Uppercase Woman

Greeks, Time Traveling, and Happy Birthday Baby!

I need your help.

As most of you know, my dear friend Sarah is getting married in just a few short weeks. There is only one problem.

She’s short a groom.

Pete, her lovely fiancé, is trapped in France, awaiting some Greek paperwork to finish processing his fiancé visa for the US. Once this is done he can move here and we can have ourselves a wedding!

I realize that this is not a life-threatening situation. Not like what’s happening in the south in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, or what happened on that bridge in Iraq.

But she’s dear to me, and I thought, maybe, just maybe, someone who reads this blog knows someone who knows someone in the Greek government (or police department). Anyone? Please?

So I realize that I might be the very last person on the planet that hasn’t read The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Nffenegger (judging by the reaction of folks I ride the train with), but I just finished it.

It wrecked me.

I enjoy almost everything I read, but this book was just beautiful. The language was fluid and lovely;it felt like poetry. Good poetry. The love story was completely convincing and I was deeply invested in every detail. Everyone in the book felt like family to me.

Oy, I’ve been left a quivering pile of heart-wrenched muck. Maybe it’s because I’m someone blessed with that incredible cliché—absolutely perfect and amazing True Love--but I didn’t doubt Clare and Henry’s love for a moment. I was swept away by their story, and wept as the book drew to a close (I always feel sad when a really good book ends).

If you haven’t read it yet, I heartily recommend it. By the way, this book also features infertility, multiple miscarriages, and the birth of a baby girl. Just so you know.

Speaking of my True Love, today is Charlie’s birthday.

Happy Birthday, baby. I love you more than anything.

Photos

Nothing much to say today, but I have a couple more photos to share of Sarah's shower (for more, see her blog!). I'll have more in a couple days, but here ya go...

This is me being silly in a hat (somehow I think looking at the ceiling is funny). Sarah's mom took this shot and failed to tell me that a) my shirt was totally crooked, and b) just how much cleavage I was showing (perhaps she was a tad busy throwing her only daughter's shower? hmmmm...). And yes, it's the same shirt I was wearing in Mexico in my regular photo. And it's crooked there too.

Later in the evening, Sarah's daughter played a game of "How many coasters can I fit in Cecily's cleavage?" The answer: 18 (ok, they are very very thin cork coasters--but still. It's pathetic how huge and saggy my boobs are).

In this shot you can get a little peek at my house (house photos, along with tattoo photos, are coming, I swear). You wouldn't think someone who says motherfucker as much as I do would be into pink and white balloons, would you (you'd be right--Sarah's mom actually bought them, but I think they look great)? Oh--and Sarah is the one in the greenish hat with glasses.

Hammer (The Best Dog Ever) went CRAZY after the shower attacking the balloons and popping them (with his mouth). He whined and whined until we blew up more for him. Strangest thing I've ever seen. It was hysterical (if you could stand the squeeking rubber and the popping balloons) but he slipped while manically chasing them and I'm afraid he's hurt his leg again. Difficult to tell in a dog that doesn't ever register or express pain. Hopefully he just wrenched it and didn't rupture his other cruciate... sigh.

I'm A Big Fat Cunt

…and that’s a good thing, because my “fat cunt” google ranking is pathetic, really. So low I can’t even find it. And that is simply unacceptable.

Thanks for leaping to my defense, guys, but it’s really not necessary. I wasn’t hurt or bothered by her comments. Her first comment was perfectly coherent and not unfriendly—so much different from her other comments that I had to verify the IP address was the same—so I’m just as shocked as you at her later vehemence.

And I have to apologize as well. Jenn K, your first comment was actually pretty good and I shouldn’t have been as flip as I was. I’m sorry. I told you to “go help someone” because I’ve decided that it’s much nicer than saying “fuck off.” And you didn’t deserve “fuck off” so I shouldn’t have mentioned you at all.

Oh—and folks? Don’t tell me I didn’t need to apologize. Ok? Cause I needed to clean my side of the street. I don’t know what she’s doing with hers since I’ve blocked her from commenting (Jenn K, you are welcome to email me directly).

