Out With The Old, In With The New

Let's face it.

This blog has gone from spectacularly awesome to Sucky McSucksAlot.

My lackluster posting has been a thorn in my side these past 12 months, and as we ring in the New Year, I think I'm finally ready to say goodbye to Tapdancing In The Dark.

But before I go, I want to say thank you to each and every one of you who stood by me, faithfully returning to read my posts, even when the suckage was off the charts. You guys were my interwebz famiily, and I'm grateful for each and every one of you.

Much love....much love.

Fortunately, we don't have to completely break ties.

Allow me to introduce my (zombie)ass-kicking new blog:

Something Zombie This Way Comes.

I feel a new blog objective will help me get back my "funny," and what better subject is there than zombies?

So find (and follow) me there if you so desire - it'll be nice to see a friendly face on the new blog.

I wish you ALL a happy New Year and the best that 2011 can offer.

XOXOXO
Lily

The Worst Recap Ever (or: WTF...Why Is It Almost Christmas?!?)

Montreal was nice.
Cold enough to freeze my proverbial nuts off, but nice.

Mt. Tremblant was nice too, as long as I kept my ass at the BOTTOM of the mountain where it belonged.
The TOP of the mountain was an entirely different story
(Pizza....french fries....pizza....PIZZA! PIZZA!!! AAAHHHHH!....*thud*....repeat)

Needless to say that the "pizza/french fries" ski technique doesn't work on a mountain of considerable height covered in 6 inches of fresh powder.

But the OTHER "pizza/french fries" technique....yanno...the one where you eat your weight in assorted french delicacies...
That technique works FANTASTIC in Canada
(I'm bustin' out of my pants as we speak)

And this concludes the Worst Recap Ever.

Because when I LEFT for Canada it was December 4th and Christmas was weeks away. But now that I'm BACK from Canada it's December 13th and there's only one weekend left 'till Christmas and I am ALL KINDS OF CONFUSED about that.
And a little bit wild....I'm not gonna lie.
Holy fuck, I have a lot to do!

So if you're reading this and you USUALLY get a Christmas card from me?
Consider this my Christmas Greeting to you.
(Happy [insert winter holiday here]...cheer, warm wishes, plentiful booze, etc)

And if you're reading this and you USUALLY get a Christmas present from me?...
Don't be surprised if it's wrapped in newspaper and thrown in a ShopRite bag.

Because my ass is bruised, my pants don't fit, and I am OUT OF TIME, people!!

On Montreal, And Why You Shouldn't Rob Us (Unless You Need A Blender)

Brian says I'm not supposed to talk about our trip to Montreal.

"People will know that we're not home," he says, "and they could come and steal our stuff."

Well, to anyone who would like to break into our house, I'd like to say first that the back door is usually unlocked so please try that entrance before you bust up our door frame. The second thing I'd like to say is please, help yourself to our circa 1994 tube TV and outdated PC and the blender that my grandmother gave me for a college graduation gift. Hell, the newest thing in our house is the refrigerator and if you break into our house prepared to lift that 700-pound monstrosity, then I'm gonna go ahead and say that you've earned the right to take it.

Not like his opinion counts anyway...
He got a SEVERE concussion last weekend and hasn't recovered yet, so I'm writing off anything he says as the ramblings of a crazy man.

Poor guy.
I joke, but the doctor says you're only allowed one of those hits in a lifetime, and he just used his up. Of course, when you're watching your spouse vomit profusely in the ER while being unable to keep his eyes open, it doesn't take a doctor to tell you that his brains are a little scrambled.

(That flag football...it's a dangerous, dangerous sport)

So now I'm heading up to Montreal with my in-laws and a husband whose brains are over-easy and a little under-done...
In December, which means it'll be ghastly cold and on top of that, Brian can't ski or drink.
Which begs the question, What ELSE is there to do in Montreal in December besides ski and drink???

If you're expecting me to answer that question....I cannot - although I suspect it involves a great deal of family bonding time (sanz booze)
*sigh

So yes, we're going to Montreal to NOT ski. OR drink.
Still interested in robbing our house?
I didn't think so
(your pity is palpable from here)

Work. Yay! and Booo!

Just a short post to let you all know that I may be MIA for a while.

I landed a crap-ton of freelance work, which is totally awesome!
if you like working slave hours

I mean, it's Christmas, and I could really use the money.
Did I mention I'll probably be working on Christmas day?

Plus, I'm thrilled and flattered that several companies are now using me as one of their primary freelance writers
my rates are so cheap, I'm practically working for peanuts

Besides, boarding Mikey is getting very expensive
correction: I'm working for hay and poop-removal services

And the dogs eat a LOT of dog food
I'm officially a slave for my animals. There. Someone had to say it.

But it's okay...I love what I do
English was the only major in college that didn't require Calc 1

And my writing is helping to educate hundreds of physicians
so they can treat dangerous, life threatening cases of hospital-associated mud-butt

*sigh
Granted, December is not the best month to be loaded up with various monographs, slide sets, and needs assessments.
But that's the life of a freelancer. I get to roll out of bed and work in my jammies...
But sometimes I'm rolling out of bed and working in my jammies on a Saturday.
Or...yanno...Christmas.
YAY!

