Only the SCARIEST THING EVER

So. Don and I have an opportunity to buy the house we're living in from our landlord. I think we're going to try to do it. I am FREAKING OUT over here: so much stress and anxiety over this spur-of-the-moment decision. It is sort of a now-or-never deal because if we buy directly from him, we don't need to get real estate agents involved, and can save some money on both ends. He's selling either way, so if we don't (or can't) buy the place, he'll be listing with an agent: random people will be wandering through our apartment, and--eventually-- we'll have to move out and find a new place. Argh. So many different issues to address, I don't even know where to begin.

There are two apartments in this house; one that's the upper level (where we live), and a smaller apartment below. If we buy it, we'll become landlords ourselves, having this second unit to rent out. The current tenant (who's lived there for eight years), is moving soon, so we'll have to find new tenants and all that jazz.

Money. Money money money money. That's what it's all about, right? Hmm. Has anyone else ever noticed that it's impossible to figure out how much a house will cost per month? Sure, you can run mortgage estimates to get an idea of principle and interest, but that's assuming that you know what interest rate you can get: the difference between 6% and 7% for the figures we're looking at is almost one hundred dollars a month. It's hard to estimate the home owner's insurance and property taxes that are rolled into the monthly payments as well. From my rough estimates, I come up with these ideas:

The mortgage payment will be more than what we're currently paying in rent. What we're paying, though, is really low for the area, so if we have to move to another apartment, our cost of living will go up anyway. If, however, we can get (and keep) the lower apartment rented out, we'll actually be spending less on housing than we currently are. It is imperative that we be able to afford the entire mortgage, independent of tenant rent, but I think we can. The asking price of the house, incidentally, is exactly the highest figure we were willing to consider back when we were actively house-hunting. That was assuming, of course, that we'd be responsible for the entire mortgage. With me?

We know perfectly well that house prices are falling, and aren't likely to recover any time soon. If we buy this house, we have to be prepared to hang on to it for several years, or face losing our investment. So, if we still decide to move away from Charlottesville in the next few years, we'll be looking at renting out the upper apartment as well. Oy. This is a college town, with more houses occupied by renters than owners, but we're pretty far from the school-- not walking distance. I don't know how easy that will be.

The house doesn't seem to need any work for now. (We should know, having been living there for the past 18 months...) It's structurally sound, the roof is good, the foundation. Still, Don and I are both nuts for house projects, and I imagine our homey ambitions combined with years of frustrated desires will cost us a lot of money, that will probably never be recovered.

We could finally fence the yard. Paint. Garden. ARggh, I just don't know. Can we do this? Do we want to? Could the timing be any worse, what with trying (AGAIN) to start a baby? My study would make an adorable nursery... We're still walking-distance to down town, and Don's work. Why don't I own a Ouija board, or at least an 8-ball? Who can answer these questions for me?

Epic

If only I'd been able to live-blog the entire journey, to really give an idea of the crazy that is camping someplace twelve hours away, with the entire 'family', in a small car. My mind is so full and tired, that all I can offer is snippets...

Like getting pulled over on the interstate in New York, going through the whole license-and-registration rigamarole, and finally:

Officer: Do you know why I pulled you over?

Don: Honestly? No. No idea. (We weren't speeding, see, because the were police everywhere due to its being Memorial Day Weekend.)

Officer: Don't laugh, but I saw your dogs moving around in the back seat, and thought that they were kids that weren't buckled in. Now I see that I was mistaken. Sorry about that.

And so we were let back on the road, our "kids" still loose in the back. Too bad that the next time we were pulled over-- about four hours later, in Vermont-- it was because we were speeding, and resulted in a ticket.

There were lovely meals with friends we haven't seen in years... Friends that should come with a label: Do not be afraid of the vegans, they still eat pizza* and drink beer, and they don't sneer at your omelet! Friends that are coming down to visit us next month, at last!