I also have to apologize to all of you because I completely de-railed a good conversation with my second post. I always learn so much about the shades of gray that exist in the pro-life community when we have these chats. And Katie (who said that abortions should never happen, even when the mom’s life is threatened) and I have been having a really wonderful email conversation about it, with her asking me honest questions about what happened to me and allowing me to respond without getting angry. It’s awesome, and one of the reasons why I keep talking about this stuff here.

But I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Let’s discuss something really important—Sarah’s Bridal Shower!

I was sooooo dying to tell you all about it before hand, but since she reads this blog, I couldn’t. By the time it rolled around it was no longer a surprise, but she WAS surprised that we had an “English Tea Party” theme (in honor of Pete’s being British, you know). So I got up early on Saturday and with the help of Sarah’s mom, another bridesmaid, and Sarah’s daughter we made about a zillion small tea sandwiches (they were so good—salmon with cream cheese and capers, stilton and pear, cucumber, and goat cheese with watercress). We also served scones and crumpets with Clotted cream and Devon cream (the clotted cream, oddly, was better) and jam, and petit fours and cookies to finish. It was divine. We did have mostly iced tea, being that it’s August and all, but the other Bridemaids made beautiful favors with china tea cups and saucers and personalized "tub tea" bags. Lovely!

About fourteen women came, and I’d borrowed hats from work (with the artist’s permission, of course) so we all looked very glamorous and elegant (even though I’m a big Fat Cunt). I’ll post more photos soon (and Sarah will post some too, of course) but here is The Best Dog Ever™ modeling his hat…

I go off to throw a bridal shower and look what happens

Wow. I didn't get a chance to check on my blog after I posted it because I was so busy putting everything together for Sarah's bridal shower yesterday. Which went well. Pictures coming soon.

I closed the comments to the last entry. This is the first time I've ever done this. I did it because the discussion was still being marginally civil and I didn't think that would last much longer.

Normally some of the comments would have made me angry. Like Ukok's. Ukok--shouldn't you be out helping people as a good Christian instead of counting the "I's" in my post? Um, this is my blog so, yeah, I'm gonna to speak for myself. Weird. What was your point? That I'm inherently selfish (I freely admit this--I am an alcoholic , after all, and all alcoholics are supremely selfish) and therefore run about having abortions for fun? Clearly you don't know me at all. I murder kittens for fun*, NOT have abortions.

Or Katie's. I'm so glad you think I should have died. Even though that would mean my baby would have died as well. Very pro-life of you! Instead of an abortion, two deaths for the price of one! You really don't get it. If I tried to tell you the truth about my medical situation, you would say the doctors were lying. Go help someone and leave me alone. Perhaps you can volunteer at one of those Catholic Centers that help pregnant women?

"Anon as usual", I hope you go help someone too. You think that women are "dramatic" and "bring violence on themselves"? Really? You know what? I think you should put your ass where your mouth is and go volunteer at a battered women's shelter. Share your experience about how you got out of an abusive relationship. Being a shining light in those women's lives. And leave me alone. What is it with you folks in Oklahoma anyway? I get more pro-life commenters from there than any other state.

Jenn K; boy, you are sure of yourself. Go help someone. Soon.

God bless you, Kathleen, Akeeyu, and all the others that defended choice. Your voices need to be heard.

God bless you, "lurker delurking." Your strong advocacy of choice--even while you believe abortion is wrong--is brilliantly worded. Thank you for delurking.

God bless you, Ren, for sharing what you do as a pro-lifer to take care of women and infants that find themselves in bad circumstances. You put your ass where your heart is, and I respect that. I'm not doing nearly enough.

God bless you, Casey, for highlighting the good things that have come out of the pro-life movement. I didn't know that the "pregnancy crisis centers" are the result of Roe Vs. Wade. Excellent information. Brilliant.

Lastly, for "Whatever" and the others that said "don't have sex if you don't want to get pregnant": I have this to say.

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.

As if sex could get you pregnant.

*I do not murder kittens. I own five cats. Kidding, kidding, kidding.