So if I don't manage to squeeze in a post between now and next Thursday

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

I hope you all have a great time and manage to eat your weight in turkey.
But don't forget to wear your stretchy pants, people!
I cannot emphasize this enough.

STRETCHY PANTS!!!

Okay, it's back to work for me. I only have 12 more hours until bedtime and I have to pull some miracles out of my ass.

Eggs. Not The Kind You Scramble.

I have bad eggs.

Not the kind you get in the store.
The kind your ovaries make (if you're a woman, that is. If you're a man and you're making bad eggs with your ovaries, I think you have bigger things to worry about than egg quality).

They don't tell you this shit BEFORE your IVF, mostly because A) the lab doesn't feel like giving a science lesson every time they call someone on the phone, and B) IVF usually works, so there'd be no point anyway.

However, for those with less-than-stellar quality embryos, it would kind of be nice to know this BEFORE we get our hopes up.

All I can say is thank sweet, candy-coated jesus for health insurance. Sure, the IFV failed due to poor egg quality, but imagine trying to wrap your head around a failed IVF cycle, bad eggs, AND a $30,000 hit to the bank account?

If there was EVER a time in your life when you'd want to punch babies, THAT WOULD BE IT, folks.

So my bad eggs put our chances for IVF success somewhere in the 25% to 35% range, instead of the 55% to 65% range we thought we were initially dealing with.

If I were an obese smoker, there would be an excellent chance that lifestyle changes could improve the quality of my embryos.
However, since I'm already relatively healthy, the doctor says there's not a heck of a lot I can do.

"Try accupuncture" he said, "There's no data that it helps, but it might make you feel better...feel like you're doing something to change your odds; maybe send some positive vibes out"

Christ.
When your doctor starts talking about accupuncture and happy thoughts, I think it's safe to say that he's out of ideas.

So 2011, it seems, will be The Year of the IVF Cycle.
Our insurance covers up to 4 attempts (allow me to thank sweet, candy-coated jesus once again for health insurance), and my doctor seems to think we might need to use all 4 of them if we want a chance at a bambino.

So in case you were wondering....THAT is how eggs can ruin your late twenties.

Salmonella ain't got NOTHIN' on that shit.

We're taking the rest of the year off. To heal and come back stronger, I guess, but also because the holidays are crazy and the thought of taking all those shots and pills while simultaneously trying to find the perfect gift for everyone kind of makes me want to shank someone.

So I guess this blog will be getting a "fertility break" as well, and I can hardly imagine how grateful you all will be for not having to read my "poor me, I'm infertile, booo hoooo" blogs every week.
(I'm well aware that there are children starving and people battling cancer out there, so my dramatic performances over infertility can't have been much appreciated).

In other words, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart for hanging in there with me. Those three of you who are still reading my blog despite all the dismal posts totally kick ass and I'll be sending each of you a muffin basket.

mwah*

Life Moving Along And Such

I'm not going to say that I'm not still hurting.
And I'm certainly far from being my old, funny self (Read: this post will NOT be interesting)

But I will say that despite my best efforts to hide under the covers, life is soldiering on. The human spirit is remarkably buoyant and besides...the house got really, REALLY dirty while I was depressed. Like, you wipe your shoes to LEAVE the house because the ground outside is cleaner than your foyer floor.

THAT kind of dirty.

Ick.

So here I am, relatively intact, with a cleaner floor and a brighter outlook.
The IVF didn't work.
So what.
Life has something else in store for me, and that's totally cool. (for now, until I get in one of my moods again)

What else is going on in the life of Lily?
Not...a heck of a lot.

Work is slow. It's great. And terrible. Kind of....grterrible. I have time to cook and clean and be all domestic. And ride my horse, which is totally kick-ass. But I also have copious amounts of time to think and/or sulk, which is not the best timing. And with Christmas coming up, plus a last-minute trip to Montreal scheduled for early December (I'll get to that in a minute), I sure could use a little more income, if yanno what I mean.

But such is the life of a freelance writer, no?

That trip to Montreal....
It's gonna be interesting.

You see, Brian's brother has a contract position in Afghanistan. He gets HUGE tax breaks, but he can only enter the country for a certain amount of days each year to GET those tax breaks. So he has a vacation coming up, and no more time left in the States. Hence, Brian, me, and my in-laws are driving up to Montreal to spend a week with him.

Yes.
You heard right.
A week vacay with my in-laws.

And don't get me wrong...my in-laws are lovely people. I say that with no sarcasm whatsoever. I truly consider myself lucky to have such great people in my life.
But a week long trip with them is a first, and needless to say, I'm a little...overwhelmed...at the thought.

But that's ok.
At least I'm not pregnant, so I can drink and ski.
Or throw myself down the stairs.

Small blessings, people....small blessings.

