wellbehavedMy mom is always clipping articles out of the home-town paper to give me that feature one of my former 40 high-school classmates. At first it was engagement and wedding announcements, which I took as a passive-aggressive reminder of my own “spinsterhood” since I was a month shy of turning 30 when I got married. Aside from a couple of other classmates, who were either gay or a few cards shy of a full deck, I’m sure I was one of the last to submit an engagement picture to the editor of the paper who may or may not have doubled as the fire chief, the motel manager and bar owner. The type of newspaper who could take the highest quality photograph and make it look like a wanted picture from 1885.

From there, the articles she would clip would be the assorted birth announcements (many before I even graduated from college), travels “abroad” – you know – to Kansas, and even the tiny postage size blip that was published weekly of persons hospitalized back before HIPAA took away that spot of joy from every retiree who ever subscribed to the paper solely to snoop in on their neighbor’s colon issues via the printed word.

Twenty-five years later, she still shows up with clippings and I’m wondering if she’s rubbing my face in the accomplishments of my lame-o classmates or if she’s under the impression – a highly mistaken one – that I give a rat’s ass what any one of them are doing (unless of course it’s being booked for indecent exposure).

The most recent was an article featuring one of my classmates that I hung out with quite a bit before I suddenly dropped off the face of the earth and never heard from again once I realized that ohmygodI’vebeenlivinginavacuum! and that people really did do something with their spare time other than park on a low-maintenance road and indulge in keggers until the county sheriff came by to drop off his daughter break things up.

My “friend” had been awarded Nebraska’s Young MOY (Mother of the Year, don’t you know?) according to the blurb under the picture of her, her husband and five children. Good for her *yawn*. The article sat on the counter for a couple of days and one morning I read the full article as I had actually put away the cereal box,  effectively leaving me with nothing to read.

It was a blah article, to say the least, but by the time I read through it, I found myself annoyed deeply. Why? Because the article listed the requirements necessary to be nominated for MOY of this organization, with this one standing out in particular:

  • Has been married to her husband, a man, in a legal ceremony.
  • Of course! Why, you can’t be a good mother if you’re a single parent or have a husband (do they come in any other form than “man”??) through common law, don’t you know?! And heaven forbid ~whisper~ a lesbian might be a mother, much less one that is an excellent mother! No awards for you since only women in hetero relationships qualify as good mothers (that should bring some interesting google hits).

    My mother’s innocent attempt to keep me somehow connected to people I haven’t talked to in two decades only reminds me of why I cannot maintain contact with those who won’t see beyond their white-picket fence lifestyles. I can’t even imagine how they might react if their moms clipped an article about me if I was ever outed as a blogger, an infertility blogger, a donor-egg-recipient, infertility blogger! I can see their June Cleaver aprons curling up in horror now.


    I couldn’t figure out how the National Infertility Awareness Week slip by me or how come I didn’t ever recall it being this close to Mother’s Day when that was the due date of my first miscarriage back in 2004….

    Oh. They moved it. That was nice of them to tell me. So it’ll be a couple weeks of emotional schizophrenia. Thanks.

    So, this is my post dedicated to NIAW. First review this post and come back to the picture below as I’m not sharing it with you to impress you with my obvious housekeeping skills. You’ll have to come up with your own poetic waxing as I’m too mentally fried to do so.



    The male residents of my home are both out of commission. Some call it the ‘flu, but because that’s completely erroneous. I call it gastroenteritis.

    I’m touchy about it right now because 1) I am fucking exhausted. Up several hours last night holding my son’s head out of bucket and trying to remain caring and strong while freaking out that he was going to puke on the carpet; 2) I mentioned it to my family and I should have known better as soon as the words were out of my mouth as my Dad immediately concluded they both have the swine flu; and finally 3) my hands are so raw from repeated handwashing that I described them in a tweet as feeling as if I could feel each hair follicle pulse from the tightness.

    With all the world-wide hype going on, you’d THINK that they would make sure to report that the swine flu does NOT bring on vomiting and diarrhea. Influenza – aka The Flu – is an upper respiratory ailment. Are you hacking up a lung? Are you having difficulty breathing? Are you so congested that when you blow your nose snot comes out of your eyes? Then you probably have the flu, NOT a GI – congratulations.

    Are we clear? Good.

    You know I’m next, right? And poor ZGirl…it’ll take a miracle for her not to get it as well and since it’s not the 24 hour variety (the gastroenteritis), I see a hospital visit in my near future.


    Occasionally I do get hit up for reviews and ads on my blog from outside sources. Today I got one from Wellsphere.

    A very flattering, yet strangely canned, email from Dr. Geoff Rutledge on how they wanted my blog content to be part of their HealthBlogger Network at I’m naturally dubious of these requests but this one immediately made me go “huh??” when I read this in the first paragraph:

    We carefully reviewed your blog, and based on the high quality of your writing, the frequency of your posts, and your passion for helping others, we think you would be a great addition to the Network.



    I did check out the website (dull) and from there I googled, “what’s up with wellsphere” and that brought me an article titled, “How the Blogosphere was Scammed.” That doesn’t bode well, does it?

    I can only guess that some of you would have received the same email since scammers hunt in packs. If you did, my advice to you is to think twice about it and make sure you read the article about scams. My posts may be shit, but they are MY shit.


    I don’t exercise. I have a million excuses why including problems with shin splints, asthma, time, space, equipment, aversion to sweat, etc. The last time I routinely worked out was between 1987-1991 when I was teaching ballroom dancing for a living. Since then, I’ve been coasting by on my father’s skinny genes to keep me in the single-digit sizes.

    I’m not sharing this to brag, so stay with me.

    This weekend, even though the weather was shit, I bought some plants for my containers and dragged what seemed like a hundred clay pots and containers from my garage, and set about adding some color to my porch.

    tippingOne of the projects I took on was my tipping flower pots that I plant wave petunias in. It looks similar to this (here’s the link in case you want to do your own. I can’t vouch for their method of installing the center rod as mine is a couple welded plates, so more permanent and stable).

    Back to my point since I’m sure you’re wondering how this project and my lack of physical activity have anything to do with the other.

    So there I was, adding my little petunia plants to the pots, working my way up from the bottom. I’m kneeling in front of the pots, transferring the plants and as I move upward, I have to go from sitting on my heels to full-on confessional type kneeling, and then back down again to retrieve the next plant. At the maximum, I only had to do this a dozen or so times. Mini-squats, if you will.

    Today? I’m feeling the burn, baby! No. Kidding. I think that has to qualify me as the wussiest woman on earth.

    What routine exercising do you do? Is it because you like to or because you feel like you have to? For those of you that like it, you’re weird.