Chair Covers, Table Runners, and Fetus Pain, oh my

So, I have become the kind of person that owns a table runner. I don’t have anything against table runners, understand, I just never actually owned one before. But while I was at the store last night hunting for dining room chair covers (to hide cat damage on our wicker-backed chairs), I saw one with gorgeous shades of burgundy, green and gold, and I got all excited because our kitchen is burgundy-colored and our dining room is green, and it just… matched.

Not only do I not recognize my home, I no longer recognize myself.

Speaking of the dining room chair covers… I know these things are really hip right now, I mean they are right there in the dining room on Will & Grace. I had to buy beige ones cause they were the only ones that were short (the long style would have become fur-trimmed, and not in a good way, in my house) and not too expensive. But they look like paint drop cloths. Really well fitting drop cloths. I think they look that way on Will & Grace too. Weird. Oh, and um, are you supposed to iron them? Cause I don’t have an iron and they sure are wrinkled (I used the BEST PRODUCT EVER on them—Downy’s Wrinkle Releaser—and it helped a little).

I guess I just don’t get it.

But you didn’t tune in today to hear me talk about home improvement, did you? You all came here to see what I think about this. I know because so many of you have sent me links to various articles about it.

Go on, catch up. I’ll wait.

So.

I’m not surprised by the findings. But, and this is going to sound harsh, I don’t really care.

Yes, of course, I’m very relieved to know that my surviving son didn’t feel any pain during my dilation and extraction procedure—the one that saved my life, and ended his. But in my heart, I already knew this. I knew that any pain he did feel would be much less than what he would have suffered during labor and delivery (extremely premature babies have little fat padding to protect them during delivery) and the pain and panic he would feel during his last moments of life, spent struggling for breath.

But the larger truth is that any momentary pain my son suffered is negligible compared to the pain and discomfort I was suffering. Not to mention the emotional agony my death would have afflicted on my husband, my mother, Sarah, and all my other friends and loved ones had I died. Hell, it would have been less than the sadness my dog would have experienced at my loss. Or of the doctors treating me. Or the strangers in the internet that have followed my story.

OK, you say, that makes sense when the mother’s life is in danger. But what about the women that choose to have a late-term abortion (only 1.5% of all abortions, by the way), you know, on a whim (right, like that EVER happens)?

Well, the momentary pain of a not-yet-sentient fetus is STILL going to be less than a woman’s labor pains, particularly if she is forced to labor and deliver a baby she doesn’t want. Or the poverty she and the child will live in if she can’t support the two of them. Or the pain of blows inflicted on the mother by an abusive boyfriend or husband (yet another pregnant woman was killed by her boyfriend just a few weeks ago--remember, murder is the number one cause of death for pregnant women).

In other words—in my opinion—no matter what the science says, a woman’s life and safety trumps a baby’s life every time.

Of course many of you don’t agree with me. I have come to accept that. I’m curious, though—does this new study comfort you at all? Does it help you to know that there isn’t physical suffering happening during abortions? Or do you have just as many scientists saying that the study is wrong?

I’d like to know. BUT REMEMBER—this is SUCH an emotional issue—KEEP IT CIVIL. Respect each other’s opinions. Anyone not nice gets deleted immediately.

And anyone who would rather not talk about this can discuss table runners and chair covers, of course.

Resurrection

One of the nicest things about returning home from our trip was finding unexpected things in our mailbox. One was a check from our old mortgage company returning our escrow money—nearly $2,000 of it. We didn't know it was coming, so it was a lovely surprise.

The other was a gift from the fabulous doesn’t-yet-have-a-blog Christine. It was the perfect present—500-thread-count sheets AND a cordless drill. I spent the next day madly finding things to tighten while wearing a 500-thread-count rose-colored toga.

Moments like that have made my new return to church more palatable (yes, I’m still going). “Excuse me?” you say, “What’s that? How on earth does internet-people sending you presents make you religious?”

The thing is, I’m NOT religious. I’m spiritual. What’s the difference? Well, in recovery they say, “Religion is for people afraid of going to hell. Spirituality is for those of us that have already been there.”

That sums it up nicely. And means that all of us infertility warriors are spiritual as fuck.