So that's it.
It's November.
I'm not sure when THAT happened, but the calendar says so and the calendar don't lie.
Which is confusing, because according to the stores and ads, it's Christmas time.
But it's only November.
...I don't get it.

Regardless, the fire place is now in full use, and I can start to figure out which winter sport is guaranteed to put me in the hospital this year.

Ahhh, winter (smells like the ER).

I hope everybody enjoys their weekend.
When I was working, this would be the time when I'd be all, IT'S FRIDAY, MOTHERF*CKERS...but since I work from home now, it really doesn't matter. Hell, these days, I can barely keep track of what MONTH it is, let alone which day of the week.

Still...for those of you out there in the 9-5 grind, IT'S FRIDAY, MOTHERF*CKERS.
BOO-YAH!
Go home, have a drink, and get frisky with your loved one.

Lily out.

Justice (or lack thereof)

The IVF didn't work.

I wasn't going to blog about it either way, but I don't know what else to do. My heart is breaking over and over again, and I'm hoping that writing might help ease the pain.
Nothing else seems to make it better...everything around me reminds me of how I am not now and will most likely never be a biological mother.

Where is the justice in life?
Where is all that Karma?
Where is God or Allah or Buddah?
Who, up there, is deciding that I'm not cut out for motherhood?

Who is labeling me as an infertile, despite the fact that I've spent my whole life eating right and exercising and taking care of myself, both physically and emotionally? Despite the fact that I struggled my way out of a horrible, abusive marriage and managed to rebuild my life from scratch? Despite the fact that all I'm trying to do is carve out a little niche of happiness with my soul mate and best friend?

Who up there is letting lousy people in lousy marriages reproduce like rabbits while Brian and I, two people full of love...who are trying to have a baby for all the right reasons...get negative pregnancy test after negative pregnancy test?

For the love of god, WHO IS RUNNING THE SHOW UP THERE?!? Because if there is anyone...anyone...out there who has EARNED their right to a family...it's Brian and me.

Fuck.
FUCK.


This blog used to be a happy place. Well, at least a sarcastic and funny place, if not a little disgruntled.
And I'm hoping that this blog will one day be a happy place again (hopefully with a little less disgruntlement and a little more genuine cheer).

But for now, this blog is about as empty and hopeless as my soul. I'm writing only for me ...to keep myself from going mad...to maybe pull myself away from the edge, if only just an inch or two. I'm using it as a crutch, to give me strength where there is none. To give me the peace that I have yet to find.

I've encountered a lot of obstacles in my life, but this one might be the biggest.
Please, God, or Allah, or Karma or whoever, help me to climb it.
Because I stumbled 4 days ago and I have yet to get up.

Purgatory

Purgatory is waiting around for your pregnancy test, which is scheduled for the end of the week.

It's wandering aimlessly around the house, with no real work to speak of (both a blessing and a curse during this time), being limited physically and crippled emotionally. It's wondering how much you can take before you go mad. It's knowing that, either way, you'll never quite be the same again.

Purgatory is abstaining from almost everything you love, possibly for no reason whatsoever. It's decaf coffee and juice and walking (without the dogs) and watching other people ride your horse. It's preparing yourself for the worst while hoping for he best; running scenario after scenario through your head as you pace the halls like a caged tiger, dissatisfied and intensely aware of every ticking second.

Purgatory means you stop enjoying the things you used to love...well, the things you used to love that you are ALLOWED to do, according to the new rules set forth by your doctor. It's distraction, coupled with a bad taste in your mouth that leaves you dead in front of the television, wishing it was two days from now and evaluating your body for the slightest foreign twinge. A cramp here. Tenderness there. What if....what if...?

I won't be able to blog about the results of Fridays test. If it's good news (dear god, let it be good news), then you don't talk about it until you're past the first tenuous weeks. If its bad news...well...there are some feelings so visceral that even I won't be able to find the words to express them.

Please, let this week be over.
Please, let me take back my life, even if it's in bits and pieces when it's done.

This ghost of a person that I've become....let her find peace, no matter what the outcome.

Give me heaven or hell, ecstacy or sorrow.
Anything...anything...other than purgatory.

Doing the SHIT out of Halloween

I'm in a weird mood today.

First, I was feeling all "hahah funny" and was going to post about my halloween scare-venture. Then, for no reason at all, I started (well, continued) thinking about this infertility crap and I got sad.

Then I had breakfast.

Then I considered making a fort out of the couch cushions.

Then I remembered that Milo ate the couch cushions, so I went back online and here we are.



In summary, I'm all silly-sad-angry
(but not hungry. Thank god for small blessings)



I guess I can still blame it on the hormones, although these days they're coming in pill form instead of shot form, which is super cool and has increased my hydration level by, like, 30%. Except for that one hormone that comes in....suppository...form, and we don't really talk about THAT hormone.

Or I could blame it on the stress of finding out if the IVF "took" this Friday, which, BTW, is guarenteed to be the LONGEST DAY OF MY LIFE.

