Category Archives: Idon’tknowwhattocallit Category

no. 233 – Brain Dump Version 6.2

Yahoo: I think it’s a great idea for you to show me that I have new mail via the toolbar. However, nothing pisses me off more than to see for the past 30 minutes that I have two new emails, only to find there are none each time I click on it. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me six times, shame on my desperate need for attention.

I have actually found my underwear on inside out on more than one occasion. The first time, I left it. The second time, I changed it. I just wanted to know if it was worth the ease of mind. It wasn’t.

This morning when I was putting on my bra, it was on inside out as well. I realized this when I had no clue which row of hooks to use because everything was backwards. My left-hand definitely does not know what the right is doing.

Mr. DD has worn his underwear twice. Somehow it is my fault that he has no clean underwear since the ability to read minds has not been perfected among married couples. God forbid he happen to mention it to me when he pulls the last pair (why "pair"? is there "two" of something I don’t know of?) out of the drawer. He refuses to go commando…because a pair of sweaty, dirty underwear is for some reason preferable. *shudder*

I called SCSA for the home kit. It should be here tomorrow. From the pictures, it looks a lot like an ice-cream machine. Let’s hope the frozen cylinder that comes with the kit does not get mixed up with my own ice-cream machine’s cylinder since everything is in mass turmoil at our house due to the move. If it hadn’t been for our Mambo with ART, I think we would have let the lab handle the sample. Now, we not only are going to do this from home, but I have purchased a brand new turkey-baster and copper tubing for at home IUIs. I’ll be sending out invitations soon that will look a lot like these (scroll down on the link; it’s worth the pop-ups).

Also, I found this over at Joie’s. If for no other reason, you should take the survey just to get your creative-post juices flowing.

Dr. Cynthia Bane, a faculty member at Wartburg College in Waverly, Iowa, is conducting a study to examine women’s weblogs and women’s online and “real life” same-sex friendships. The study consists of a survey that takes 30-40 minutes to complete. In addition, if you choose to participate, the researchers will examine entries from your weblog to analyze how frequently you post entries, how many comments you receive, and the topics you discuss in your weblog. All of your survey responses and the results of our content analysis of your weblog will be confidential. Even if you do not regularly post entries on your blog, the researchers welcome you to participate; they are interested in the opinions of a variety of bloggers. If you choose to participate, you will be entered in a drawing for one of five $20.00 Amazon.com gift certificates.
If you are interested in finding out more about the study, please direct your web browser to the link below:
That is all for today.

No. 232 – W.W.J.D.

After one of your bathroom breaks while at work, you notice your panties/skivvies/underwear/bloomers are on inside out. Do you bother getting naked from the waist down to change them or not?

By the way, I don’t think Jesus would have an answer. I’m pretty sure he was a commando-kind-of-guy. That’s why I’m asking you. Maybe this post should be titled W.W.B.D.

No. 217 – Lassie, Go Home

I have news. It’s incredible news! But first, an insight to how I view crazy dog owners (or is it dogged crazy owners?), so don’t scroll to the end and ruin the surprise…I’ll give you a hint: it’s something I’ve been waiting and hoping for for so long, and NO, you can’t skip to the bottom.

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Sunday I went to the Metro with my sister to the Arts Festival. Basically, artists who set up a sampling of their work to sell along several blocks downtown. That means throngs of people. I hate throngs. I haven’t been to a concert in years because I despise strangers bumping into me. It wouldn’t be so bad if the rude bastards would at least say, "sorry" or "pardon me", but noooo-ooo-oo. Too high to even notice they’ve elbowed me in the kidney .

Apparently, the same type of people go to art/craft functions as well.

And they bring walkers, strollers, wheelchairs, walking sticks, cigarettes, min-shopping carts and dogs.

It’s the Dogs that make me craziest.

I have nothing against dogs, per se, even though I would have to admit my personality lends itself to being a cat person: low maintenance (read: don’t have to go outside to exercises them) and "introverted". It’s just that the only place I prefer to run into someone’s dog is their home…or a dog park, which I would never go (my poop-avoidance ability is honed towards to the bovine species. Helloo-o! I grew up on a Nebraska farm!).

I have to say for the time we were there, I got tripped up by more dog leashes then strollers and had more noses aimed at my nethers than I did in the six months of infertility treatments. Honestly. It was ridiculous. I would be standing in one booth and someone’s little troll of a dog would walk under from the next booth to sniff at my toes. If there hadn’t been someone to notice, I seriously thought about giving the dog a poke in the face with my pink-painted toe. I was even more disgusted to see people carrying around their "accessory" dogs, whether in their arms, purses or doggy bjorns. That just confirms that these people aren’t taking their dogs out to exercises or giving them a little tutorial on art appreciation and the varieties of mediums but to "show them off."