"Camping" within the city on a holiday weekend was a new experience for us; we usually aim for off-peak times and out-of-the-way places, hoping to get a little peace, quiet, and privacy. This time, we were sort of treating the campsite and tent as a very cheap hotel room; not a 'getting away from it all' time so much as just a place to crash after being in town all day. Good thing, too, as it was pretty crowded and loud. The cat was wonderful; twelve straight hours in the car, two days in a tent, and another day back in the car doesn't phase her at all. She is the best road-trip cat imaginable**. Sometimes she's so quiet in the car that I have to check to make sure she hasn't slipped out somehow, but she's always just sleeping under the passenger seat. Alice loves it, too. We've taken so many trips (and moved cross-country) so many times in the eight years we've had her, that she seems to think spending days in the car is perfectly normal.

Cocomo, the sister's dog, was less relaxed. She is not a fan of the road trip, but that's one of the reasons why we took her; my sister is coming up in a few days to collect her and drive her back to Texas. We were hoping this trip would normalize the experience of being in the car, and I think it helped. Mainly, though, we just wanted to enjoy our last week with her:

Vermont is still awesome. We sort of spent the entire weekend saying, "Why did we leave this place, again? Why aren't we still here?" and reminding each other of the six-month winters. It just doesn't work, though, because who can think of snow, in the face of this:

Or this:

That picture encapsulates so many things that I love: my husband of one year, two days; my baby with the floppy ears; the neice-dog; and Speeder & Earl's mochas, of which I have been suffering withdrawal pains for four years. It's been too long.

*hummus, no cheese, tons of veggies. Looked yummy.

** I don't know anyone else that takes their cat on road trips, so I'm just guessing. But she handles it like a pro!

To think, for some people it's free

OK, so I was all exited and smug because a jumbo, nasty bill came from my infertility doc's office, but it had all been covered by insurance, (thank you!) leaving me only fifteen dollars left to pay. (Which really makes me wonder-- why? Do human people ever actually look at these bills? Why cover over nine hundred dollars' worth of procedures and etc, but leave the last 15? Anyways.) You know how you're supposed to read through those bills to make sure you're not getting charged for stuff that wasn't done to you? Nothing like seeing, "catheterizing" on that list and going, "yup, yup, sure do remember that catheter! At least my bill's correct!"

Right now I'm less exited, having been informed that the twice-daily progesterone supplement that is my future offspring's only chance for survival, is NOT covered, for the stupidest reason involving how it's billed or something. It's going to cost me sixty dollars a month until we conceive, then $120/ month for the first three months of the pregnancy. (Hopefully.) AND, I have to use ovulation-prediction kits every month to pinpoint exactly when to start the hormones; I thought those would cost about what a pregnancy test does, seeing that they do the same trick of analysing the chemical content of urine. They don't. So, a couple of those kits every month, also until we conceive again. Essentially, trying to concieve is going to cost over a hundred dollars a month until we get lucky. I ran all this by Don, with the inevitable conclusion: conceive ASAP, save $$! It's going to be a busy month...

But first, we get to go camping* with not one dog, not TWO dogs, but two dogs AND a cat**! This is going to be super, super fun. Or, at the very least, give us good vacation-from-hell stories for another few years.



* What, isn't that how everybody celebrates their one-year marriage anniversary?
** She gets LONELY if we leave her behind! I know I swore she'd never come camping with us again, but it will be different this time. Really.

When Bank Tellers PMS

Reasons why people come into the bank to do transactions that could be done at the ATM:

1. They need specific denominations: two fives, a roll of quarters for laundry, anything the machine can't handle.
2. Or too little, as in: I only have eight bucks in my account, can I take out five?
3. Or, conversely, too much: nobody wants eight hundred dollars in twenty dollar bills, it makes the wallet all fat and awkward.
4. They want the money from an account that isn't connected to their ATM card: not the primary account, in others words.

