Category Archives: Writing? Really.

no. 255 – Wrap It Up, I’ll Take It

I was asked some questions (better late than never?)(and you see how some questions can turn me into an instant basket case in post no. 252) that I haven’t answered. I’ll see if I can make this brief (shut up, I can, too…)

Well Heeled Mom asked me if we’ve sold our house.

No, we haven’t. Barely a nibble since the rude drop-in the day (the hour) I put the sign in the yard. A realtor is working with us to see if our siding is still under warranty. It’s really faded and it might help with some additional curb appeal. The market here is completely saturated.

B asked why no pictures of me.

Because I am a horrible, disfigured troll of a woman. Gnarly is not surfer-talk in describing me. I’ve been thinking about a blog post that will be titled, "Me, Myself and Acne Vulgaris".

No one asked about August, but I thought I’d give you an update.

She is living very happily with my in-laws. Can you believe it?! Now X can go see her whenever he wants and she is happy because there is someone home almost all of the time. Mr. DD’s mother took her on a trial basis and they fell in love with her shy yet affectionate manner. Unlike their evil and spiteful Ma*ine C*oone who will bite my MIL on the hands while she is sleeping on the couch. Evil, I tell you.

Queen Mama wanted to know more about my stint with ballroom dancing and what it felt like when the dancing was good.

If I could, I would become a student at a studio tomorrow and continue dancing. It was the best job I ever had, bar none. And it wasn’t the "job" part that I cared for. It was the dancing. I was sub-par at best in the talent department, but we could go out to any nightclub and clear the floor with just basic steps. I love having a skill so few people have, but should. I loved the attention and I am disappointed beyond words that Mr. DD has no natural rhythm. If any of you live in a city where they offer ballroom dances lessons, go take some. Even if it’s without your significant other.

And finally, DinoD asked me the thought-provoking question: What 3 words make me, me?

I am struggling with this big time. I think of 3 things and I cross through them because it sounds like an interview answer. I think of 3 more things and it sounds like a horoscope entry. And then I think of 3 more and they sound like a on-line dating profile.

So I am stumped. The only thing I could come up with were 3 things I wish I could say:

Trust. Contentment. Strength.

no. 252 – On The Surface

Alexa asked me how do I find time keep up on blogging and posting. I’ll address the posting.

It’s because I’m only posting from the surface. That’s the short answer. Now for the long…

I have days (and nights) when my head swirls around one thought. I know that it can take hours, if not days to take what’s there and put it here. It’s much easier to write something in 15-30 minutes about poop or post a picture and give myself the immediate satisfaction of having a new post up.

This pushes those ideas deeper and deeper until I sometimes forget what they ever were. They are not only beaten back by the trivial, pointless thoughts, but just day to day things that go on. I have a full-time job that on days makes me want to run screaming from the building; I come home to find Mr DD watching TV and X eating "snacks" while a pile of dirty dishes sits in the sink and a pile of his work clothes stink up the laundry room. I don’t have time for "Deep Thoughts", much less the publishing of such.

Today, I did. I was home nursing a nasty SI. I slept till noon. I had the day to myself. Tonite, Mr DD and X went with my in-laws to eat. I stayed home. I started this post. First it was going to be more fluff. More surface. But one of the thoughts that occurred to me today wouldn’t let itself get beaten into submission. It was about Vivienne. Sure I think about her everyday, but recently with a few pregnant bloggers reaching that 12 wk "milestone", I obsess about that final week with her.

It’s so hard not to comment when someone says, "whew! made it to 12 weeks! free and clear from here!" because I was 15 weeks. Sure, she probably died somewhere between 13-14 weeks, but what’s the difference? I want to know why they think that 12 weeks is now safe? I wrongly want them to have a scare.

I knew a lot of people around me thought my miscarriage was a loss of a fetus or tissue. Why? Because that’s how I thought of a miscarriage before my own. I lost a baby. A child. And I have these morbid thoughts of her last moments inside of me. Did she suffer, kicking, turning and fighting for her life? Or did she die in her sleep when that one crappy chromosome defect just *popped*, in just that brief moment of time? I wonder why she made it that far. And if she had made it that far, why didn’t I just get that opportunity to feel her inside of me so I could do more than just imagine how she might have been.

I found this picture of X the other day. He looks like a little girl here because his hair is longer. It was taken 2 days before I found out Vivienne was gone. She was more than likely already dead. And I stare at this picture because I know that’s how she would have looked.

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I should be combing the tangles out of her fine hair, so much like mine. I should be wiping the tears from eyes, so much like her father’s. I shouldn’t be here. And I swallow down the pain that threatens to choke me and I write about the good things because they are right there, on the surface. It takes too long and it hurts too much for me to dig under all that to find what will always be there. I don’t feel like dusting it off every day to make it presentable and palpable to you, even though I thinks it helps to do so. It helps me. It can help others.

