she happens to be unlucky enough to live in a place where someone thought some bad guys were living.  We've destroyed countless lives, on all sides.  Osama ain't got nothing on our pal George.

Here are some things the NAT Party supports:

Constitutional-ism - Specifically, those parts about equality for all and separation of church and state.

Fiscal Responsibility - if elected President, I would fill my Treasury department with stay-at-home mothers who've managed shoestring household budgets.  Fuck your PhDs, I want life experience.  Ain't no Momma in the world that'd buy a $600 toilet seat.  Give me a few hundred moms and 100 days, I'll give you a balanced budget.

Healthcare for All - I propose an immediate cancellation of all government-sponsored medical programs for all elected government officials - they must find and pay for medical coverage for themselves and their families, same way you and I do.  This would remain in effect until they were able to pass a healthcare bill that would provide medical coverage for ALL Americans, and then they would be covered under the terms of that plan.  I honestly believe this catalyst would bring swift, effective results.  (This would end Medicare and Medicaid, too.  And I'd find a way to force pharmaceutical companies to play ball, too, and the days of "I can't afford my medicine" would be fucking over.)

Education - Nothing pisses me off more than hearing a politician scream "Think of our grandchildren!" right before he proposes a bill that cuts education spending.  Hey George - you know how much college those bombs could've paid for?!  Anyhow, our system is in dire condition these days, and needs some money and common sense thrown its way.  (The Moms will find the money, I'm sure of it!)


I'm just so fucking sick of the bullshit.  Have you ever had a job where they threw that teamwork stuff at you and reminded you "You're only as strong as your weakest link"?  There's some validity to that little cliche' - how can we claim to be the "land of the free and the home of the brave" when our people are chained by debt and unemployment, and terrified because their government tells them to be so?

/soapbox rant

The crazy, I has it.

If I'm not pregnant, I'm going to be so fucking disappointed.


My boobs have that heavy, sore, full feeling.  I remember it.  It's not the same as "my nipples are tender because I'm about to start my period".


The dreams.  The lack of sleep.


That's really all.  I'm so not pregnant.  I tell myself I don't want to be, but I want to be.  Oh, I want to be.


I took a test at lunch today; negative, of course, but I imagined I could almost see a line there.  Almost.  Not quite, but almost.


But I'm not.  I'm not.  No way.


Probably not.


Right?

*****************

That was Monday night.  Last night, my questions were answered in the form of cramps that were so severe I thought I'd throw up from the pain.  Advil, heating pad, home remedies - nothing touched it.  (That's not normal, thank goodness, and they are back to only mildly annoying this morning.)

I need you to tell me I'm not going to do this shit every month.  I need you to tell me that one of these days my period will approach without me comparing every symptom to the way my body felt for that week 8 months ago when I, for a moment, experienced something new.  Even when I know our timing wasn't such that would've lead to a baby, my brain still takes over in the last days of each cycle, causing me to analyze every twinge or cramp.  I want to feel my body getting ready for menstruation and know that's what it is - not spend days comparing this to that and falsely convincing  myself that I'm knocked up again.  

I don't want this.  I want that, but I don't want this.  I don't want to buy stock in dollar store pregnancy tests, but the longer this goes on, the more I think of how much money it'd save.  

I just want life to be back to normal.  I want to not be crazy.  I want to not feel foolish...but that's how I feel when I write shit like I wrote up there.  (No, it's not the first time.)  

I wish I could fully accept the idea of never having children.  If I could convince myself 100% that would be okay, I think things would be easier.  That fear of not having a choice - it's permeating everything.  

Soap Free? Okay, I'm listening...

This blog led me to this blog that lead me to this blog that started the whole to-do.  And since I read it yesterday, I haven't stopped thinking about it.

Do they use deodorant?  Deodorant is still okay, right?  Man, my hair would be a real asshole during those first two weeks - but I always put it up in a ponytail anyhow, so maybe no one would notice.  My dry skin?  Maybe this could fix it.