Those are really good reasons. Less-good reasons include:

5. They don't know about ATMs/ are afraid of the freaky technology embodied by this "cash machine". (Seriously.)
6. Variant: all plastic money is the devil, including ATM cards.
7. They crave human interaction, and don't have enough friends/ acquaintances/ bartenders/ barristas/ random people on the street, to fulfill said need.

It's not like it's my business, really. If you want to wait in line for ten minutes behind people doing cashier's checks and address changes, whatever. Personally, I'd use that shiny ATM by the front door... But then again, I'm an antisocial, PMSing, time-valuing technophile, so what do I know.



You know what's weird? I can never, ever spell "particularly" right on the first try. No other words give me such trouble.

Answers, Answers!

Apparently, my progesterone sucks! It should be at least 10 parts per whatever (and I've heard 25 is better); mine is 6.8. This is fantastic! Out of the sea of perfect test results, a Problem has reared its monstrous head and announced, "it is because of ME that you can't hold a pregnancy! Me! ME!" And not a hard-to-fix problem, either. What is also amazing is that the doctor himself called me the very next day after I took the test. I could get used to this kind of care... We had quite a long discussion about progesterone deficiency and treatment: using ovulation-prediction kits to know just when to start the supplements, and whether I'll stay with the suppositories or go for the intra-muscular injections. (Ewww.) On the bad side, I was (am, actually) at work, so this lively talk of periods, ovulation, and suppositories took place in the bank lobby. Hey, it's really slow and there were no customers. I think that the doctor's average patient is probably a bit older than me (seeing that he's an infertility specialist) and perhaps more mature. All I know is that I have a tendency to giggle, especially at things like this:

Doc: ... and so if it were me, I'd probably stick with the vaginal suppositories for now.

Me: that sounds really funny coming from a man. . .

I mean, it's not possible, you know? See? Anyways. Very happy, have answers, can get started baby-making again ASAP. The only nagging doubt right now is that I had been supplementing progesterone already for the last two pregnancies, but maybe it was just too little, too late? I hope so. I hope this will be the safety net I was searching for.

Netflix, Buffy, Harry, Doctor

A lot of nothing has been happening in these parts lately, hence the lack of updates. Perhaps the most exiting new development is this discovery: Seasons of television shows, on DVD, through Netflix! Oh, my. For someone with a slightly addictive personality, this is so dangerous. For example, Don was out of town most of last week (business trip), and I may or may not* have watched 12 hours of Gilmore Girls** within four evenings. Because you can get whole seasons! In order, from the very beginning, with no commercials... it's lovely. The difficulty is in remembering that you can pause the show, instead of subconsciously waiting for the commercial break to visit the bathroom or whatever, and finding yourself desperately having to go much later, not having realized that there are no commercials. It's like watching a PBS documentary-- you don't want to walk away, and yet there are no breaks! I'm working on adapting to this "DVD" concept.

Don and I are working our way through the first and second seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer too, a show that featured prominently in the early days of our friendship and thus has a nostalgia factor that's almost as appealing as the show itself. I think that any Harry Potter fan trying to come to grips with no more Harry, would do well to rediscover Buffy. Almost a year after the final book release, and I'm still saddened by the End of Harry Potter. Oh, sure, we can always re-read the books. There are movies still to come, but... whatever. To me, the movies were always a pleasant diversion, nothing more. Certainly not cannon. And yes, that encyclopedia sounds great, but it could be years more in the making. I miss that feeling of anticipation for the next book, the hours spent theorizing, analyzing details of plot and character, the heated discussions in person, on the phone, online. It's hard to close that chapter-- the chapter in which Harry Potter was this ongoing, alive thing-- even a year later. I have yet to find something that engages me the way it did.

