Category Archives: Writing? Really.

no. 321 – ABCMeMe

[A is for age:] 39 (and holding indefinitely)

[B is for beer of choice:] anything that I can turn into a bloody mary beer (tj w/tobasco and pepper)

[C is for career:] analyst

[D is for favorite Drink] Colorado Bulldog (vodka, kalhua, cola and cream)

[E is for essential item you use everyday:] mascara/lip gloss and asthma medicine

[F is for favorite song at the moment:] I don’t know. I can never recall the names of songs or the artists so I probably have one, I just really don’t know the name.

[G is for favorite game:] I guess I’d have to say Trouble. It’s the only game I’ve played recently that my son can participate in. Pre-child, it was Trivia Pursuit, which my husband always kicked my ass on.

[H is for hometown:] Rand0lph

[I is for instruments you play:] Almost all reeded instruments and I taught myself how to play Silent Night on the accordion. I’m atrocious.

[J is for favorite juice:] orange, no pulp

[K is for kids?:] one son who is the light of my life

[L is for last kiss?:] unfortunately, it’s been over 16 hours ago…

[M is for marriage:] two proposals, one marriage going on 10 years

[N is for full name:] I would really love to answer this, but privacy prevails

[O is for overnight hospital stays:] concussion w/amnesia when I was around 12-13; tonsillectomy around 17; respiratory distress many years ago; c-section delivery in 2001

[P is for phobias:] heights which exclude me from any ferris wheels and roller coasters forever and ever

[Q is for quote:] my _____________ “up and vanished like a fart in the wind!” Usually uttered when I can’t find my keys…again! Quote from Warden Norton in Shawshank Redemption.

[R is for biggest regret:] that we ever started trying for child no. 2, because maybe we wouldn’t experience the sucktitude that is our lives now

[S is for sports:] I’m the least athletic person in the world! But I guess if they can host billiards on ESPN, I’ll go with that.

[T is for time you wake up:] physically – 7:00 a.m., mentally 9:30 a.m. or so

[U is for color underwear:] boring white cotton, full coverage

[V is for vegetable you love:] green beans

[W is for worst habit:] obsessive zit patrol

[X is for x-rays you’ve had:] head, jaw, ankle, uterus (HCG)

[Y is for yummy food you make:] chili

[Z is for zodiac sign:] Cancer. Oh yeah.. it’s all true.

No tags, you lucky ducks. However, for those of you who are rounding out the last third of NaBloMo and are desperate seeking post ideas…well, here you go!

no. 314 – Premature Blogulation

I am bored and dieing for a diversion. To help alleviate the situation, I’m constantly refreshing bloglines…well, actually they now are constantly refreshing themselves but not fast enough in my opinion.

So who could blame me when I see that they are x number of new items that I get so excited I nearly pass out…oh, never mind. The passing out is more than likely due to the 80 DEGREE TEMPERATURE both in and outside my office. Outside. As in Outdoor. At this point I should really be bitching about how cold it is outside, not how I’m 3 degrees away from stripping off my sweater!

I digress.

Now I have been known on occasion to press the publish button a little prematurely on a post, which sets me up for a "few" punctuation or spelling errors. Most of the time, I let them go. Sorry if they confuse or irritate you. I know you still love me (or at least make me feel no so much like the gunk on the bottom of one’s shoe).

So why then, do some of these bloggers (there’s actually only one that I read on a regular basis through bloglines) feel it is necessary to not only republish a post not just once, not twice, but sometimes four or five times because they go in a tweak a word here or there?

Premature Ejaculation has nothing on this person. Stop it. Slow down. Think about baseball. Read and reread. Put it into draft. Come back to it a half hour later. Then you can publish your post. And actually, I’m not enjoying the post very much the first time around. I don’t know why I subject myself to it again. It’s like Groundhog Day, blogging style.

This blogger doesn’t read here so if for some reason this sparks some paranoia in you, just brush it aside. It’s not YOU.

no. 301 – They Actually Expect Me To Work!

