Uppercase Woman

A Long and Probably Boring Post About My Weekend, and Why Sarah ROCKS

Well, I’m back. Only slightly worse for wear.

There are two ways to view my holiday weekend; on the one hand, there were blue skies, amazing meals, great friends. On the other hand…

Let’s see. First off, when Charlie and I arrived at the campsite Friday, we needed to set up our tent as well as the mammoth tent that we bought to accommodate us and the twins (ha! how fucking optimistic were we? Not only did we assume we’d actually get to have the boys, we thought we’d take them camping!). We are giving the mammoth tent to Sarah so she and her daughter and Pete can all fit in one space (we set it up for them because we knew they were arriving after dark).

The directions on the mammoth tent (bought at Target last year for $60!) are, unfortunately, wrong. And we’ve set it up infrequently enough that we never remember what about the directions is wrong until we’ve set it up and done it wrong. This means that we spend the whole time fighting with the tent and each other. It’s a blast.

Then we set up our new tent (also bought at Target for $60), which fortunately went a little easier. Then we set up the rest of the camp.

By this point, we are already tired. I’d forgotten how much fucking work it all is, and frankly, I am just not in good shape anymore.

Then our friend Jim arrived, and Charlie had to help him set up our old, old tent (that’s three tents we brought, if you are trying to keep track). I started chopping wood and started the fire.

By this point, I was really dragging ass.

Then, Sarah and Pete and Sarah’s daughter arrived, and they finished setting up their tent and I started dinner. Although it was a totally chaotic process, I actually managed to make the very best grilled barbeque chicken I’ve ever cooked in my fucking life.

We stayed up a couple of hours by the fire and then we all crashed. I slept like the dead.

The next morning, Jim was kind enough to start the fire and he and I cooked breakfast for everyone (it helps that Jim is a short order cook—oh, and an opera singer. I have the most interesting friends).

Then we discussed what we should do for the day. I wanted to canoe. According to the weather forecast, Saturday was going to be the warmest day of the weekend, and there was only supposed to be a passing shower. Most everyone else felt like waiting a day, but I’m pretty persuasive, so off we went. Jim opted to stay and wait for his friend-he’s-not-dating-but-they-act-like-they-are Bill.

Turns out, Jim was the smart one. But first, a little diversion: On the way to the river, Charlie got a call from our realtor. They wanted to know what happened to the lock box (the box that has a key to our house in it that the realtors use to show our house). We’re like, what do you mean? It was fine when we left! Then we remembered that our friend, who also happens to be our agent, was planning to work on the house, so we just assumed he had it. Heh.

Anyway. So we got to the river, and we got in our canoes (well, Charlie and I canoed, everyone else kayaked). The sun is nice and hot, so we sunscreen up, and away we go. It’s beautiful. Except Sarah and Pete couldn’t get a rhythm going in the double kayak for some reason and kept going to the left no matter what. Sarah’s daughter zipped around us all in her solo kayak. Charlie and I plod along, weighed down by Hammer, our 100-pound pitbull. Hammer’s best friend Cisco—a miniature pinscher—was along for the weekend as well, and even though he only weighs about fifteen pounds, when he runs from side to side in the canoe, he manages to make it rock pretty badly, and he ran side to side non-fucking-stop.

We'd done about three out of the trip’s eight miles when we decided to pull over to an island in the river and eat lunch. As we ate, we watched big, ugly, black clouds drift into view. We got in the canoes and hoped to beat the rain, to no avail. It began to pour.

We pulled over again and waited a while. After all, the forecast called for a passing shower. But the rain didn’t fucking pass. So we got back on the river, and just toughed it out.

The last two miles of the trip were hell. The temperature dropped to about 50 degrees. The rain was intensely heavy, and once we turned a certain bend in the river there was a terrible headwind that made the rain fly right into our faces. I had foolishly worn my glasses instead of my contacts and could barely see (Sarah and her glasses had the same problem). The headwind was so strong that Sarah’s daughter had to switch kayaks with Pete because she was being blown backwards.