Almost all of the lab results are back from the RE's office now. The doctor (!) called me this morning to let me know that Don's chromosome analysis was normal, and we had a chat in person about what's next. Which turns out to be... nothing. They have exhausted their battery of tests, and everything is normal. The only thing left is the progesterone, which they drew for this morning. I've been supplementing the stuff for the last two pregnancies, though, so it's probably not our issue. Especially considering that previous tests have showed it in normal range. Still, the doc said he'd write me a new prescription for it anyways, since it can't hurt. Either way, we're free to start trying again whenever we'd like. Since we have the daring to hope for a baby by next Mother's day, that means pretty soon.

You know, the weirdest part of the whole paragraph above is that the doctor called me. That has never happened before. Nurses call me. Receptionists call me. Doctors do not call me. And they do not say, "Well, if you're coming down for a blood test now, I'll rearrange some things so that we can sit down and talk for a few minutes while you're here." I finally find a doctor like this, and now I am essentially leaving his practice because they've done what they can. Ironic, yes?

Before, we had three completely unexplained miscarriages ... they could have been the result of any number of common problems. Now, we have the same three; completely unexplained, that are the result of anything except any of the usual causes of miscarriages. It's not my blood-- not a clotting disorder, nor bad antibodies. Not my genetic material, nor Don's. Not my uterus, not my tubes. And most likely, not my hormones. It's hard to wrap my mind around this bit of failure by modern medicine. Most definitely, a problem exists: three consecutive losses, no babies, it falls outside the probability of chance. And yet, the problem is undiagnosable. According to the doc's statistics, we have a 60% chance of carrying the next pregnancy to term without any kind of medical intervention. Considering that the chart lumps together everyone under 35, and combines those with 3 and those with 4 losses, it's probably a bit higher than that. He said, I can take a baby aspirin every day; even though all of the bloodwork came back normal, "It can't hurt and you never know". I can start supplementing progesterone even earlier, starting days after ovulation instead of waiting until we know we're pregnant.

I can just hold my breath, and hope that that "60%" actually applies to us.


************************************************
* I definitely did.
** Don likes this show too. I'll bet that a lot of men do but don't admit it.

They said it better.

Twenty years of schoolin' and they put you on the day shift.





Work sucks--

--I know.

Renter's Daydreams

I want to keep beehives in my backyard, harvest the honey and beeswax. I would like to have chickens-- not a lot, maybe three, or five. I want a big garden, with lots of tomatoes and zucchini, and fruit and flowers. Someday, I will make tomato sauce and raspberry preserves from scratch, from my own yard, sweetened with our own honey. I have considered keeping a milk cow, but don't know if I could deal with the responsibility, and doubt that we'll ever have that kind of land. There will be lilacs, roses, black-eyed Susans, nasturtiums, morning glories. A teepee for green beans and squash, big enough for a child to hide in. And children. Of course, of course.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

My uterus is beautiful. No, really, it is. It looks just perfect; the right shape, nothing hiding out in there, no cysts, no growths, no abnormalities, tubes all clear and leaking X-ray dye into the rest of my abdominal cavity...( Something I'd rather not consider. Where does it go after that?).

Which leaves us with absolutely no ideas re: the chronic miscarriages. Every test I've taken has returned nice, shiny, positive results. No blood-clotting factors, no overzealous antibodies, no chromosomal abnormalities. And now, a lovely, healthy-looking uterus. The doctors are doing a karyotype on Don's chromosomes now. They are to check my progesterone level later on this cycle, and we've both been prescribed a broad-spectrum antibiotic, in case there's some kind of infection involved. (Something that's easier to just treat than to look for, apparently.) But, Don's genetic material is already proven, I've was taking prescription progesterone for the last two pregnancies, and... an infection? Seriously, the odds of that being our problem are pretty small. But we're slowly ruling out all of the major causes... I'm afraid we're about to enter Unexplained Infertility land, the diagnosis that comes only after you've spent all your time and money to figure out what's wrong. The doc stated that he has confidence that our next pregnancy will work out, but that doesn't make me feel particularly warm and fuzzy. After all, he would have said the same things about the other pregnancies-- everybody else did. And while we've done scads of testing, we haven't actually changed anything since the last miscarriage, with the exception of this antibiotic regimen. I guess what comes next will depend partly on that progesterone test. If it measures low (and I think it will), then I want them to change my prescription. Either make it stronger (twice as much in every suppository), or change how it's administered, so that I take it orally or via injection. Also, I want them to write enough of a prescription so that I can start taking it way before I can even get a positive pregnancy test-- from ovulation, not twelve days later. Every month.