It's crazy talk, I know.  But like the (at least) three bloggers before me said - it makes an odd sort of sense.  Our bodies are designed to regulate themselves.  Is a quick rinse and sloughing of skin better for us than a luxurious 30-minute soak wherein we lather ourselves with perfume-scented chemicals marketed to the masses?  I've never thought about it before, never considered "soap" to be a chemical compound, one that doesn't occur naturally and wasn't used regularly by humans for thousands of years, but now my gears are turning and I'm all "OMG, what if soap is what causes cancer?"

I'm being facetious, of course; everyone knows that everything, even soap, gives you cancer.

I think I'm going to try this crazy shit, though.  What the heck.  I'm not telling the folks at work, though - at least not until after it's either declared a success or abandoned altogether (and then I'll probably just never mention it and they'll go on forever thinking I went through a really bad depressive spell where I didn't wash my hair for almost a week).

Think about the money that could be saved.  Okay, not really that much money...let me add it up.  We use probably a bottle of body wash and a large bottle of soap every two or three months - Okay this isn't going to save us a lot of money.  Maybe $80 a year.  Big whoop.

Soft skin, though, they said.  And manageable hairs!  And 5 minute showers, which means an extra 10 minutes to sleep in or fuck off in the mornings before work!

I told Jimi about the articles, and I think he might be on board, too.  We'll call this Day 1.

Now I need to go buy some Birkenstocks and a hemp necklace.  And a long flowing patchwork skirt.

Weekend Update

Can you read it?

I ♥ Jimi

On our way to Rick's Friday night, we had this great view of the moon just coming up behind some steam stacks over by UofL, so we pulled into the parking lot of this corner/liquor store to try to get a picture or two.  The moon pictures didn't come out so good (I still haven't read my manual or used the CD that came with the camera, so I still don't know how to use it too good), but I thought this panoramic shot of my high-school-flashback snow art was pretty cool.  

(The least crappy two of the 50 or so moon photos we attempted.)  

Yesterday, I picked up Megan and we met Melinda and Gary at Iceland for part of Gary's birthday weekend celebration.  Ice skating is so much fun, but OMG it's so hard.  My toes were numb almost immediately upon lacing my skates, but I figured it was from the cold and dealt with it.  It's not like I expected a trip to the ice rink for the first time in ?a half dozen? years to be painless.  I did pretty good on the ice - I only fell once, and that was when I was showing off my ~sometimes/sorta~ ability to spin around fast in a really sloppy version of that finishing move you see the professionals make look easy, so I deserved the bruised knees.  We skated for an hour or so, and I counted that as my exercise for Friday and Saturday, as I did nothing remotely physical on Friday.  Here's a picture of my butt:

I thought the numbness in my toes was from the cold, but within moments of unlacing and removing my skates, pins and needles were coursing through the outsides of my feet - the parts that had been numb, not from cold, it appears, but because the skate was too effing tight.  My socks were too thick.  Or the skate needed to be a bigger size.  Or my feet have gotten super wide, when they've always been super narrow.  Or I have developed diabetes.  (I shouldn't joke about that.  I'm pretty sure it's in the cards for my future.)

This morning we woke up early and went into cleaning mode, Jimi in the kitchen, me in the TV room - the bedroom was mostly done once the laundry was carted to the basement.  (My laundry room is still picked up and stuff - promise.  We're doing a good job keeping up with the washing, and things are getting folded/hung up as soon as it comes from the dryer.  Simple things, I know, but it's an improvement in our world.  :)  )  After the largest portion of our chores had been knocked out, we went out for lunch and to pick up necessities at the Sam's Club.  I got some fancy mixed nuts with no peanuts.  That makes me happy.  

I've kept up with the exercising for a few days now, and it's not much, but it's better than normal, and that's a good start.  It feels good.  It's easy to breathe.  I like the way my skin looks after I've been sweating and exerting myself.  I watched my feet as I ran on the treadmill tonight, and I couldn't help getting a good look at my belly.  It is what kept me going even after I started to get tired and knew I could stop five minutes short, or when I started thinking I could skip that part at the end where I took Finn outside for a short jaunt.  I'm going to lose this shit, and the next time I see my stomach sticking out like that better be because there's a baby in there.  I'm just sayin'.  Oh, and I'm not wearing that bright pink fleece to exercise in anymore until i lose the fat - it works like an effing highlighter on my pudge.  