The poor dogs were miserable. They couldn’t imagine what the fuck the stupid people were thinking, so they huddled and shivered in the bottom of the canoe.

We finally spotted the bridge that marked the end of the trip. The landing was on the far side. But just as we crossed under the bridge, nearly getting tangled in some fishing line, Cisco spotted the fisherman and decided he’s had enough. He leapt out of the canoe and swam for shore. It was only about thirty feet away, but the current was really strong, and I didn’t think he’d make it. Blessedly, he did, and the fisherman kept an eye on him until we could pull out of the river.

I have never felt so horrible in my life. I was cold, wet, and absolutely awash in guilt that I put my friends—especially poor visiting Pete—through so much torture. It was a quiet trip back to camp. We all stayed in the car for a long time with the heat blasting, until we all went in our tents and took off our wet clothes and got in bed.

Thankfully, Jim had put all of our stuff away so it wasn’t drenched. We rigged a tarp over the picnic table, and by 7:00 or so, the rain finally stopped (although we had another two hours of tree drippage). Dinner went off without a hitch, and the evening was ended happily around the fire.

Sunday was beautiful, and we lazed around the site all day with only one little walk. Pete was force-fed s’mores and toasted marshmallows for the first time in his life, and everyone got happier. Sarah cooked an amazing steak and rib dinner. Monday also dawned bright and clear.

Oh, and about the lock box? On Sunday, Sarah and I went into town to get some groceries and I finally got a cell signal, and checked our messages. Turned out our friend/realtor did NOT have the key, and in fact, was unable to get into the basement to paint the floor. So for a while I thought it was the neighbor we’d asked to feed the cats, and I got really angry. Because, seriously, when you are supposed to feed the cats on Sunday, why would you take the lock box key on Saturday? But it wasn’t the neighbor.

Turns out it was probably—and I say probably because we do not know yet—one of the realtors who showed the place on Friday, who then got home and realized they had the key and have absolutely no idea which house it came from. We hope to have that resolved today.

So that was the story of the weekend. Oh—and I got my period on Saturday. Yee-fucking-HA!

Everyone please go on over to Sarah’s place and tell her how wonderful she is. Turns out, about 80% of the folks that see our house complain about the cats and the cat smell. So Sarah has been kind enough to agree to board our cats (all five of them) in her basement for the weekend so we can get the basement painted and have an open house on Sunday.

Sarah, I love you! You are the bestest friend EVER!

All Hail Lunestra

I know, I know, and I’m sorry. The lack of posting is pathetic.

It’s not because I don’t love you, honest. It’s because of two things: first, I went sixteen nights without sleeping more than two hours. SIXTEEN. Secondly, it’s because I’ve been busy, you know, working and stuff.

Blessedly, after I became so psychotic from lack of sleep that Charlie and Sarah were seriously considering having me institutionalized, I went to see my doctor and she gave me Lunestra.

All hail the sweet, sweet powers of Lunestra.

So, I’m back, two nights of drug-induced sleep under my belt.

I realized two things during my sleep-deprived psychosis. First, I don’t like when Charlie and Sarah call each other to talk about how crazy I am (heh) and secondly, I needed to take some shit off the table.

These are the things stressing me out these days: the house not selling, the fact that I can’t fucking stay on a diet for more than three days, the house not selling, the impending visit to our RE and planned mid-summer FET, oh, and THE HOUSE NOT SELLING.