I’ve got a huge deadline coming due at the end of the month, so I thought I’d let you know that I haven’t suddenly seen the Face of the Godless Peestick (aka 2nd line) and packed up my stuff. I will also be entertaining a friend of mine who is visiting from the North at some point later this week, and unless I can convince her to start her own blog, I probably won’t be seeing much of Blogtopia during that time.

Thank you, EVERYONE, who shared happy thoughts. Trust me when I say that your excitement has helped buoy my lagging enthusiasm. I promise at least to update after the scan on Friday.

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CompgraveyardAlso, if you  hear crickets churping, it really is just crickets and not Cricket. Her computer has left this high-tech World to join the millions that have gone before.

no. 278 – Extinguisher

I won’t link to where I was flamed in comments. Frankly, I’m a little embarrassed by the hullabaloo. But today there was a follow-up post in response to the comments and now I’m just pissed. Pissed enough to unsubscribe with two clicks of my mouse. I don’t remember how I found the blog, but I found her frank humor refreshing. I had only commented once before the Flame, and she welcomed me warmly in the comments.

I don’t know quite how to explain what happened without potentially opening myself up to a flame-job from any of you, but I don’t want you all to stroke me either if you disagree. I’m going to try to make this simple: I think it’s sad that prayer is not allowed in school, but I support the amendment on the separation of church and state. Because I would support one’s  grievance if they felt they were being exposed to prayer in the public school, I would not expect you to assume I am a godless pagan or atheist. I have a tendency to stand up for the underdog and take the least popular side of an argument. It’s just the way I am.

I tried to compare how those people might feel who are strongly opposed to prayers in school to how I sometimes feel when I see an American flag.

OK. Go ahead now and gasp in total horror and disbelief. Now go ahead and assume I am not from the United States and that I am an unpatriotic bitch. Make sure to give the screen the "finger" in the hopes I will somehow see you; and tell me if I don’t like it here in the U.S. to "fucking leave!" because my kind isn’t welcome or needed.

Here’s the thing. I don’t need the flag in my school or my church to remind me to be patriotic. I’m not that simplistic. Patriotism is something I feel when I go down Main Street, Little Town and walk into any privately owned shop; it’s something I feel when I go a community pancake feed; it’s something I feel when I take my son to an activity at the YMCA. Just as I don’t need the crucifix to remind me of my Christianity, I don’t need the flag to remind me of my allegiance to this country.

I am instantly suspicious of anyone who emblazons their personal spaces with overt symbolism. To me they are nothing more than magicians with all the smoke and mirrors giving lip service to whatever it is that they are promoting. And when someone gets defensive, belligerent and down-right rude? Not only do I lose any respect, but my suspicions become justified.

If you don’t agree with something I have said or done, then just say so. Don’t call me names or tell me to fucking leave. And if you talk nice to me, I may even change my mind. Just ask Jenny over at Mama Drama. My opinions and beliefs are just that, mine. More importantly than being mine, they are flexible. But the harder you blow, the stiffer I become. And if those persons are stopping here today, sweet whispers will get you much further than harsh shouting.

no. 277 – Of Course I Couldn’t Stay Away…Who Was I Kidding?

I’m wrapping up what I think was a rather adreniline filled day:

  • I got flamed on another blog, which really is remarkable since normally steer myself away from all things political
  • I finally got to see what all the fuss was about on Grey’s Anatomy (remember? I missed the last episode?)
  • You know the saying "The Third Time is a Charm"? Well, Jennifer decided to take that idea to the Extreme x 3
  • Suzanne, who resisted the coy callings of the pee stick, received the kind of news that makes me insanely happy
  • Tomorrow morning I will be seen by my clinic for the first time in over four months for my baseline ultrasound and blood work

I’m now going to try to get some sleep so I can wake up early enough to shave away my five o’clock shadow.

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And now I’m pissed: I just found out that Tuesday Girl just lost her pregnancy.

no. 275 – I’m Tired

I’m tired of feeling like sally-sob-story. I’m tired of being angry and bitter. I’m tired of feeling angry, bitter and depressed. I’m tired of writing about feeling angry, bitter and depressed.

I’m tired of writing.

I think I have forgotten why I ever started a blog. It was to help me take what was pinging around in my skull and spew it forth into so many pixels. It took on the same complexity as herding grasshoppers. I know much of what I say couldn’t possibly make more sense than if you had the capabilities of climbing into my head, but at first it helped me, and that’s of course why I started blogging, and certainly most of why I made it this far.