It turns out that the test wasn't nearly as bad as the medications I took in preparation for it. From now on, I will inform all future doctors about my extreme drug sensitivity, because my low level of pain tolerance is nothing compared to my complete inability to metabolize drugs properly. The procedure wasn't bad at all-- uncomfortable, but over in twenty minutes. But I was still throwing up from the Percoset (or was it the Valium?) four hours later, and spent all afternoon in bed with a wicked headache. Next time, I will just steel myself for the pain, take a few Advil, and refuse prescription painkillers. They are not for me. (Which is really too bad, because for the first hour or so, I felt REALLY good.)

*******************************************************************

P.S. Don turned to me last night during a commercial, and said, "Next year for Mother's Day, I'm going to get you that." I can't remember what it was, but his confidence that by this time next year, we'll be celebrating Mother's Day touched me. (Oh, I remember now. A box of Rice Crispies cereal. You'd have to see the commercial for it to make any sense at all.) I want to be pregnant again by mid-summer, assuming that by then we'll have exhausted any available tests or treatments, and it's looking that way.

P.P.S For this test, they had to do it a certain number of days after my period. Easy... just wait for period, call and make appointment. For the progesterone, he said to call X number of days BEFORE my period starts. Am I the only one that sees the difficulty in this?

P. P.P.S. Becca, how can you, as a vegan, support breastfeeding? You know that it's.... DAIRY, right?

Forget Percoset, prescribe me Prozac

Today's money goal: NO books and NO magazines for at least one month, starting today.
Next week's money goal: split tax refund deposit between savings accounts.

Speaking of which, was anyone else's refund abnormally large this year? It's kind of hard to compare because both our incomes increased year-over-year, and we got married, but it seems like a lot to me. We did owe extra state taxes, though. (You know what I miss about Texas? No state income tax.)

Next month's money goal: build a bumper in my checking account so that it doesn't drop to alarming single digits between paychecks. (Harder to do when you get paid once a week, instead of twice-monthly like normal professional people.)

Mental-health goal: stop freaking out about the HSG. I will be calm. Calm. Calm does not include biting finger-nails to below the quick, or being unable to sleep... Whatever they find in there, we can work it out. Answers are better than no answers. No matter what happens, we will someday, eventually, have our babies. We have time.

Don and I were discussing the possibility that we could end up having to do IVF, depending on what turns out to be the problem, and how often IVF leads to multiples. Twins are fine, but his take on triplets: "It just doesn't seem like a good idea to have more babies than the number of breasts you have, you know?" Surprisingly, my idea to grow a third boob to support a potential triplet was not well-received.

Totally gratuitous photo of our farmers' market booty. Strawberries already, and spinach! (Sorry, Becca, I'm sure Spring will come to where you are, someday...)

There is a FREAKING HUGE RAINBOW outside my window right now. It looks so close, like it ends right at the top of our street. Actually, there are two, but the second really isn't trying as hard and so is barely visible.



WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?


I mean, besides the fact that it's been sunny--no, raining--no, sunny!-- NO, RAINING! all damn day, (twice, I dragged the lawn chair thingie out so that I could read in the sun; both times it started raining within ten minutes) and right now it's both at the same time? Still, it's so pretty that I sort of want to go outside and gawk, even though the view from the window is just fine.

Inch by Inch...

The much-anticipated HSG (uterus + dye + X-ray test) is going to be done next week, rather than in late May or June. I am exited to be getting this under way, already, and am enjoying the contrast to the usual waiting, waiting, waiting. Now I just don't know what to hope for, in terms of results.