I’m not a Christian, and honestly, I don’t see a time in that I am going to be. I simply do not believe the stories surrounding the life and death of Jesus. I think the Bible is too corrupted—by the men who wrote it—to be trusted as THE document on which to base my life.

So what am I doing in a church on Sundays?

Well, I may not believe in Jesus, but I do believe in resurrection. One of the many blessings of being in recovery is that I see people come back to life all the time. I’ve seen women hooked on booze and crack that supported their habits by being prostitutes not only get sober, but also get jobs, and marriages, and children back from the state. I’ve watched a young man that would routinely rob people at gunpoint gently guide an elderly man to a seat in a meeting. I’ve seen families reborn, unlikely friendships bloom, and the light turn back on in deadened eyes.

These people took me in when I wobbled into my first meeting, fresh from an overdose, with scraggly hair and little to nothing in my heart and brain. They sat me down, shared their stories with me, and listened to me shriek about my cravings and misery. Later, after I’d been sober a while, they sat and listened to me whine about stupid crap and pretended that I had real problems. Later, when I did have real problems, they held me and let me cry and helped me not pick up a drink or a drug to dull the pain.

Some of the people that helped me the most—witnesses to turning points in my sobriety—are no longer with us. My dear friend Web, who compared track marks with me and made me laugh and cried when he saw me in my wedding dress…he went back to drinking and drugging and shot himself rather than live another day as an addict. He showed me what is out there for me if I were to go back to my old life.

In other words, he gave his life so that I could live.

So when I’m sitting in church and they talk about Jesus I just think about all the personal saviors I’ve had, all the people that have set aside their own needs in order to help me get through the day.

Like my mother, who gave up her dream of being a folk singer to give us financial stability (Happy Birthday, Mom!).

Like Steph  who told me a couple weeks ago that it’s normal to experience an upsurge in grief around the ten-month mark after a loss and that she knew I could get through it.

Like my friend Sue who unexpectedly sent me flowers at work one day when I was feeling really shitty .

Like Charlie, who is currently putting together our new coffee table so that I won’t have to.

Like Sarah, who has offered to be my surrogate if pregnancy tries to kill me again.

Like every single one of you that has come back here, day after day, and told me that you hear me and understand me and think I’m wonderful even when I’m a whiny bitch.

I may not believe in Jesus, but I do believe in worship. I believe in singing. I believe in hope, and joy, and peace and all of those things are present at this church. So I find myself comfortable in church because even though I think Jesus is a beautiful myth, so many of you have saved my life.

I’m coming up on my next cycle, and I’m terrified. I’ve spent these last ten months treading water. There have been days that I found rocks to stand on, and days that I just wanted to go ahead and drown. But I’ve gotten used to the water, and beginning another cycle feels like I’ve decided to swim for the very-far-away shore.

I’m afraid that my heart won’t be able to take it.

But I know I’m not doing this alone. I have more support than any one I know. I have my recovery friends, my Internet friends, my amazing husband and my in-person friends. I have much to be grateful for.

You are all my life rafts; I feel safe with all of you. Tomorrow, I get some culture—er, I mean I’m getting cultures done (ah, it’s been so long since I’ve had strange hands and objects up my twat…). After that, it’s just giving them the money and making that cycle day two call.

Let the journey begin. Again.

Home Again, Home Again

So I’m back from vacation. It was an interesting five days…

Good:

The campsite was pretty, with grass and trees. There were several nice hikes right from the campground. On top of one of the mountains was a gorgeous reservoir that we swam in, and there was no one else there the day we went. Vermont was only an hour away, and we got to see cool “Moose Crossing” signs, even if we didn’t get to see any actual moose. It was nice to be together, and we slept really late most days and ate great food over the fire. We had mostly nice weather.

Bad:

There was standing water right next to our site, so there were literally millions of mosquitoes and we had to spend the whole time slathering ourselves with DEET. Charlie’s legs look like he has the pox. The first night we arrived it was not just raining—it was POURING and it was dark and there was incessant lightening, so we couldn’t set up (the camp site was next to a power plant, so setting up there seemed like a Bad Idea). It took us two hours to find a hotel that would allow dogs, and since it’s “the Berkshires” it cost roughly one million dollars. On Thursday I had to spend the afternoon at an emergency room because I had this weird jaw/neck pain and a massively swollen tonsil. The doctor wouldn’t give me antibiotics (I think I have a sinus infection) but he did offer me NARCOTICS. Is that fucked up or what? I had to turn them down, being a drug addict and all.