However, I started to feel a little left out as the day progressed. I wanted a fancy, sparkly leash. I wanted to carry around a diaper bag filled with doggy treats, a water bowl and wash cloth (oh, yeah, I saw that). But there’s still that part of me that doesn’t want to conform. So my sister suggested that if I was going to get a dog, I should get me A DOG: an English Mastiff, for example. My Mastiff would serve several purposes: it would garner incredible attention; it could carry my purse and packages (and even me) when I got tired; and best of all, I would train it to snap up accessory dogs as snacks. And that little fuzzy bastard in the doggy bjorn? That would be a to-go meal.

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The big news, you ask? Am I pregnant? No, no. But be honest, how many of you thought that immediately? How many of you are actually relieved I’m not? I know how much it kind of sucks to find out someone else is pregnant, so I won’t take it personally.

Anyway…we have a well! With water! With clean water! We are moving in to our new house, kids, and it’s about fucking time.

No. 208 – Walkies, Revisited **And Updated!**

Who remembers this post? I’m linking to the one in my old site because I want you to read the comments. Yes, read it. Now. The rest of this post won’t make any sense unless you do.

In the past few weeks I’ve noticed from my Knocked Up stats includes several links from Wikipedia. Why the heck would Wikipedia ever link to me? So I back-tracked and found where it was coming from. It was this entry from Wikipedia.

At the bottom of the entry is the External Links. See the "Walkies – An argument against the use of harness."

What the fuck is that about?

If you didn’t read the post I told you to read at the beginning, now would be a good time to do that (right click the links and open in new window).

How did my post discussing my personal one-time observation of someone using a child harness become an "argument against the use" of said item? Especially since I quite clearly stated how in my sister’s case, it ended up being a necessity. Suddenly my opinion became an argument, subject to debate…then again, don’t most arguments start as opinions?

Most of all, it bugs me that someone edited Wikipedia to externally link that post. Could it have been the person who runs this site since I linked there to give you all a visual? But was that a responsible thing to do regardless of who did? My post was not a discussion of merits or a debate. It was based on an outing with my own son who quite frankly would be better off to be hobbled (careful Wikipedia…this is not an argument for hobbles!) than harnessed.

Who knew that someone would use my sharp, analytical mind and natural ability to debate against me! Oh, the horror!

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Of course I was going to delete my link (which is now done). However, it would’ve been kind of defeated the purpose of getting to do a whole post about it if I had deleted it BEFORE you could see it.

Sheesh.

No. 205 – Friends

I’ve been thinking a lot about the email I received from my friend. I haven’t responded to her not-so-subtle question yet, and I don’t think I would feel comfortable with NOT responding to it. The type of response that makes me feel the least uncomfortable is the straightforward approach sans emotion. Basically it will be a bullet point summary of what Mr. DD and I have been through since last summer. I will not address the question about my blog. I agree with many of you who said if she had been really interested, she would’ve googled it or found it by other means probably rather easily. Plus, since I’ve been more concerned now with anonymity, I don’t want her coming here.

What I ended up thinking about most was what made us friends in the first place. We met when we were working at the same place. For a few months we even lived together when Mr. DD and I were working out what our future held for us just shortly before he proposed. When I got married, she was a bridesmaid; I was her maid of honor. Our first babies were born within six weeks of each other. So what happened? I really don’t know anymore. Distance has played a great part of it. Different goals and how we achieved them probably played another.

What I do know is that I had just as much part in not fostering the friendship as she did. I could’ve called; I could’ve made some extra trips; I could’ve sent more emails. I felt justification that for the few attempts I made, she did the same. When I try to relieve some of the guilt I have by saying I don’t like talking on the phone, I counter with how much I have enjoyed phone conversations with some of you. I say I don’t like to write out emails that are lengthy and detailed: I write in my blog nearly every other day. I don’t like making long trips in the car by myself, I then remember dozens of car trips to The Metro for our treatments.

Obviously, whatever the reason we are no longer close has little to do with what we have done, but what we haven’t done.

No. 200 – Bicenblogentennial

Woohoo! 200 posts! I’m so excited…

…then again, not so much.

Ah, who am I kidding?Yes, of course I’m excited to be here! I love the community. I love the sharing and dissemination of equal parts information, support, and snark.