With that said, we're having fried chicken for dinner tonight.  I've obviously not put myself on a diet, and for now, I won't.  I'm trying to make healthier choices more often, and to add more fruits and vegetables to my diet (like the edamame that will accompany my keel tonight), but I haven't gotten to the point where I'm willing to count calories or deny myself things too terribly often.  I understand that the Natalie in this paragraph sounds different from the Natalie in that last one, but hey, welcome to my world!  At least I exercised.  

I'm talking about food because I'm starving.  Jimi has to go get the dinner, though, and he's watching Afro Samurai.  I'm not sure of the full gist of the story, but this dude has a sword and kills a whole bunch of people and smokes dope and it's got foul language and lots of gore - basically, it's not my sort of thing at all, and I pretty much hate it.  But, household rule is whoever doesn't have the computer controls the remote, so we watch a lot of crazy shit that I'd never know exists if it weren't for that dear sweet man of mine.  

That's all I've got.  Have a great night, and I hope your week doesn't suck.  

Give me a pat on the back and I'll tell you more about my crazy.

Kimmie and I made a pact that we'll do at least 20 minutes of cardio each day.  I did 30 minutes on the treadmill tonight, after dinner, while doing little arm exercises with my 2 lb. weights, and I ran at least 10 of those minutes.  I'm so proud of me!

Stop laughing at me.  Baby steps, dammit.

It felt good.  Like, really good.  I got in a zone; no music or TV or book, just me, the weights, the conveyor beneath my feet, and that spot over there on the wall.  Breathing was easy, even when I was running - I could FEEL 2 weeks of no cigarettes, and it felt good.

Baby steps.

When my 30 minutes was up, before I showered (because I got sweaty!), I took a good, long, hard look at my naked self in the mirror.

Holy crap, when did I let myself get this way?

I'm tempted to take a picture, once a week or so, to chart my progress, but then what if the computer got stolen and someone hacked into it and found the pictures and it turned out the person who stole it was someone who knew me and secretly hated me and so they posted all the pictures all over the internet and then everyone had seen my shame and OMG the HORROR!!!  Of course, if I did go through with taking the pics, I'd totally intend to post them in the internet eventually, with all the naked lady bits covered by a big black bar, of course, but only after I had worked out like a madwoman for months and had a crazy-awesome AFTER picture to put up right there next to the embarrassing BEFORE (now) one.  Realistically, you should be thankful I've got an unnatural fear of being burglarized.

That's another thing that contributes to my crazy - I'm always afraid someone's going to break in and steal our shit.  The second year we were living in Shelby Park (a used-to-be-way-ghetto-but-now-it's-coming-around-thanks-to-church-folk-moving-in neighborhood on the outskirts of Old Louisville), on the Monday before Thanksgiving, I came home for lunch in the early afternoon and found that some lovely soul had thrown a brick through our kitchen window.  The thief stole a couple of computers and cell phones, Jimi's Dad's shotgun, and my sense of security and safety in my own home.  Until we moved from that house, I never again came home without thinking "I wonder if someone's broken in again?"  Our buddy Steve had moved in just a block and a half away, and his home was broken into nearly half a dozen times in as many weeks.  I didn't like leaving the house much after all that.  I don't worry about it so much since we've moved, but it's still there, in the back of my mind, like a little tickle.

Jimi's watching some jacked up movie about genetically modified vampire cows that are self-impregnating while still in the womb.  Netflix has opened up a whole new world for us.

I fear for the fate of my treadmill.  As I've mentioned, the thing is ancient, but it works.  It started to smell toward the end of my workout tonight - a burning belt-like smell.  I told Jimi I'll be glad if it just gets me through the winter - get me to Spring-time, when I can run in the warm in the park.  If it goes out, I'll be forced to either brave the cold or utilize that gym membership Jimi's been carrying for me for 2 years now - the one I've never used, not even once.  I have a feeling that I'm going to end up at the gym.

I haven't had my camera out in days.  I'm hoping to wake up to a foot and a half of snow on the ground, or that maybe that much will at least fall over the course of the next few days - that would give me plenty to photograph.  Of course, that's wishful thinking and reality will probably bring us only a light dusting, but that will do, also; I can accept a dusting, if I must - I'll take pictures of it too.