So, just like life, the vacation was full of highlights and lowlights. Other cool things: we got to eat at the diner that is the inspiration for this Norman Rockwell painting. We found a beagle tied to a bridge in the woods with a piece of twine (someone kindly left him some graham crackers but no water) along the Appalachian Trail in Vermont, so we got to spend a couple hours exploring the Bennington animal control system (it’s very cool, actually—and the owner claimed the dog the next day). We also picked up a through hiker hitching (I know, I know), a young kid from Oklahoma who’d just finished hiking The Long Trail (apparently, there isn’t bus service available at the far end, so the through hikers always hitch back). He was sweet, and told me about couchsurfing.com. If you know anyone young enough to enjoy couch surfing, pass it on.

When we got home we managed to hook up with Sarah to go see The 40 Year Old Virgin, a movie I expected to kind of suck, but was actually so motherfucking funny that I needed a Depends Undergarment and a hit of my inhaler to get through it. Holy shit, I have not laughed that hard in a while.

I also got to read Getupgrrl’s amazing birth story, which left me a weeping puddle of snot it was so good. I promise I’ll catch up with everyone else’s blogs today.

Oh, and because we stayed in a hotel last Sunday night and were home last night I didn’t miss any of Six Feet Under.

*******MAJOR, MAJOR SPOILER ALERT********

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Did that final episode kick your ass or what? WOW. I was blown away. So many little moments were so beautiful and tough to watch; god. I cried through the whole last half-hour. At first the last part annoyed me; why were they showing all the future stuff? But at the same time, you know, it’s been a show about death so we had to see how they all died (although Keith’s death pissed me off). I love that Clair married Ted, that one of David and Keith’s sons appeared to be gay, that Ruth and George stayed together but didn’t live together, and that Brenda found love again. I loved that Brenda died with Billy, and that Clair became the photographer she wanted to be and died at such an old age. It was also wonderful to see them all together still at major events in each other’s lives.

But even typing all of this I want to cry. I will miss them so much! Isn’t it weird how TV show people become part of your family?

Vacation!

You won't be hearing much from me folks as I'll be spending the next five nights here, where the projected high will be a lovely 82 degrees instead of the 142 degrees it's been in my city all week.

As a follow-up to our marvelous blog ettiquete discussion, Tertia asked what is the most appropriate way to handle writing about real life friends and family in your blog.

I will leave you this topic to discuss in my absence. Enjoy!

Blog Etiquette (and I'm feeling much better, thank you)

I’m not sure why someone thought that I would be a good person to cover this topic. I don’t know why I want to write it either, but I do. So before I go any further, allow me to issue this disclaimer:

Understand that the following represents ONLY the opinion of the owner of this blog. It does not in any way reflect the blogosphere as a whole, or what the owner of this blog thinks of the blogosphere as a whole, or anything to do with anyone, anywhere, that has ever written a blog, commented on a blog, or considered blogs at all, or even those people that are all like, “What the fuck is a blog?” Most of what is written below is purely the owner of this blog talking out of her ass.

Ok. Moving on. Please feel free to add your own opinions in the comments and to tell me when I’m wrong as well. I will respond to comments today in the comment section (instead of just emailing you all back) so we can have a running dialog.

Here, here and here is what some other people have written on this subject. Go read those first. I’ll wait.

Now, my take.

1. THINK about who is reading your blog.

IF you are part of a community and you want to STAY in it. The Infertility Blogosphere IS a community, and even though I have lots of readers these days that are not infertile, I am still a part of that community. Obviously, I can say whatever I want—it is my blog, after all—but I don’t have to be an asshole.