But I’ve been noticing this shift that quite frankly, disgusts me; I’ve become self-absorbed in my blogging. Not necessarily in my posts (feel free to disagree) but more in what I’m gleaning from the blogging. Sure there’s the comments, which I can’t seem to get enough of. But I check my stats for numbers, searches, and referrals way too often. The other day I was distressed when I noticed that recently the number of my subscribers on bloglines dropped by two. I’ve taken it personally. Pathetic? Oh, hell yeah.

It’s been ages since I’ve provided any linky-love to my comrades, which I use to do without fail a year ago. And there’s so much linkylove to give!

I also feel like my blog is a constant “tap-tap” on my shoulder reminding me that I shouldn’t have happy days. And I do. Can you believe it? I’ve had more happy days lately than I’ve felt in a long time. I’ve allowed myself to go shopping this weekend and bought new clothes for me. Clothes that fit. Clothes that do not allow me one inch of forgiveness. I was asked yesterday if I was losing weight. It’s because what little clothes I had been buying for the past two years are the kind that I can wear during a first trimester and post-partum. I’m fucking sick of that!

I also feel completely ambiguous about this next cycle, which should start any day now. We haven’t finalized a donor, and even though the final decision will be Mr. DD’s, I haven’t even bothered reminding him. Why get myself wrapped up in their careers, interests and education when clearly none of those things matter to us.

I want to climb out of this rut I’ve made and move on.

Maybe once I get back in the saddle, or at least the RE’s stirrups, I’ll regain my focus on what I’m doing here. It may be tomorrow, it may be next week. Either way, you’ll be the first to know.

But for now, I’m tired.

no. 259 – ‘Til We Meet Again

Last night, Mr. DD and I had a nasty fight. Of course it started over something stupid: I had left some parcels in the hallway and he is on Day 5,419 of not making the bed. At its ugliest, the words "fucking bitch" and "c*nt" were said; pillows from the bed were thrown into the hallway as a signal for the other to find somewhere else to sleep; and the worst was thought and that was "I can’t believe I want to have another baby with you."

All these things? They were done or said by me.

This morning we hugged each other tightly in a silent and unspoken apology. When I came to work, there was an email from him to me that was sent after I went to bed in an angry huff. He ended the email with, "You two are my world." Of course I cried guilty, crappy tears, hiding behind a tissue and waving off concerned looks with a blubbered excuse of allergies.

We’re both under a lot of stress and we are taking it out on each other, and sub-consciously, X. I tell myself it has to get better and when I take stock of what my "problems" are, I am horrified with how petty I can be.

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This will be my last post before the password is put into affect, sometime probably on Sunday/Monday. I sent out the info in an email. If you didn’t get it, it may be because of one of the following reasons:

1. You did not ask for one. There is still time, but it will need to come via a comment and not through a private email. Why? Because, I’m watching IP addresses.

2. You have the email, but it’s either sitting in your spam, or it was rejected by your SpamCop. I did receive failure notices with at least 3 of your emails, and I have notified you of this via a comment on your sites.

3. I did have to reject a three of the requests, but sorry Julie, Tertia and Dooce. I don’t have time for your shenanigans.

I hope you won’t all be disappointed when you find out that my change to a protected site is not really as dire as I may have led you to believe. I have some things I need to write about, but can’t because there’s still someone in N%rfolk who’s reading and hasn’t presented themselves. Maybe it’s coincidental and it’s not who I think it is, but I doubt it.

And here’s where I get a little scared with how much I have come to depend on the support I get here: I’m afraid that this will be the beginning of the end of my blog. What if by going password protected, I am in fact, jumping the shark? I feel like I’m going to have to try a little harder since it will be more effort put forth on your end.

Slack Writing > Imposed Effort in Reading = Decreased Interest

I can promise to sweeten the deal just a tad: since things will be completely private, I may even show you a picture of me in all my gnarly, trolly beauty. In fact, here’s something I modeled for some time ago that I think is quite flattering.

See you all on the flip side.

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!