Seriously, this movie is ridiculous.  Monster vag-eating slimy fetus cow creatures.  Isolation, is what this thing is called.  It's whack, yo.  I can't believe I'm watching this crap before bed - I'm going to have awesome dreams.

On that note, sleep tight, my friends, and don't let the cow fetuses bite.  :)

Wanna hear about how crazy I am?

Writer's block is hard.  I want to write something good, something worth reading, but in my head, there is only crap.  A bunch of yada yada yada, blah blah blah.  I had this epiphany last night that you can't give good blog if you're not out living a good, full life.  Perhaps this is my problem.  I don't do anything.

Last night, Jimi and I folded some clothes together.  Then Steve came over.  Then the menfolk went to the store to buy dinner stuffs, and then we had hot dogs and french fries.  See what I mean?  That's the most exciting shit I've done in days.

I've got some things on the horizon, though.  Jimi and Steve are brewing this weekend, it appears, and it will be fun to try to take pictures of that.  The last Saturday of the month, we're going to Indianapolis for Winterfest with Rick & Jeff Tours.  A beer-tasting event, with transportation and food included?  What's that?  And there will be beer on the bus on the way to Indianapolis?  Yes please!  Kimmie's birthday is the following Wednesday, and she'll be going on this trip to kick off her birthday week.  (She's turning 40 this year; she's totally allowed to have a whole week.)  She's got a full schedule of events planned, so I'll at least be able to make true that resolution to be more social.  (Did I have a "be more social" resolution?  If not, I meant to.  I think I did.)  Anyhow, so yes, even if Winterfest is the almost last day of January, I'll still count it as something social for the first month of the year.  And Kimmie's birthday fun will count for February.

It's fucked up that I'm experiencing this thought process at all, isn't it?  Are social things this hard for anyone else?

I joke a lot that I'm becoming agoraphobic.  I shouldn't joke - I've never had a panic attack, and from what I hear, that shit ain't funny.  But I really don't like leaving my house.  Just thinking about going shopping or to the grocery or to a bar or even to my parents' house - it makes me get all uncomfortable and antsy and I instantly start calculating how long I'll have to stay there before I can go back home, always looking for the shortest route that will get me back home quickly, but also allows me to spend adequate time doing whatever thing it is I have to do that requires me to leave the house.

Normal people don't think that way, do they?

I wasn't always like this.  I used to do whatever I could to get out of the house as often as possible.  I was out at bars or friends' homes at least 5 nights a week.  Then, when Jimi and I moved in together, our home felt like the safest place in the world, a place where nothing outside could hurt me or him, and I was content to get the majority of my socialization from inviting friends over.  And since we've moved, we haven't had nearly as many gatherings as we used to - I get home and all I want to do is sit in the quiet.  It's almost like I forget that there are people outside of my work family, my immediate family, and Jimi.

I sound crazy.

I'll be more social, though.  I'll fix it.  I don't need no shrink.  I'm fine.

Monday, you're not always an asshole.

I don't know why I set myself up for failure.  I knew when I was typing my resolutions that I wasn't going to follow through with all of them.  Two weeks later and I've not finished making a budget (and I'm broke - surprise!), I've not exercised, I've not taken a picture every day.  But I've also not smoked, which, I'll be honest, shocks me more than all failures combined.  I want to, I do, but I don't dare bum - I've gotten this far, you know?

I've been talking about digging the treadmill out from its grave of boxes for days.  Talking, not doing.  Just like everything else.

Glennon at Momastery did it again; she wrote something that stirred my soul.  It's called Namaste.  "The Divinity within me perceives and adores the Divinity within you."  What a concept.  So I tried it today - taking a breath before every interaction, remembering that everyone I meet is fighting a battle I can't see, speaking kindly, the Divinity in me, to the Divinity in them.  And you know what?  I had a good day.  On a Monday.

Of course, on my way home, I realized that since today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, probably a lot of my customers were closed and maybe that's why the phone didn't ring off the hook like it normally does, meaning I had time to get some things accomplished and caught up and I didn't get frustrated or overwhelmed.