I have been burned for this one. Back when I was pregnant (ah, the good ol’ days) I lamented the fact that I was having twin boys and would never get to have the little girl I’d always dreamed of. There were lots of people who understood how I felt, but because this is an infertility blog, there were a couple of folks having really bad days (like my Black Day yesterday) that were deeply hurt. While I was telling my own truth, I could have framed it in a way that might have hurt others less. I’ve also made a couple of stupid plunders—like the day I named specific names of other bloggers who’d been through similar situations to my pregnancy but ended up with children (and lamenting the fact that they got off “easier” than I did—nice, huh?). Not a good idea; I ended up losing a friend and mentor.

So while I do believe it’s important to be honest—and I am, usually, deeply honest here—it’s also important to not be an asshat. It’s kind of like when you broke up with the guy with the small penis and told him it was really about you not being ready to be in a relationship. He didn’t have to know that you meant you weren’t ready to be in a relationship with his tiny penis. You know?

2. Do NOT think about people reading your blog.

Ha! I’m confusing you, aren’t I? Don’t think about the fact that people who are reading you may not agree with you. Don’t try to mold your opinions to please everyone. It’s not possible. Again, you can sensitive, but you should be truthful.

3. Links

Now, I’ve never asked anyone if I can link to their blog but according to a couple of those other write ups, I should, especially if it’s a small blog. My feelings are that if you link to your blog in my comment section I can link to your blog in the text body. Otherwise, I think linking is pretty fair game.

Where I get confused is on the difference between trackbacks and links. I like when people do trackbacks, because then I’m notified that you’ve linked to me, yet I have never done one (because I haven’t, um, figured out how…).

I do know that you should NEVER import images from another site into your blog, but you can link to those images at will. A subtle but important difference.

Linking to news articles, etc, is never an issue. I’m sure they are happy for the traffic.

4. Comments

Ah, commenting. Is there any area in Blogland that is more fraught with etiquette issues?
I don’t think so. Again, this is just MY opinion.

Since I have a public blog, and I accept comments, I feel it is absolutely imperative that I accept a few basic truths:

-People will disagree with me. Vehemently.

-People can be assholes and will randomly post comments like “you are a stupid fat bitch and I canT believe anyoneever reads you blogg”

-People will read this blog and never, ever post a comment.

I rarely edit or delete comments. I do edit out my city’s name if someone posts it, because I like to pretend that I have a teeny shred of anonymity and you all don’t know exactly where I live. I also delete the “fat pig” comments that are random and have nothing to do with anything. And one time I deleted comments from another blogger because she was responding to something I’d since edited out of an entry and I wanted to prevent a full-out war.

But I’ve left all of the comments my trolls have posted. I might block them from posting, but I’ve left the original comments up. Mostly because the truly awful ones have been related to issues surrounding abortion and choice and I think it’s critical that we have a glimpse into the brains of a militantly anti-choice person—even if that person is calling me a murderer and telling me my sons died for no reason and could have survived if I’d delivered them.

But people that post thoughtful responses disagreeing with me are deeply, deeply valuable to me. I can’t believe the number of friendships that have developed between me and people I vehemently disagree with because we just took a moment to LISTEN to each other. Discussion is always useful.

What isn’t useful is people leaping to my defense against those that disagree with me and make it personal. Reputing what they say is fine, but calling them ‘stupid’ or ‘bitch’ isn’t really helpful. I prefer we play nice.

Leaping to my defense against the truly evil trolls is appreciated, however.

As far as reading and not commenting goes; that’s an interesting question. Someone (I can’t remember who said this and I’m sorry for not linking to you) recently said that reading a blog and not commenting is like going to someone’s house for dinner and eating the meal but refusing conversation. While I love getting comments, I don’t feel that strongly about it; I do believe it’s ok if you would prefer to just read, but I wonder who you are. I’m thrilled at every “de-lurker.”

I think a lot of people view reading blogs like they do reading magazines; it’s not a conversation, it’s entertainment or information. I understand. I know that I’ve recently made a concerted effort to get back in the habit of commenting on the blogs I read (I got out of the habit because of Bloglines). I won’t comment on every entry—often there are already lots of folks who’ve said what I was going to say—but I do try to comment once in a while.

Lastly, some people may not like them, but I love comments that simply say, “I’m thinking of you!” or “I agree!” Really. I absolutely LOVED how many people came out and admitted to liking Ayn Rand’s work; I really thought I was alone on that one. All slaps on the back are appreciated, hell, craved.