On the one hand, I'd love a nice, healthy, normal (albeit leaning towards the left) uterus. On the other, that would still leave me without a diagnosis, or answers of any kind re: the recurring miscarriages. But, a badly malformed, unfixable uterus would be even worse, and pretty much put an end to our baby dreams. I guess what we need is either a slightly messed-up thingie, or else a perfect one, plus answers coming from elsewhere, like the testing they're about to do on Don. Although that could be bad, too, depending on what comes up. Please, let us have a fixable problem!

Change-monger

Don and I were watching a really interesting Discovery-Channel type thing the other night, about how for the last 10,000 years the planet has been between ice ages. Apparently, everything that humanity has accomplished in that time, we owe to this warming trend. It does sort of explain things, considering that we've been around maybe 200,000 years as humans, and yet only got around to, say, agriculture, permanent civilization or the Internet in the last 10K. It'd be like waking up and just lolling around all day on the sofa, then at 11:30pm, opening the front door and taking off sprinting down the street because it finally got warm enough to go outside... Fascinating stuff. Then I realized (and this is where I switch from my out-of-character talk about interesting scientific stuff back to the usual navel-gazing) that I have this sort of disturbing tendency to root for disaster. "Wow, another ice age. That would be awesome!" So New York would be crushed by a sheet of ice 2 miles thick... OK, whatever. Same with the "economic crisis"; I keep secretly wondering exactly how bad it's going to get, but in an almost gleeful kind of way. I don't even know why, except that it's been a long time coming, and a correction of some kind is much-needed, even if it's just that credit becomes less easily available...

Weird, I know.

Falling for dogs that aren't your own

Good news, part A: I have normal chromosomes. (Insert major sigh of relief here!)

Good news, part B: Don's insurance seems to cover paternal karyotyping.

Irksome news: My RE office has misplaced Don's insurance information, so I have to bring it to them again. Just as I did two weeks ago! This is not helping with that recurring feeling I have of being on a repeating loop of time.

I'm not that worried about Don's genetic material, for various reasons that I won't put here. The next logical step in the Neverending Fertility Quest is (of course) the Uterus Exam, the timing of which is a fragile thing: depending on my cycle, my work schedule, and the doctor's schedule. I think we're looking at the end of May, maybe? I ovulated freakishly late this month, so I have no idea when to expect my period... The challenge right now is remaining un-pregnant until all these tests can be done. Now that we've gotten pregnant on the first or second try three times in a row, we take it a bit more seriously than before. . .

And on the Interesting News front, my sister is finally coming to claim her dog. You know, the dog we agreed to watch from August to October, and have had ever since? The dog that Don has completely fallen in love with and doesn't want to give back? This is going to be painful. (For him.) It should be noted, though, that Don is kind of easy when it comes to dogs. He falls in love with every dog that he spends time with, and that loves him back. I'm sure he'll get over it, right?

Right?

*******************************************************************

Two days ago was the anniversary of our first miscarriage. I can't believe it has been one year, already, since this. On a brighter note, it was also the 7-year anniversary of Alice's adoption from the animal shelter.

Tax Day

Public Service Announcement: the people working in banks are not tax experts. We are not CPAs. We have never taken a single class or lesson in tax preparation, because that's not even close to our job; we know enough to file our own taxes and that's about it. It is not even legal for us to offer tax advice without being certified to do so. Thank you.


Don and I filed our taxes last night, which was weird: April 14th is so early for us. There's nothing like the promise of a juicy rebate check to get us to fall in line. Tonight will be the first April 15th in quite some time that didn't feature (literally) 11th-hour preparations... I'm not sure what to do with the evening now. Not to mention that it was our first time that we could claim "married, filing jointly" instead of "single": how utterly romantical. To honor, to cherish, and to share a single 1040 form...