But maybe it was because I approached the day, and everyone in it, with a different attitude than on most days.  I need to remember this.  I need to practice this.  We all should.

I keep almost typing "I'm going to clear off the treadmill for sure tonight", but then I'm all "STFU, Natalie.  You're all talk.  Save it for later, when you can say 'I cleared off the treadmill and walked 2 miles tonight', biotch".  And speaking of walking miles...Jimi's employer has some sort of competition going on wherein employees (broken into teams) are rewarded for walking X miles each week.  So MistaJimi himself walked a mile after work this afternoon - Jimi, my Jimi, who often refuses to to walk with me because "walking is boring".  He originally told me he was going to be walking with Barb, and I was all "WTF?  You'll walk with your work-wife, but not with me?!" and I was going to give him all sorts of shit.  Then, ....


Okay, since I put that comma there, I got up to hug that boy, got motivated, and we together cleared off the treadmill and rearranged things and now I have a place to walk that is not outside and cold.  YAY!  

I have told you where the treadmill came from?  The people who sold us the house left it here.  Along with a washer and dryer and a dresser and a big ol' deep iron sink that I can't imagine what we'll ever find use for.  So yeah, the treadmill came with the house.  It's not fancy or anything - it's about a million years old - but it works, and really, that's all that matters, right?  I won't be able to measure calories burned or miles walked, but I'll be able to walk and maybe even run on it.  And Jimi's moving the television down there so I can watch things while I walk.

Skinny me, here I come.  Well.  That might be pushing it.  Skinnier than I am right now me, here I come.  That's more like it.

:)

Oh, and Jimi taught me how to correctly pronounce Namaste, so today has been quite a day indeed.

And now I'm going to go read that Stephen King book I borrowed from Stacy while I walk on the treadmill for a few chapters.  And drink another beer.  Not bad for a Monday...not bad at all.

One last word before the year is finished...

We didn't go to the gun show.  (SCORE! - oops, did I say that out loud?)  Truthfully, though, I've only managed to postpone the inevitable - we're going on Sunday.

It was beautiful today - the temps got up over 60!  We decided to take advantage of the unseasonal warmth and took Finn to the dog park to run and play.  (I took pictures, but I'm still not used to my camera and so none of them are worth posting.)

  See?


 When we got home, Jimi went down for a nap and Finn and I took a nice long walk down Southern Parkway.  (Finn had gotten his exercise, but I'd not yet gotten mine.)  It sprinkled briefly a few times, but nothing substantial; the weather mostly just stayed awesome.  It still is.

Our party plans for the evening have been scrapped, as well.  (Act surprised, I dare ya!)  There was already one strike against the idea:  the simple fact of driving around on New Year's Night.  People are dumb and do dumb things a lot, but on nights like tonight, there's an extra dose of dumb in the air and on the roads.  Next, looks like Jimi's starting to get a cold, so there's strike two.  The beautiful weather is supposed to turn to shit right about the time we'd be leaving for home, so there's strike three.  And so I picked up some mixers and we'll have our own little celebration* at home.  Jimi apologized for letting me down.  I told him to stop being stupid; when given a choice, I'll always go for the option that allows me to not wear a bra.  Besides, I'll still get my kiss at midnight.

Tomorrow we're ringing in the new year with a visit to my brother.  I missed out last week, lame as it may be, because I was hung over and honestly didn't feel that I could make the 8 hour trip.  (3 hours down, 2 hours to visit, 3 hours home - too many hours)  I miss my brother.  It will be good to see him again, though I wish the circumstances were better.  His head seems to be in a good place, though, so perhaps things WILL work out for the best this time around.

I'll forever be the optimist.

I painted yesterday.  I'm going to do it again, maybe even tonight.  My problem is I don't know what in the hell to paint.  I'm not good enough to paint actual "things" - my pictures need to be abstract, or at the very least, an intentionally vague representation of the thing from which they're modeled.  Since I can't figure out what to paint, I decided I'll just paint anything.  Whatever shows up when I put the brush to the paper.  I'll figure out where I'm going with it eventually.  Right?  If not, I've already paid for all the supplies, years ago, so it's not like failure would actually cost me anything.