5. More About Comments

I like to privately email responses to my commenters. I know not everyone does it, and I don’t expect them to (although I’m secretly thrilled when someone like Grrl or Julie emails me back). Other people prefer to respond right in the comment section, which I almost never do (unless I’m trying to clarify something or asking people to play nice).

Which do you prefer? I know that when I see a blogger responding in her comment section I feel better knowing that she’s reading all the comments (anyone who says they don’t read all their comments is so totally lying—we are absolute gluttons for attention, us bloggers), but if she doesn’t respond to MY comment, I feel oddly neglected (yeah, I’m crazy like that). Hence my choice to email everyone back so that you KNOW I read what you wrote.

Interested to hear what you all think.

6. Blogrolling

Honestly, I am CLUELESS on this subject. I don’t have every blog I read regularly blogrolled, and I know my blogroll is out of date. I linked to Julie’s blog to cover all the infertiles, but there are lots of others that I read.

I don’t really pay attention to who links to me, although I enjoy it when I see a referral from a blogger I’ve never heard of before.

So tell me what you all think about this one, cause I suck at the whole blogroll thing.

7. Open Mind, Open Heart

I think the thing I’ve learned the most is to just keep my heart and mind open to new ideas. Just the other day I was emailing back and forth with a commenter who calls herself a fundamentalist Christian about Madeline L’Engels books; I assumed, incorrectly, that Ms. L’Engles open acceptance of evolution would make that book off limits. Not only was I wrong about that, she’s a Harry Potter fan too. So not ALL people who call themselves “fundamentalist Christians” are whack jobs! Who knew?

Once again, a commenter forces me to look at my strongly held opinions and re-evaluate them. I absolutely LOVE this.

I think that’s about all I have to say on the subject; I imagine you will have loads more to add and I’m counting on you all to cover all the stuff I missed.

I’ll leave you with this very funny link about “Blog Depression” (via Dawn).

Black Day

I just finished a book called The Curious Incident of The Dog In The Night-Time by Mark Haddon (see, Sarah, it took me two days to read it, not one!). It’s a marvelous little book written from the perspective of a boy with Asperger’s Syndrome. One of the symptoms of his disease is to see patterns in everything in order to make sense of chaos, and one of the ways he does this is to count cars and their colors on his way to school each day. If he sees three red cars in a row, it’s a Super Good Day and he is very happy. If he sees a lot of yellow or black cars it becomes a Black Day and he doesn’t speak to anyone or eat anything all day and he Takes No Risks.

Today is a Super Black Day for me. Not because of cars, but because of hormones. My period arrived yet again, and although I had absolutely NO expectation that it wouldn’t, it still sucks ass and makes me angry and sad. Even though I’m also a little relieved because then I won’t be bleeding next week on vacation and there is little that sucks as much as having your period while CAMPING—which I’ve done twice this summer already.

I didn’t realize that it was a Super Black Day until my dear friend Jo arrived at work with her two children. When she asked me to hold her baby while she ran to the bathroom, I lost it and said no. She, of course, was very sweet and understanding and didn’t get mad, just went to the bathroom with the baby while I watched her older son. When she was done she came back and gave me a big hug and told me she loved me and only wanted good things for me, which made me feel like the biggest bitch in the universe.

Truth is, I’ve been feeling pretty rotten and really missing the boys these last couple of weeks—since the last time I held her baby (sorry, Jo!). And I’m sick of it.

I’m sick of the grief. I’m sick and tired of gazing helplessly at every baby I see. I hate feeling this way. I can’t believe that still, ten months later, I felt like if I held that baby today I would have to kill myself*.

I’m tired of writing this entry. I’ve written some 50 versions of this same entry and I’m bored stiff, and I imagine you all are too.

Gah.

Ah well. The mighty period is here, so this way of hormonal psychosis and misery will pass in the next day or two. Thank fucking God.

I promise to be cheerful soon. Really.

*I’m not going to kill myself. It was a fleeting feeling. Don’t send me any more numbers for suicide prevention. Really, I’m fine. You know, in a way.