So, here I am. Foregoing supper and a drink so I can finish these thoughts before X and Mr. DD get home so you might be able to understand that my proliferation has nothing to do with anything but trying to blot out and push back the deeper, darker thoughts I have. Because quite frankly, most days I’d rather not be here at all.

no. 249 – It’s Been One of Those Years

Check it. It’s been one full year since my very first post. Warn me never to go back and read any of my posts. I found myself rolling my eyes at least once to each published load-o-crap and then I started getting a headache and stopped reading altogether.

How do you people do it?!

What I find ironic about where I am today compared to where I was a year ago, I was a little further ahead then. I was just coming to the end of my first IUI cycle and the only thoughts going through my head were the calculations of my next possible due date. I don’t even bother anymore. I’ve learned that even a pregnancy won’t get me a due date (even though I’m sneaking up on another one in about 3 more weeks – from the first IVF).  But since we stopped with ART, I have shut off that part of my brain. It didn’t work very well anyway.

I tried to come up with something really impressive to commemorate this One Year of Blogging, including a video/audio post; or a post that once and for all pours out the gut-wrenching pain of this past year; or something so hysterically funny that I would trump even Alexa or Julie’s brilliant writing. But alas, I’m inept in all those fields: my digital camera, which is supposed to record video with audio isn’t recording audio. Never noticed it before because we’ve never used it. Stupid camera. The pain of the past year just can’t be summed up in one post. You know the fable where the crow puts stones into a jar in order for the water to reach the top? Each day is a stone and my pain is the water. ‘Nuff said. As far as "hysterically funny"? Pu-leaze. The best I had was used up in the recent Poopie-post and something about wearing my underwear inside out.  Alexa has gauchos and a wedding to plan. Julie has Charlie. If you want unfuckingbelievable funny, try this dude (he’s my new boyfriend, he just doesn’t know it yet).

So I think I will do to you what I do to Mr. DD on our anniversaries (no, not that, you sickos!) and ask you what do you want for our anniversary (and, no, not that, either!). Depending on what you want, I will either respond in comments or in a separate post. It can be a question that’s been burning in your mind – because if it was burning in your nethers, well, you might want to go see a doctor. HAHAHa ha ha(?).  *ahem* – or share one of your favorite memories from here; or…well I guess I don’t know what else you could do since you are virtual people in a virtual world. You’re a smart group, you’ll figure something out.

no. 243 – I am a Maroon

I read Thalia’s post on antenatal blogging and the tendency not to. I pondered the issue and offered what I thought was a well-composed comment. Then I thought I would like to hitchhike off that post and take advantage of the dreams I have had every night for the past week about being pregnant and how I would not only continue blogging if I became pregnant, but I would surely post about it in such a manner that you would find yourselves either flinging your glass of wine at the computer screen or seek out a specialist in hexes. My capability to annoy would be at it’s peak.

It was while I was driving to work that I was letting the ideas sift through the crevices of my brain, and then I realized with a thunderbolt of clarity that I am, indeed, a Maroon. Actually, a Moron for those of you with more than a GED. You see, I consider myself not to be of average intelligence. Instead, I am waa-aa-y below that limbo pole of average. Because in my well-thought out and brow-furrowing comment that I left Thalia, I talked about having rapport.

What…you don’t see where I was talking about RAPPORT?

That’s because I wrote REPOIRE!

Gah! Nothing says backwoods, country bumpkin when an adult has that kind of spelling ability. I even checked the dictionary to see if repoire was actually a word… and it’s not, unless you count this dufus who did the the same thing.

I would like to officially blame Nebraska for my language degradation. Things are not pronounced the same here. We don’t have a drawl like some of you Southern folk, but just a rather slow and lazy way of talking, which has a way of messing with the supposed perfection of phonics. Mr. DD thinks his 8 years in Boston gives him oneupmanship when it comes to pointing out particular words that come out of my mouth (like he has room to talk!!) (and let’s not forget that those 8 years were the first 8 years of his life so they really don’t count). He finds a particular kind of glee emphasizing how I say "didn’t". Except I don’t say "didn’t". I say "dint". One syllable, people.

Woulda, Shoulda and Coulda frequently pepper my vocabulary, also. As well as wa’nt (wasn’t), int (isn’t) and might’ve. And then there’s the times (x100) that I say, "Ya betcha" instead of "You’re welcome." …What the fuck? …Ya betcha?

See? It’s another advantage to blogging. Or is it a disadvantage? When you read this, do you imagine the voice of the person behind the words? Or do you read it the way you speak? TB once did an audio post and I was surprised to hear that she has a very melodic and throaty voice. If you’ve seen her, you might imagine her voice to be higher pitched, like tinkling wine glasses. For me I would never do an audio post, at least not without the disclaimer to put Fido outside before you could play the track lest I damage his hearing forever. My voice is "nasaly" (a.k.a. whiny) and I cringe whenever I hear it recorded. My laugh is straight out of Wizard of Oz, and no, I’m not talking about Glenda the Good Witch…the other witch.

Can I keep blaming Nebraska for the tonal quality of my voice or the bizarre cackle of a laugh I have? Maybe not, but I think it’s a hellava place to start. But I promise you this: I will never spell Rapport Repoire again!