I was deeply relieved to see that my weight has stayed about the same even though I haven’t been back to Weight Watchers in nearly a month (I’d gained 1.6 lbs—a good shit would clear that right up). Summer is here, thankfully, and I will get more active (I will get more active, I will get more active, I will get more active, I WILL). The lack of sleep has seriously cut into my exercise, but this weekend should help jumpstart that (I’ll explain in a moment). Plus, I tend to eat better in warmer weather, since things like salads and sushi sound good when it’s not 45 degrees and rainy (like it’s been here all fucking week). But, regardless, I’ve come to accept the fact that if I hadn’t had cheetohs and raw cookie dough over the last few months, I would have so totally jumped off a bridge. I’ll go back to Weight Watchers when I’m ready. So that’s off the table.

Also, Charlie and I talked about it (me blinking and twitching furiously from the sleep deprivation), and we’ve decided to wait until late summer or early fall to do the frozen embryo transfer. It would be the height of idiocy for us to do a FET during a move, for god’s sake. Plus it’s clear I am totally stressed the fuck OUT (the racing heart, and racing head, and oh yeah the NO SLEEP were my first clues), and I need to put things off.

Not to mention the fact that if I did a transfer in the fall, I’d have the baby in the summer which would be just perfect for work.

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*** insert hysterical laughter here***

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Of course, that would also mean that Christmas would be a primo time for a miscarriage or loss of some kind. Yee ha!

This is a good decision. After all, my eggs (at least the 14 fertilized ones on ice) aren’t getting any older (they’re only 35!), so I can wait a little longer. Now I can concentrate on selling the house, moving, and doing the things I adore doing in the summer, like hiking, camping, and canoeing.

All of which I’m doing this weekend! Charlie and I, Sarah, Pete and her daughter, plus a couple of other friends are heading up to a wonderful campground (yeah, that’s the real place. If you want to stalk me, remember, I have a pit bull. And he’ll whack you really, really hard with his tail when he’s wagging it cause he’s so happy to meet you). We’ll get to canoe the Delaware River, and Sarah seems to think we’re going to hike up a mountain too (ha! I couldn’t hike up a fucking curb right now). But what I’m mostly looking forward to is the long evenings of laughing around the fire. I’ve really, really missed that.

Of course, my period will probably start, but what can you do.

Have a great holiday weekend, everyone. I know Memorial Day is about military veterans, but I’ll be thinking about you—the veterans of the Fertility Wars. You have all earned a Purple Heart in my eyes.

Welcome Conservatives!

Hello! I just wanted to welcome any new readers visiting after reading yesterday's article in the Washington Times.

First off, allow me to apologize. I am pretty far to the left of left wing, and I swear a whole fucking lot.

Here, here and here you can find evidence of my extreme liberal politics.

Here you can find out about me being a baby killer.

Here you can find out about my religious heresy.

Here you can find out about my current spirituality.

Here you can find out why you should call me a "fat cow."

Here you can find out how many of my readers are more like you than me.

OK! Now that we've gotten acquainted, what's on your mind?

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I had to delete the photo album for the house--the photos were too big and taking too long to download. I'll fix it today. EDITED!!!! IT'S FIXED!

The House!

Hey! Wanna see my new house?

Thanks to our fabulous photographer, Sarah.

Fucking Fucking Fuck

I don't want to hear another fucking word about the 'liberal bias' in the media.

Because it is so GONE.

Newsweek, as we all know, recently ran an article about the US Military flushing the Koran (the Muslim Holy book--like the Bible, people) down the toilet during interrogations.

The Bush administration went crazy denouncing the story, and Newsweek retracted it.

Well guess what, people? The Red Cross investigated allegations of the mishandling of the Koran, AND FOUND THEM TO BE TRUE. Citations were issued.

So, the question is, why the FUCK did Newsweek retract the story? Because if they don't play along with the administration, they'll be denied access (to the Bush talking points--not like access to the truth or anything).

The media isn't liberal, people, it's fucking castrated. So much for freedom of the press.

I know that the reason people are up in arms about this story is because it caused riots and people got hurt. And I'm sorry. But the truth is, we have treated the Muslim world so horrendously that it was easy for them to believe that we would flush pages of the Koran down the toilet.