I think I mentioned I want things to put on the walls.  I've gotten on a kick, and the end result is going to mean me taking pictures of lots of things, having large prints made, then sticky-ing them up on the walls all over the house.  Who needs frames?  No frames means I can change them out more frequently.  (I'm sorry I'm so tacky.  I can't help it; it's part of the fabric of my being.)

I realized I left off my list of 2011 resolutions the biggest resolution of them all:  I'm really, actually, finally going to stop smoking, starting midnight tonight.  I've got 4 cigarettes left in my last pack, and they'll be gone by midnight, even if it means breaking them in half at the stroke of midnight.  I'm done with this monkey on my back; I'm done with the coughing, I'm done with spending the money, I'm done with stinking, I'm done with upping my risks of heart disease, heart attack, stroke, cancer, emphysema, infertility.  I never meant to start smoking in the first place, and for the first - oh, I don't know, 5 years? - I convinced myself I could quit at any time.  Then I started trying to quit and learned otherwise.  It's been 12 years.  That's too many years, and I don't want to spend another day as a smoker.

So there ya go.  I'll tattle on myself if I cheat, and I expect (please?!) that you will all give me holy hell each and every time I slip up.  I need to do this for me, but a little encouragement never hurt, you know?

I'm going to go fix another drink and smoke one of those last 4 smokes and watch this Trailer Park Boys movie Jimi's got on.  (Have you seen this shit?  It's ridiculous.)

Happy New Year, Friends!  

I hope 2011 is kind to you and yours, 

and brings you happiness and fulfillment in all things.  

*celebration = Sitting in front of the TV, watching Twilight Zone or something on Netflix, me on the computer, him curled up with the dog, the cat in front of the space heater.  But our cups will be full.  And love and happy will be in the air.  And then we'll set off bottle rockets at midnight and hopefully not set our neighbors' houses on fire.

I'm a bitch.

It's not easy to write about being a bitch.  I want to have this thing as a place I can record all my crazy, even the sort that puts me in a not-so-good light, but it's not easy to write things that I know make me ugly.

Our good friend and former roommate called with news Friday night.  She's 28 weeks pregnant.  Allow me to take this moment to remind you that she just found out she's pregnant like 2 weeks ago; we'd thought she was maybe 20 weeks.  PANIC.  7 months without prenatal care, 7 months without vitamins, 7 months without watching her diet, 7 months without abstaining from all those poisons we put in our bodies - be it alcohol or Ibuprofen.

But her baby, thank goodness, is healthy and right on track to make an appearance in late February.  And it's a Girl!

And I am jealous as hell, and I can't make it stop.

I'm happy for her, please don't misunderstand that.  I'm scared for her and excited for her and hopeful for her.

But I want what she has and it makes my heart hurt if I think about it too much.

I keep telling myself that it will come to us, all in good time.  I remind myself that I don't want to experience a third trimester in the humid, sweltering, Ohio Valley summer (which is what would happen if I got pregnant now).  I say, "Well, I want to be able to canoe in May, and I can't do that if I'm pregnant."  I list all my blessings (see: previous entry re: my ridiculous jealousy), I remind myself that I already have so much, I remember that I don't need anything more in my life to be happy.

Oh, but I want, I want, I want.

I've got to get over this.  I've got to stop coveting things that aren't mine.  I've got to stop feeling as though I've been cheated by the Universe.  I've got to accept that life goes on, and that the pregnancies of others are not a direct attack on me or the Universe's way of punishing me; they have nothing to do with me.  Successful, happy pregnancies are the way it's supposed to be, and one day it will be my turn too.

I think the biggest contributing factor to my insanity is the fear that something will be wrong; I'll have scarred tubes or Jimi's sperm count will be low or my womb will turn out to be an inhospitable wasteland.  If I could just have some reassurance that yes, one day it WILL be our turn, then maybe I'd not freak out so much and turn quite so green every time someone announces a pregnancy or birth or first birthday party.  It's the fear that that one pregnancy was a one-time fluke that never should've happened; that we'll fall into the world of infertility...and, well, that scares the shit out of me.