Or I could just blame it on Milo, because honestly, what problems CAN'T be blamed on that asshole?



Regardless, I'm all wonked out and not good for much other than drinking decaf coffee (shank me) and rambling endlessly on this here blog.



The Halloween activity was decidedly NOT scary. The scariest thing about the whole night was being surrounded by awkward teenage girls in skinny jeans and Ugg boots, uncomfortably holding hands with gangly teenage boys desperately in need of haircuts.

For realz, you could not pay me enough to be a teenager again.


The rest of the attraction was a little hoaky and a LOT random (aliens carrying chainsaws?!? WHAT?!?!?), which was exacerbated when I got the giggles and couldn't stop laughing at the poor "actors" (and I use this term loosely) trying their best to jump out and frighten me.


I think I hurt their feelings.


But it's made me want to up the ante, and perhaps next year, you'll find me at the Bates Motel or some shit like that.
....maybe.



We also carved pumpkins.

And I don't want to brag, but it's entirely possible that I made the best jack-o-lantern ever carved...ever...in the history of jack-o-lanterns




I'm having that shit BRONZED, yo!



Halloween was also celebrated in the form of pumpkin chili and our annual reading of McSweeney's "It's Decorative Gourd Season, MotherFuckers"....and if you have not read this yet I STRONGLY ENCOURAGE YOU to click on the link, because this is the funniest shit EVER WRITTEN about fall.


I'm having the entire thing put onto a cross-stitch sampler for my mother this year, FOR REALZ.


So yeah, we're doing the SHIT out of Halloween this year, and I'm loving every minute of it.

That's all for now. I'm running low on decaf, and I've got another pumpkin with my name on it.
Happy fall, fuck-faces

(it's a McSweeney's reference. If you didn't get it, then you didn't click on the link, and we can probably most likely not be friends anymore. Please turn in your friendship bracelet and the other half of my heart necklace)

On Halloween, and Soiling Myself

For the record, let it be said that I Luh-HUV Halloween.
Love the shit out of it.
I love the decorations and the scary movies on TV and the ridiculous costumes that we dress our children (or animals) in.
For realz, I'd do sexy times with Halloween and even let it take me shopping and kiss it on the mouth, which is totally against my rules, but that is how much I love Halloween, people.

However, even I have my limits.

For one thing, I really don't like dressing up.
I know - I'm a total buzz-kill.
Everything about my personality says that I should be the first one throwing on that sexy pirate wench/sexy witch/sexy nun costume and the last one taking it off (unless I drink too much beer, at which point I've been known to remove clothing prematurely).
But something about all this time and effort and money spent to look like something that you're clearly not ....I dunno....it just seems a little silly.
Because no matter how much I may look like that sexy pirate wench, we all know that I'm just a medical writer from NJ.
(not to mention the fact that if I WAS, in fact, a pirate wench, I'd probably choose a more servicable hem length...and not wear stilettos, what with all the rocking on the high seas...)
So what's the point?
However, I WILL say that I found a full-sized banana costume at Target the other day, and the amazing image in my head of me, waltzing around a party in as a banana, has kind of convinced me that for the right costume, maybe I'd change this position.
Maybe.

Another thing I don't do is the haunted corn maze/wagon ride/prison what-have-you.
Because that shit scares the baJESUS out of me.
Some horrible creature will jump out of the dark, and everyone screams and then kind of laughs and moves on....meanwhile, I'm in the fetal position on the ground, laying in my own feces and vomit, playing dead and hoping the monster won't actually kill me.
I don't know what it is about these attractions...
I can tell myself over and over again that it's not real and it's just for fun, but then I'm forced to walk down this dark hallway and I know for a fact that there are things down that hallway waiting to get me, and I have this moment, right before I pass out from fear, when I'm all, I paid good money for THIS?!?!?
And then I die.
I seriosly die, because I am so freakin' scared.

And don't even get me started on haunted mazes.
Because REAL mazes, in the daytime, terrify me, let alone when they're filled with human-eating zombies and whatnot.
I mean, what if I can't get out? What if I get lost in the maze and they never find me?
THIS is what goes through my head when I encounter a beautiful hedge maze in a garden in May.
Turn down the lights and add heart-attack-inducing characters?
No sir.
Not this sucker.
I'll sit on the bench outside the maze and hold everyone's purses and wait for them to come out....if they make it, that is.

So how, for the love of god, has my sister convinced me to go on a combination haunted hayride/haunted woods walk-through this weekend?
Well...I'm still not sure.

Maybe I want to face all my old enemies and see if I still soil myself at the first mummy
Maybe I want to prove that I'm older and wiser now and can recognize cheesy haunted theatrics when I see it.
Or maybe I'm just tired of holding everybody's purses.

I dunno.

But come Saturday, you'll find me on a haunted hayride to hell, either laughing at the cheesy haunted theatrics....or pooping my pants.
Just like always.