AND THAT IS OUR FAULT.

It is the job of the press to absolutely investigate those in power. Did the press give Clinton a break when he let Monica suck his dick in the Oval Office? No, of course not. They nailed his dick to the wall, and rightly so (even if I think getting your dick sucked doesn't really effect policy, but then).

So why is the press consistenly backing off on the White House? Why isn't anyone truly being held accountable, except in the world of blogs?

The "balance of power" is becoming increasingly unbalanced. Dissent is being squashed.

What is happening to my country is making me weep.

And don't even get me started on the whole filibuster thing. I can't wait for that one to turn around and bite the right wing in the ass--when they are the minority again.

Which, someday, they will be. That's just how things work, people.

One Of Those Posts Where I Talk About God

You know those people? The ones that say things like, “Why go through IVF when there are so many children that need homes?” and “Clearly it’s God’s will that you don’t have children, why don’t you just accept it?”

You know how we hate those people? Yeah? Well, I realized the other day that I am one of those people.

Infertility has shaken my spirituality and faith to the core. I found myself questioning everything. When I lost the boys, I didn’t lose my faith in God; I decided that God hated me (it’s kind of a reverse faith—there is a God, but he wants to make you suffer).

So I am spiritually adrift.

Before I lost the boys, my spirituality was this: basically, I believe that I am, at heart, a self-centered being and I need to constantly re-direct my thinking toward the greater good and away from myself and my wants and desires (this is pretty typical recovery stuff—alcoholics are supremely self-centered and need to learn to see the big picture). You could also say that the greater good is, in general, “God’s will.”

In addition, I believed that if I paid attention to the signs, I could pretty easily see what was God’s will and what was just me trying to get my own way. It’s sort of like canoeing on a river; if you don’t learn how to read the water—like knowing that a particular kind of soft ripple indicates a big ass rock right under the surface—you are going to flip the canoe and fall out. If you learn the signs, you can get soft nudges telling you what direction to go in.

But infertility muddied the water. I knew I didn’t cause our infertility; environmental factors played a major role in Charlie’s sperm issues (it’s possible his mother took DES). So therefore, using a medical solution to treat a medical problem made sense. So, in the early days, pursuing IUIs and then moving on to IVF felt like moving with the flow of the river. Especially when we got pregnant on our first IVF cycle.

But when we lost the boys, and I almost died, it was quite the spiritual dumping out of the canoe. I still hear in the back of my mind the woman that said “Maybe God kept Cecily from getting pregnant to prevent exactly this kind of tragedy!” In my heart, I agreed with her. In that moment of loss and grief, I decided I hadn’t been “going with the flow,” I’d been fighting the will of the river, fighting God’s will—forcing a solution—just so I could have what I wanted when I wanted it. That’s why the boys died.

The truth is, I have spent the last few months feeling certain that I have subverted God’s will, and that’s why God hates me. Charlie and I joke all the time that we’re cursed; we say things like, “Maybe next year we’ll have a baby too…oh right, if we weren’t cursed” or “the new house would look really cool if we… well, you know, if we weren’t cursed and someone actually bought this house.”

Oddly, my therapist doesn’t think it’s funny. She asked me why—since I’ve decided to choose my own concept of God—I’d pick a God that would treat me that way.

Good question.

The God that is in my head, and my heart, is more like a parent with a toddler. If your toddler falls down while learning to walk, you don’t just leave them lying on the ground weeping. You pick them up, dust off knees and kiss boo-boos. But you don’t stop them from falling.

There are Native American guides that give tours through the Grand Canyon. On one of those tours, the guide told his (white) tourists that it was flash flood season, and they needed to be prepared. “You’ll have no warning,” he said. “There will just suddenly be a wall of water. What you have to do is point your feet in the direction of the current and try to keep your head above water. But no matter what, DO NOT TRY TO SWIM. Swimming will kill you.” Sure enough, as they were hiking in the canyon, a flood came. Every single member of the group tried to swim, and they all drowned except the guide.