I hate the way I sound.  I hate complaining and whining and bitching.  I had one miscarriage, after an unplanned, unexpected pregnancy, and now it feels like my desire to have a baby is consuming me.  I can't write this without feeling like an asshole; I read blogs every day written by women who have lived my worse fears - learning they'll never carry a pregnancy to term, or having miscarriage after miscarriage, or trying for months and months and months with no results and no financial means to seek medical advice.  I know this shouldn't invalidate my feelings or my concerns, but it certainly makes me feel a little melodramatic.

But I can't help the way I feel.  And until I get pregnant again, until I hear that baby's heartbeat, until I see its image on the ultrasound screen, until I give birth to a perfect little blend of me and Jimi, I'm probably going to keep feeling this way every time someone announces a pregnancy, a birth, a first birthday.  But I promise, I'm trying to get better at hiding it.  I'm trying so hard.

I may be a little obsessive.

I read a lot of blogs.  Like, dozens.  And then I come to work and I tell Kim about them.  She's started to notice a pattern - most of the blogs I read are written by women with children.  I explain this away by saying, "Well, that's who blogs - women with children do all the blogging."  She just nods and says "oh, okay."

But maybe that's not completely true.  I read blogs written by gay Mormon men (MoHo's - who doesn't want to read a blog written by someone who describes themselves as a "MoHo"?!).  I read blogs written by women whose husbands are in the military, deployed overseas, and several written by women whose husbands were injured overseas or killed in action.  I read blogs written by people who have left the Mormon church; I read blogs written by people who adore the Mormon church.

But the blogs I read most often, the ones I'm the most invested in, the ones I log onto the internet to check if there's been an update posted - those are mostly written by moms, pregnant women, and infertile women trying to get pregnant.

And I realized last night that at least 5 of the blogs I'm following right now are written by women who found out they're expecting right about the same time I found out I was expecting.  Except I'm not expecting anymore and they still are.  And watching their progress?  It kinda sucks.  It sorta hurts my heart. 

I hate their baby tickers.  I hate their "bump" pics. 

I keep reading though, because I'm invested and I'm fascinated and I want to see what stories they tell next.  I try not to imagine myself in their shoes when they talk about moving out of the first trimester, ultrasounds, listening to heartbeats.  I try to skip the posts that are ALL PREGNANCY, ALL THE TIME. 

Last night, a mommy-blogger that I read posted something along the lines of "Can it be my turn, universe?"  She wants to have another baby; she feels like she's surrounded by babies.  She says the next step is to see a doctor, but she's afraid that taking that step will lead her down a path she's not emotionally ready for...hold on, I'm just going to copy the exact text...

"As I discussed my feelings today, I realised that the next step is to see a doctor. But I can't bring myself to take that step. It is an enormous step to take. A step that will take me down a path that I am not sure I am emotionally ready for. So I sit and wait in having-a-baby limbo land. Waiting for my miracle."

This is exactly why I'm afraid to "try".  If we're just going along, doing our thing, and we happen to make a baby...AWESOME!!!  I can even handle going so far as to try to make sure we're "doing our thing" on certain days of the month to hopefully increase our chances of making a baby.  But you start talking about body temperatures and charting and ovulation kits...oh hell, I can't take it.  And what if I did do all that, and we still weren't able to make a baby?  Doctors visits and needles and pills and tests and...it's too much.  Too much.  My delicate psyche can't handle the pressure and stress. 

Mostly, I can't even allow myself to try to picture a world where someone tells me I'll never have a baby of my own on my own. I know a couple of things to be fact:  adoption isn't an option for us; in vitro and all those other invasive medical miracles they can do to make babies other than the old fashioned way - those also aren't an option for us.  So instead of seeing a doctor and being told that to have a child we'll have to do something more than just "it", I'd rather pretend we're still up in the air about whether or not an addition to our family is something we REALLY desire and then pretend that it's no big deal if it doesn't happen.

Only I'll know that my heart would be broken. 

So yeah, maybe it's a little fucked up that I spend minutes of my day reading pregnancy posts and mommy talk and tales of infertility struggles.  But we're only just to the point where we can start trying to get pregnant after the miscarriage; if we're not successful, my blog watch list may find itself trimmed in the best interest of my emotional well-being.