Fat Cat and Me

Fat cat (FC): Lily
Me: What
FC: You're not going to believe this.
Me: Believe what? I'm working...leave me alone
FC: I'm serious. Come quick! It's wild!
Me: Jesus christ...fine. Just gimme a second...
FC: No, you have to come NOW! It might not be here in a second!!
Me: FINE, fine...I'm coming, okay? What's so damn important that I have to stop working...
*follows cat to the water bowel in the kitchen
FC: Check it out.
Me: Check WHAT out?
FC: *touches paw to water: THIS
Me: This what? What are we looking at? Is there a stink bug in there again?
FC: No...THIS
Me: What? Water?
FC: Yeah.....water.
Me: What about it?
FC: Dude....what do you mean? It's crazy. Look what happens when you touch it!
*touches paw to water again
Me: ...I'm speechless.
FC: ME TOO! Aren't you glad I brought you out here to see it?
Me: Dude. No. You're an idiot.
FC: What the hell are you talking about? This could be the next greatest discovery of our time!
Me: No, it's water. You do this EVERY DAY. You sit in front of it and put your paw in it and then lick your paw and look at it again as if it's some miracle. And then I have to explain to you that it's not a miracle...that it's just WATER...and then you go and lick your privates. Every. Goddamn. Day.
FC: ....Really?
Me:...really
FC:...So...you're saying...that I've seen this substance before...
Me: Yes. I'm saying that you're a moron.
FC:...but....
Me:...but nothing. It's water. it keeps us alive. It's there, in a bowel, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
FC:...Oh...but look how cool it is! I touch it...and then it's on my paw...
Me: *sigh
FC: And look! There's a cat in it! Did you know there's a cat in there?!?
Me: That's your REFLECTION, retard.
FC: My what?
Me: Your REFLEC...oh, nevermind. Yeah, there's a cat in there. His name is Larry.
FC: *looks in the bowel: HI LARRY
Me: God, you really ARE an idiot
FC: Sometimes there's a dog in there too - but only when Jericho comes around.
Me: I bet he's a big black dog.
FC: How did you know?!? Have you seen him too?!?
Me: Yeah. He's awesome. Can I go back to work now?
FC: Hmmmmm?? What? Oh, yeah, sorry. Go back to work. I'm going to hang out with Larry some more. Between you and me, he looks like he could use a friend.
Me: Okay, you do that. And Fat Cat?
FC: Yeah?
Me: Try not to fall in this time
FC: Yeah, yeah...

The Hormones Wish To Speak

I didn't intend this blog to be all about my infertility.
I intended it to be about my LIFE.

But then again, my LIFE is all about infertility these days, so I guess it makes sense that I would devote a couple of posts to fertility treatment.

Welcome to my hell
(please leave your dignity at the door).

Of course, I need to state for the record that despite all my grumbling, I am 100% grateful that infertility is covered by my health insurance. Without it, we'd either be out a cool $25,000 (that does not exist), or be shopping for kids in Guatamala.
Which may still happen yet, depending on if this fancy schmancy $25,000 procedure actually...yanno...works.

Still, grateful isn't exactly what I'm feeling when I'm injecting 2 ccs of hormones into my body, several times a day...despite my best efforts.
And grateful isn't exactly what I'm feeling when I can barely stand upright because my ovaries are having a block party and bringing down the house.

The roof...the roof...the roof is on fire!!!

What I am feeling....is every emotion known to man. In about a 5 minute period, none the less.
I have recieved three heartwarming cards in the last 24 hours, and cried while reading every. single. one.
I had some negative faculty feedback about my work, only to feel overwhelmed, sad, angry, and nonchalant in the first two minutes of recieving this feedback.
I've gotten seriously mad at Brian for existing.
That's it.
Just continuing to breath oxygen and take up space.

And that, my friends, is when you know that you need to just chill the fuck out, have a cup of coffee and chocolate croissant, and talk about your feeling.

Which couldn't be more unlike me.

And then there is....the procedure.
I'll spare you the details, but it starts with "ultrasound needle" and ends with "vaginal wall"

And it's scheduled to happen this Thursday.

FML.

In other words, this hormonal pin-cushion of a woman is about to get very unpleasant things done to her, all for the sake of having a baby.

Shit. Is. Wild.

I have to go now.
I'm getting my ass handed to me with a project that was doomed from the start, making this week even more awesomer.
I mean, who doesn't like trying to handle boatloads of stress when they have enough FSH, HCG, and DO-RE-MI in their body to chemically castrate a bull elephant?!?

Wish me luck on Thursday.
And a prescription for good, strong pain medication.

Because I'm going to need a crap-ton of both.

Babies. Fuck.

Dear Couple That I've Been Friends With Since Highschool.

Wow.
Congrats!
You're expecting!

I sure didn't see that one coming.
Of course, I should have seen it coming - after all, you're married, and babies are the next obvious step. But the hormones that I'm shooting into my body 3 times a day make it so that if I'm not prepared for this kind of news, its going to upset me.

Like, makes me want to slam my forehead into a cement wall repeatedly until I knock myself unconsious kind of upsets me.

Like, makes me want to drive my car into the nearest tree at 70mph kind of upsets me.