The truth is, I’m the one that’s turned away. I have refused the offers of help. I’ve returned to being entirely self-reliant and stubborn, and that is why I’m so fucking miserable. The hand is outstretched, but I’m insisting on standing up on my own—I no longer trust the outstretched hand since it let me fall. I’m trying to swim, but the current is too strong.

That has to change. I’m going to straighten out my legs, go with the current, and try to keep my head above water. I’m going to accept the outstretched hand, and the boo-boo kisses.

I’m not alone. It’s not all up to me.

Thank God.

 

Suck/Rule, or, how to do a fast post when you really have nothing to say

Things That Suck:

1. Me. I totally spoke too soon. I'm painting my basement floor, I'm emptying out my closets, and possibly burying a statue in my front yard.

2. We discovered our on-line listing for our home did not include the name of our neighborhood (one of the hottest 'hoods in town) and therefore if you did an on-line search for our neighborhood, our house didn't come up.

3. I'm still not sleeping much, although last night was better.

4. My boss gave me a mildly disapproving look when she saw I wore jeans (black ones!) and sneakers today. But I was going to do some heavy labor! I swear!

5. My foot is hurting again, I haven't been to Weight Watchers in three weeks, and I'm either really fat again or I'm bloated and my period is due cause my (black) jeans feel tight.

Things that Rule:

1. I'm going to go see a movie tonight, which feels amazingly luxurious and fun, since it's Wednesday.

2. I made my 19-year-old employee blush by discussing clitoral hood piercings.

3. Elise's new house---oh, I should let her tell it. It's good.

4. The other day I was dancing around in my living room singing "Bad Girls" by Donna Summer at top volume while my neighbor, the minister, came home from church. It was an awesome moment.

5. I had a spiritual revelation today and that shall warrant a much longer post. Tomorrow, I hope.

6. My husband. When I suggested burying St. Joseph in the front yard to sell the house, he said, "How on earth is aspirin going to help?"

Thank you, but...

Charlie wrote about this better than I can. Plus, I am terrified of offending you all. But I have to say it:

Please stop giving me suggestions about how to sell my house.

I know, I know, and I’m sorry. I love you, each and every one of you, and I don’t want you to think that you’ve offended me. You haven’t. I do not feel I have received a single word of assvice, I promise.

But the fact is, people all over this country sold houses on a regular basis before “Sell This House!” was on the air. And Charlie and I have cleaned, de-cluttered, de-cat smelled, and de-everythinged in the house that we possibly can but still be able to stretch out comfortably in front of the television and eat cookie dough.

And you wouldn’t BELIEVE what the interiors of some of the houses we looked at (and considered buying) looked like. We look GOOD, people.

Obviously, if the house doesn’t sell in the next few weeks (we have some time—the folks in the house we’re buying haven’t found their own new home yet) we’ll have to reconsider. But for right now, doing things like renting a storage unit, painting the basement floor (we’ve already patched and painted every crack and other problem we could), removing most of our furniture and emptying our closets JUST ISN’T GOING TO HAPPEN.

The house we’re buying we chose because to us it felt like home. That means they had toothbrushes in the bathroom, cooking utensils nicely arranged on the counters, and the closets stuffed to bursting, and toys in the living room. People live there, and that made us want to live there too.

I’m lucky—my city is a hot place to live right now, and my neighborhood is one of the hottest, and has been written up in every place one can write up a neighborhood. My house will sell eventually.

But until then, I’m going to live there. With my furniture. M’kay?

Love and kisses. Really.

My Stomach Hurts

We got the house. They accepted our offer last night.

Now, we just have to sell our house. We had NO showings this whole weekend, which FREAKS ME THE FUCK OUT.

We do have a showing tomorrow.

Come on, little house! Sell! Sell!