And to celebrate this Momentous Occasion, I’m not going to talk about moi. I want to know about you. We’re going to do something like a meme, but it’ll be a youyou instead. All you have to do is answer the following THREE questions ("Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three.") and…that’s it! Easy? You bet. Fun? Could be. Sugar Free? Of course.

1) What is your name/nickname/alias/handle and the meaning behind any nickname/alias/handle?

2) What city and/or state and/or territory and/or country are you currently residing?

3) What link/search/desperate act brought you to my blog?

There should be no internalization or excuses as to why YOU should not participate. You do not have to be a blogger. You do not have to be going through whatever it is I’m going through at the present moment. And you don’t even have to worry about sentence structure, spelling, or grammar. I mean, shit, I don’t, why should you?

I Am The Best Liar, EVER!

So, that’s all you’ve learned about me from 6 months of blogging? I’m a myopic, horny lush? Oh, ladies, how you wound me! But, before I get to that, I will mention that even though you think so “highly” of me, I would still split out the powerball winnings with my best be-otches: IVFs all ’round, bartender (to those who want but can’t afford, and to the rest, we’ll work out something)! Alas, it was not us who purchased the winning ticket(s), not for lack of forking out a couple of bucks over the past week, but just because we could never be that lucky.

Recap of Liar, Liar is as follows: 1. Barfing Blue-Berry; 2. Myopic, Horny Lush (I can’t believe you went there!); 3. Cheapo Margo; 4. Private Dancer; and 5. Wee, Wee, Wee All the Way Home. Only one of you “guessed” correctly at the truth, and that was the lovely Suzanne, and that was ONLY because she knew! She slyly came in as the no. 10 commenter with her cleverly disguised guess. Indeed, I was a professional ballroom dancer and instructor.

During my sophomore year at the infamous Nebraska university, I became a disillusioned artist: the classes were too big and the teachers really didn’t give a shit if you passed or failed. I flunked out the first semester and decided to find a job instead of going back to school. I was barely 19, but was able to BS my way into a job at a franchised dance studio and was trained in the basics. In the following 4 years (in which I spent more time in 3 1/2″ heels than a Vegas cross-dressing hooker – standing on my feet – going backwards), I had moved through the ranks as an instructor for beginners to advanced. I was a supervisor in a couple different studios within the midwest and had the opportunity to compete professionally and in the pro-am (teacher-student) levels. Ironically, the main goal of the studios – for those of you who have never taken lessons – is sales in dance lessons. BIG sales. I had one student who purchased a package that not only included several hundred hours of lessons, but a competition package to Florida. He plunked down $37,000 that day. No shit. I will never forget that student. He had a dour-face, but he was the sweetest man I have ever had the privelage to meet.

In the above pix, I am the one in the pink dress with some of the other instructors and students. The one below is from a regional pro-am and am leading a student through one of our routines.

At 23, I decided that I was not getting any younger (bwahahahahaha!) and decided that being a ballroom instructor was never part of my retirement plan – actually who makes a retirement plan in their 20’s? I quit, became a boomerang baby and moved back to Small Town, Nebraska and completed my degree closer to home.

I did entertain for quite a while the possibility of opening my own dance studio here, and was even pursued by an established jazz/ballet studio to provide lessons. The disadvantages were too many: no skilled – or even closely willing – dance partner (Mr. DD who has an excellent ear for music, does NOT have any rhythm) and certainly no time to train a partner; no extra funds; and at the time only a half-dozen or so interested couples.

Almost 20 years later, I still watch the USBC (United States Ballroom Championships) on the public TV channel and I look for familiar faces. Obviously no one I use to know is still competing professionally, but I see them as judges occassionally.

D&ncing with the St&rs? I hate it, but watch it because I like to point out the mistakes to Mr. DD who believes only a coke-head with AADD could move as “fast” as they do with the Cha-cha. I poo-poo it all. “Make them perform Mambo or Vienese Waltz!” is what I say to that noise because those rhythms are more difficult. Really though, I think I watch because I miss it. Every now and then a song comes on the radio and it has the perfect beat for a Rumba, Cha-cha, Foxtrot, etc., and I dance to the song in my head reciting “ticka-ticka”, which was how we verbalized the hip-action; or “quick-quick-slo-ow” to remind myself of the timing of a Foxtrot.

Someday, if I ever do win the lottery, I have already decided I would like to become one of those students that any ballroom instructor only dreams about: one with LOTS of money and a little bit of ticka-ticka to make me dangerous.

I also think I’ve learned something about this particular meme. There are times when you just have to believe in what may seem unbelievable. I will try to keep that in my head (and heart) over the next couple of months.