Like, makes me want to participate in self-mutilation because clearly I'm not a suitable wife - or woman, for that matter - and I might as well just rip out all of my girly parts for all the good their doing me kind of upsets me.

Please don't take it personally.

You both are wonderful people and we have a long, LONG history together. You, guy, you were both the officiant AND the caterer at my wedding, while you, girl, coordinated the procession and helped out in a million other ways. I love you both, and you will always hold a special place in my heart.

So please, don't be offended if I freeze like a deer in the headlights the next time we see each other. Please don't be alarmed when all I manage to get out is, "hey, congrats on the new..." before i burst into tears. And please, by all means, don't take it personally when I attempt to claw your eyes out with my bare hands because the injustice of this situation is just so painfully obvious.

I mean, hey, it's a wonderful thing, right?
You do the baby dance and presto...you've got yourselves a bun in the oven.

I bet you didn't have to make a million trips to the doctor's office.
I bet you didn't have to submit yourselves to multpile humiliating and sometimes extremely painful tests.
I bet you didn't have to pay hundreds of dollars in out-of-pocket expenses (although I'm aware that without insurance, we'd be spending tens of thousands of dollars, and I am eternally grateful for having such awesome insurance)
I bet you didn't have to take a class to learn how to stick needles into your body, and then proceed to jab yourself multiple times a day until your tummy and thighs are covered in bruises and the smell of alcohol makes you instantly cringe.
Hell, I bet you didn't even have to suffer through the various side effects of the hormones coming out of those needles (which, btw, include mood swings and flu-like symptoms. super fun stuff)

Nope, I bet you guys just split a bottle wine and had at it.

And now you get to sit back and watch this little miracle grow. You get to buy books and set up a nursery and look at clothes and pick out names, and smile that little secret smile at each other because you are creating a family at this very moment.

But please, if I may have just one request.
While you're shopping for strollers and picking out paint colors, please...please...please...don't forget - not even for one second - how lucky you are.
Please don't forget that it's not this easy for some people.
Please don't forget that some people are going through hell for a shot at what you created with such ease.
Please don't forget how things could have happened.

So again, congrats.
You are both sure to be wonderful parents.
But forgive me if I don't jump up and down with joy.
I've got miles to go before I'm done with this journey, and my legs are very, very tired.

Love and kisses,
Lily's hormones

A Close Goddamn Call

My dilemma over what to do with this blog came to a head last night while my husband, my sister and I were playing Wineopoly and imbibing a shiraz or two (natch).

I expressed, more or less, that this blog isn't what it used to be. That I had read posts from a year ago and god DAMN were they funny. That I just wasn't the same person I was back then...that I had outlets now and a happy life and that just didn't make for funny posts...that I felt like every time I blogged I was disappointing my readers...etc, with much slurring.

And in response, my sister expressed, more or less, that I should always choose a happy life over an awesome blog, and that although I shouldn't stop blogging, maybe I should put this particular blog to rest....etc, and then she knocked over a wine glass

Then I pointed out, more or less, that when I lost all of my blog formatting, it felt kind of like a sign, and is it really the same blog anymore without all my stuff on it?...etc, while trying to feed Milo a playing piece because it was in the shape of a wedge of cheese

So she pointed out, more or less, that the universe is usually pretty good at handing out signs, and I should probably listen to it, but in the end, it doesn't really matter because this is just one of many lives we will have in our attempt to reach nirvana...etc, buddhism whatnot...blah blah blah...while almost falling out of her chair

In other words, I was ready to end this blog for realz last night.

But while typing this today, I've decided that I'm not ready to let go. Not yet, at least. Somewhere in me is that woman who could write some seriously funny shit. Somewhere in me is that bizarre, creative, wonky person who managed to get at least 87 people (give or take) to commit to follow her daily ramblings.

And while this person is seriously in hiding, I don't think she's gone yet.

So I'll keep this blog around for a little while longer, hoping she turns up now and again to make you snort coffee out your nose.

Because that's what she would want me to do.

A Brief Distraction

Today was one of those days when you wake up at 6:00 am like, oh man, this is AWESOME...I'm going to get SO MUCH ACCOMPLISHED today

And then you shuffle over to your computer and start parusing facebook and craigslist because...yanno...it's early and you're not ready to work yet.

And then, 2 hours later, your realize that you need to take a break to get some breakfast and to teach a lesson. And after the lesson you take the long way home because you're tired from getting up so early, so you need some D&D crack-coffee

And then you get home and you drink your coffee and it makes you jumpy and unfocused, so you end up having an in-depth conversation with your dog instead of writing that Executive Summary you promised to your client two days ago.

And then you crash from the D&D crack-coffee and realize that you're too tired to do work because you got up so early, so you drag yourself out on to the deck and sit for half an hour staring at the water, trying to summon up the energy to do...anything.

And now it's 12:00 pm.

Work total for the day: 17 minutes

FAIL.