Cookie Dough Is NOT Just A Sometime Food

Yesterday found me sitting on my couch at 2:30 in the afternoon, still in my nightgown, watching 25-year-old episodes of Buck Rogers (for a futuristic name they chose Wilma? Are they kidding? Still, she did kick ass for the time), thoughtfully eating spoonfuls of cookie dough out of a tube (this was to follow up my healthy breakfast of fat free Cool Whip and a lunch of lite spreadable cheese on triscuits).

Oh, and many fertile blessings to that commenter that suggested I bake cookies before people come view my house. Great suggestion, but sadly means cookie dough is currently present in the house. A recipe for disaster. Or is that depression?

Since the house got listed on Friday, I’ve decided to stop sleeping. I’m filled with dread and anxiety. The house stuff, the whole Mother’s Day weeping thing—I’m going crazy. Add to the mix that I decided this would be a great week to set up a consultation with my fertility doc—and who answers the phone? The Cunt.

So yesterday morning, as I lay in bed not sleeping, I realized I felt like crap and I stayed home.

We’ve had seven groups of people tramp through our house. None of them want to buy it. The feedback we’ve gotten is “we thought it’d be bigger” (yeah, we all did, buddy), “the price is aggressive” and “it smells like cats in the basement.”

I have five cats, people. FIVE. I scrubbed the basement floor until you could lick it. But the cats aren’t dead, so they still have to pee and poop. So just GET OVER IT ALREADY, I’M SCOOPING AS FAST AS I CAN.

To add to all of this, we found the house we want. Beautiful twin. Fireplace. Ungodly perfect kitchen, right down to the slate floors (which are wonderful if you are like me and hate mopping. Yes, sell me your house! I promise to never mop!). Finished basement, with a small room for litter pans WITH A CAT DOOR. I shit you not. An already decorated nursery. Theme? Classic Pooh. Who could argue with that? Lovely, lovely, lovely.

Here is a picture of the house we want.

Just so you can compare, here is a picture of my current home.

Yeah.

But there is already another offer against the house. By cute people who are already pregnant. Who probably don’t have a house to sell first. Bastards. No, we won’t make them suffer a bidding war. Plus, that implies we have money for a bidding war. Ha!

Hence, the cookie dough.

But there is a light in the darkness.

Elise and her husband, as you know, are our dear, dear friends and the best neighbors EVER. When they open their front door, their dog runs to our house. We love them, and their daughter, so much. When they told us they were moving there suddenly didn’t seem to be a reason to stay in our neighborhood. They found a great house in a wonderful neighborhood of our city, and were all set to move. Charlie and I resigned ourselves to living far, far way from them in Perfect Town (ok, a half-hour drive, but too far for the dog to run—you know, by himself).

Well, if you read her blog, you know that they went through an absolute NIGHTMARE (a little matter of $15,000 in termite damage the owner attempted to conceal—by putting a couch over it) and they decided to walk away from the deal.

I’m not sure if it was the incessant prodding and cajoling on my part, but they finally consented to looking at houses in their price range in Perfect Town. And they found one they love. And they are making an offer. And Perfect Town is only one square mile, so chances are, we’ll live pretty fucking close to each other. And it turns out that the listing agent on the house they want is our buying agent—which has to earn us some serious points, right?

My heart is nearly exploding in joy. I cannot believe how happy this is making me.

So, the rest of the cookie dough is officially reserved for the people who will be viewing our house Saturday. Surely one of them is going to buy it, right? For close to the asking price, right?

Come on, God. It’s time for something good to happen to me. Seriously.

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I have decided to be like all the other infertile bloggers and change my blogroll to Julie's big list. I know, I'm sorry, but I read more than are on my blogroll now and I don't want to pick and choose and it just becomes so overwhelming. Since Julie has been kind enough to volunteer to keep this list, and takes the time to keep it update, I think I should use it.

So don't feel slighted, m'kay?