House of the Absent-minded

Alice loves coffee, especially mochas. Naturally, the caffeine and chocolate isn't good for her little doggie system--and, you know, Hey! I was drinking that, damn dog!-- so I quite often stash my coffee cup on the windowsill, or the mantel*, or on top of the piano... anywhere that's too high for our quasi-suicidal puppy to reach. Because Don and I each have the attention span of a ... wait, what was I saying? Anyways, the cups stay there more often than not, while we wander around thinking, "what the hell did I do with my latte?", while it grows cold and occasionally moldy on the windowsill. Naturally, doing the dishes requires going from room to room collecting whatever dish-wear has accumulated in that room (and DON'T suggest that all of your dishes are in the kitchen. Who do you think you are, Martha frickin' Stewart? Tell me there aren't any forks under your sofa and I will declare you either neurotically clean, or having no dogs in the house.), but it's not that natural to remember to check atop the piano or mantel shelf for mugs, so sometimes they stay there for some time, sadly. The funny thing is that we were both raised in tidy, normal households, in which coffee mugs made a neat rotation from kitchen to dining room and back, with no interesting day-trips to, say, the ironing board.

You know what's funny? There's that stereotypical, close friendship between women and gay men (or at least, a certain kind of gay man and certain kind of woman); Will and Grace, Bridget Jones and Tom, etc. It is commonplace in popular media, and perhaps, for all I know, real life. Why isn't there a similar stereotype for lesbians and men? Men in general don't seem particularly enamoured with (real) lesbians. I wonder why the difference?

I forgot to mention that I saw one of my ovaries during the ultrasound on Thursday, which was awesome. The other one seemed to be hiding or something. I hope it exists, at least, but I'm not too worried on that score, seeing that we conceive easily. And apparently my uterus is leaning to the left. Dr B's take on it: "Whether it's a perfectly normal uterus that happens to be left-lying, or whether it's that way because or a deformity is still up in the air until the HSG." Thanks, doc. It occurred to me that I've been worrying that they'll not find anything wrong with me (diagnosis: unexplained infertility), but what if they find something that's not fixable? That would be even worse. Like if it turns out that the ol' uterus is so jacked up that even surgery wouldn't help; it would mean that we'd never be able to maintain a pregnancy. I got one of the girls at work to promise she'd consider surrogacy, but somehow I don't think Don will go for the idea.

Speaking of work, the past week was unutterably bad. I kind of thought that since I'd come out in the open about my ambivalence towards the job, it would suddenly turn OK for awhile, like when you are thinking about breaking up with someone and they get much nicer all of a sudden; or the way your hair always looks amazing the day you're scheduled for a haircut. Instead, I had the worst week ever, and am even more ambivalent than before. (Although I still can't stomach the idea of losing my health benefits. Gaah.)

Somehow or another, Spring has arrived with me barely noticing. Too caught up in my own crap, I guess. It just doesn't seem right... this time last year, I was all exited about Spring-- the daffodils, the rain, the dogwoods-- and being pregnant (for the FIRST time!) and thinking how great it was going to be, to be pregnant all summer. Now it's the same season, but I'm all cynical and pragmatic. I want to be that naive, hopeful girl I was only a year ago, wide-eyed and appreciative of the beauty surrounding her.


*We don't have a fireplace, but we do have a fireplace mantel. Go figure.