The moral of this post is that getting up at 6:00 am is never, under any circumstances, a good idea. What seems like a good idea at the time ends up being an excuse for surfing the web, drinking sugary, caffeinated beverages, and anthropomorphizing every little ear twitch your dog makes until you're convinced that he's convinced that socialism might be the answer to the country's economic crisis.

And we all know that that's just silly...

I'm baaaacccckkk

Well that....was a bit longer than I intended.
Sad to say, this no blogging thing kind of suited me. I felt free. Like I was cutting class to go riding in a convertible with the top down and the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. For a while, I wasn't endlessly searching for material...cataloging every mildly amusing interaction for exploitation on my blog because once again I was out of real material. And I didn't use my blog as a way to avoid work. Well...not until today (Dear contractor: I'll finish it today. I promise)

So what happened, since the last time I blogged?
Not much, which is usually okay in my book. Lord knows I have the habits of an 80-year-old and don't like getting my routine all in a tizzy.

Work is going well. I haven't been forced to dance on a pole to pay the mortgage yet, so I consider that a win in my book.

Brian and I went backpacking and had some close encounters with black bear near our camp. Luckily, we were drunk (yes, we bring wine backpacking. doesn't everyone?), so my healthy fear of black bears was replaced with a "F*ck this guy. I want to go to sleep" kind of attitude. It worked. He moseyed along and I slept off the 1.5 litres of Cabernet Sauvignon in relative peace.

Milo ate more of the couch. I hate him.

The horse-thing is going well. Mikey is progressing with his training, although I'm learning that he's the klutziest horse to ever trip across this planet. I'm still teaching lessons. But after a long summer of beginners, I'm starting to hate the phrases keep your heels down and turn right...no, your OTHER right. These kids....oy...I think some of them are meant for group homes and jobs as greeters at Walmart.

I cut my hair. It's kind of what I do. One day I'm perusingn through a Victoria's Secret catalog and I'm all like, wow, I bet if I grow my hair out I'd look JUST LIKE these models. So I grow it out...except it looks more like a rat's nest than a seductively mussed coiff. And then I listen to Beyonce's All The Single Ladies and get all revved up on girl power, and I'm like screw men...I don't care if they prefer long hair. I want it off. So I cut it. [Repeat]

Did anybody notice it's fall now? That shit is awesome. But let's let McSweeney sum it up - he does a much better job than I could do anyway. CLICK THIS LINK for fall awesomeness (and a helluva lot of F-bombs)

It's nice to be back guys. Hope you all haven't forgotten me.

Don't Get Excited

Don't get excited.
I'm not back.
Well, not officially.

I'm like the "Brett Favre" of blogging....I make an announcement that I'm taking a break, and then all of a sudden I'm *still* making passes for the Vikings.

Go Team

Today is one of those rough days that makes you want to just bury your head under a pile of pillows or in the nearest oven until it's "tomorrow" and you can finally stop stressing and actually ENJOY that cannoli you just ate instead of just stuffing it down your piehole as fast as you can to momentarily forget that you're losing your G-D mind.

It's like you have your rational side. And your rational side KNOWS that hope, in this situation, is silly. Your rational side knows that tomorrow will be a disappointment, and you might as well just get used to it now, because there's no reason to think otherwise.
You think your calm and cool.
You expect the worse.
You know what's coming.

And then it happens.
And your hopes are crushed and mangled to an unrecognizable pulp.
And you're all, WTF, because there wasn't supposed to BE hope. Your rational side took care of that, right? But that emotional side, that sneeky bastard, was hiding hope. You didn't know it was there until it was being repeatedly run over by a Mac truck.

Ouch.

So that's what I'm in for.
I'm on a "Search And Destroy" mission, looking for any signs of hope so I can bludgeon it to death before it can hurt me.
But it never works like that. Hope is elusive. Hope is persistent. And despite my best efforts, Hope is completely uncontrollable.

Tomorrow? Is going to suck.
That hope, wherever it's hidden, is going to be trampled.
Sometimes the anticipation is worse than the pain, like when the nurse is holding your arm and is about to put the needle in, and you're all NO NO NO NO NO, but then it's in and, well, that wasn't so bad, was it?
Today, I'm anticipating tomorrow's pain. I'm all, NO NO NO NO NO, but there's nothing I can do to stop it.

So I blog, maybe to ease the pain a bit.
Lord knows the cannoli didn't work.

A Brief Respite

Okay.
So I write....and then I don't write.
For weeks, I don't write.
I lose a follower, and then another.
I feel bad about myself.
I eat gallons of ice cream and drag lipstick in large circles across my face while screaming "be pretty...be pretty!!!"



Okay...
That's an exaggeration.

But I DO feel bad. And I certainly didn't start bloging to make myself feel any worse than I already do.
(Anyone with a vagina knows that women are pretty good at making themselves feel like crap WITHOUT additional "blog guilt")

So I'm taking a break.
A simple-enough fix, I suppose.

I doubt it'll be a permanant break. More like a hiatus of sorts.
I'll refresh my writing.
I'll chant and meditate and wave smoking sticks of insense around the house until I feel ready to contribute quality posts to this blog again.
And in the meantime, you won't have to suffer the injustice of a crappy blog post (well, those of you who are left, that is).

I'll miss you all terribly.
I'll miss writing, those few times per month when I'm actually inclined to do so.

But I won't miss the guilt, and I wont' miss the lipstick (the ice cream, on the other hand, will be a source of grief for many nights to come)


Goodbye for now...

Shark Week

Well.
Another year, another Shark Week has come and gone, taking a piece of my heart with it.
Truly a glorious time - I love me some shark-on-seal action.
Need I remind you about last year's love-fest with sharks?


However.



Is it just me, or are they showing pretty much the same thing year after year?
I came across this funny comic.
For those of you lazy bastards who can't be bothered to click the link, the author sums up the following Shark Week programs:

Ultimate Air Jaws: Sharks can jump out of the water. It's the same thing you've seen the past 8 years, only different angles
Into The Shark Bite: Sharks bite really effing hard. Don't get bitten
Shark Attack Survival Guide: If you don't have a shotgun, punch the shark in the nose. If you're not prepared to die, don't get in the ocean
Day Of The Shark 3: Every single day is Day of the Shark. This is about 6 dumbasses that sharks mistook for food
Shark Bite Beach: Really? Shark bite beach? Sharks only bite people because they bleed into teh ocean or try their best to look like seals
Shark Bites: Adventures in Shark Week: Famous guy swims with sharks. He makes jokes. Will only be funny if he is bitten.

Lolz.

Okay, okay, point taken.

Dear Shark Week Executives
Perhaps it's time to admit that your materials are going a bit stale. Might I propose that you change Shark Week to focus on another scary predator-type animal?
Like Bears.
Fact: Bears are one the largest land predators in North America. Like, really, REALLY big. And strong. Especially Polar Bears. That shit is scary. Get on it.
Fact: Grizzly bears will hunt you over hundreds of miles and eat your bleeding African American friend, and you'll only survive if Anthony Hopkins happens to be nearby. I saw "The Edge." That shit was crazy!
Fact: Stephen Colbert hates bears. Which means Republicans hate bears. Which means, by default, Democrats must love bears. Great way to increase your demographic!
Fact: I once saw a video clip of a "tame" grizzly bear maul a reporter. You should put that shit in there.

Obviously, it's time to retire Shark Week for another animal. If not bears, then lions maybe, or something equally toothy and claw-ey.

Or you could just rerun clips from Real Houswives of NY.
Nobody would be able to tell the difference.

Beer-Sponsored Literary Snobbery

*disclaimer: the aforementioned "beer-sponsored" part of this post occurred last night, not while this post was being written, which is a good thing, because it's only 8:30 in the morning. However, it IS 5:00 somewhere. Keep that in mind.

You guys...
TODAY IS THE DAY that I write a funny...or at least worthwhile...blog post.
There has been a lot of crap posting going on here lately.
I do not approve.
However, since I've been the one writing these crap posts, there will be no disciplinary action just yet, unless you count me waking up at 6:00 this morning to see my two male dogs humping each other, in which case, it would appear that I deserved it.

What?

Whatever.

I started drinking last night, in honor of the awesome post I was sure to write today.
I was feeling all, yay, I'm funny and creative again. Let's unwind after dinner and have a lively discussion about interesting things. (which is code for drinking multiple beers and having a heated argument over the most respectible rap artist. Oooh, to be a fly on that wall). So we did argue about rap artists, as only two white middle-class individuals can. Then we moved on to literature.
And that's when I dropped the bomb (compliments of the third bottle of River Horse Brewer's Reserve).

Brian has this.....author. According to wikipedia, he's considered to be "an American adventure novelist" (and those of you who are literary-inclined can already see where I'm going with this). By all accounts he appears to be a very successful novelist, with 17 of his books being on the New York Times best-seller fiction list.
But the thing is....

It's crap.
Like, god-awful, cringe-while-reading-the-first-paragraph crap.
Really bad.
(And seriously, considering most adult readers think that Harry Potter is ground-breaking fiction, any book that hits the best-seller list can probably be read and fully comprehended by an 8th grader).
I tried reading it once, while Brian was out of the house. I read 3 pages of the book, gently put it down, and swore that I'd take my opinions of this author to the grave so as to not disturb the household.
But that stupid third River Horse Brewer's Reserve....apparently it didn't know when to keep it's mouth shut.

So the cat's out of the bag.
Brian is not heartbroken, but I think I've officially been labeled a literary snob, which is just as well, considering I have a B.A. in English. Hell, I'm just glad the degree is starting to pay off. I might have spent 4 years wasting money on classes that have little to no application to the real world, but at least I can recognize a phony writer a mile away.
At any rate, after much discussion, we've decided that Brian will continue to read his "author," and I will continue to smile falsely when he talks about him, if only for the sake of the dogs.

Oh well...I guess it could be worse.
He could be reading the Twilight trilogy
*GAG*