No interesting results from all those blood tests yet. The four that were being re-run came back normal, but the one that is new and exiting (genetic karyotype thingie) won't have results for awhile yet. I probably won't be able to do the HSG until May, as my coworker's heart surgery seems to outrank my exploratory procedure. (What, there's something more important in this world than my uterus? Surely not!) So, the whole fertility thing is going kind of slowly. Sometimes I feel fine about that, rational, but sometimes I just feel frantic as I feel the weeks slipping by, still undiagnosed and nonpregnant. I wonder how old I'll be when (if?) I finally have a baby in my arms... something I thought would have happened quite some time ago now. Anyways....

I love that Googling "washing mildewed towels" nets 11,700 hits, and that wikiHow has an entry specifically for it. It makes me feel less alone in the world to know that so many other people have forgotten the towels in the wash.

Bits of thoughts

Blood tests: annoying.
Having to fast for said tests: more annoying.
Having the blood tests take three times longer than expected, done by an incompetent student nurse with no people skills to speak of, thereby making me stumble into work late and dizzy with hunger, as my get-breakfast-after-fasting-and-bloodletting time had disappeared: really freaking annoying.

Next time, I am going to show up as early as possible, pack a snack, and request the good nurse. Live and learn and all that.

We watched Walk the Line on cable last night. It didn't suck, but why on earth did the directors decide to let the actors sing, instead of dubbing in the original voices of Johnny Cash and June Carter? Their incredible sound was kind of the whole point, and without it, the movie is kind of flat.

Everything is lovely here. Beautiful, cool-rainy-breezy weather, flowers everywhere, trees budding. Saturday held the first farmers' market of the year, and it was like a festival. I think Virginia is taunting me for thinking of leaving for the land of Oppressive Heat.

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.

(none)

I have started and left unfinished many entries in the past week-- I think I have thinker's block. Of course part of it was that my RE appointment was today, and all I could do was whine about the waiting. Also, it's hard to follow up after a post like the previous, you know?

Thoughts about the RE appointment.

1. Why are so many REs and obstetricians men? I would love to think that thousands of male doctors just really, really want to help us women/ couples get pregnant and deliver our babies, or that they just find the whole reproductive process incredibly interesting, but I can't help but feel that the money is a major factor. There seems to be a lot more money in these fields than, say, pediatrics or family medicine. This clinic is downright posh, part of a spanking-new medical complex, and filled with luxe touches. I wish it was a sign of their success, but insurance companies have to pay for unsucessful treatments, too.

2. I like old-fashioned hospital gowns that are actually made of cloth and have sleeves and tie in the back. So much better than either the paper gowns or the kind where you have to snap the sleeves together.

3. I have a bad feeling that the next test (the HSG) is going to be scheduled for the exact day that I'm supposed to attend a training conference thingie. The clinic only does these procedures on Wednesday mornings, apparently, and the only week it can be done is the week after one's period started. That translates to one day out of the entire month in which this procedure can be done, and--if I can hazard a guess as to when my period will come-- that is one day of work I can't miss. What the hell.

4. The good doctor has prescribed me Valium and Percocet to take before the HSG. He is apparently reccommending them because of my reaction to the Pap smear/ vaginal exam. I have previously been under the impression that this is an uncomfortable-bordering-on-painful experience for any woman, but now I'm thinking maybe not? It's not as though we really discuss these things. Given my oversensitivity to drugs of any kind, how am I going to handle both of these at once, and on a work day? Oy vey.

Thoughts on work/ Things that are good about my job:

The hours. Always home before 5:30, never have to be there earlier than 8. It would be hard to go back to a retail-type job after that.

The pay. Not that I'm making tons of money or anything, just that I'm priced out of entry-level for most types of work. The only way to maintain what I earn is to stay in the same field and utilize my experience, but that wouldn't be any better than just staying here.

The benefits. Of which I am partaking liberally at the moment.

Not that any of that changes what I said previously--that it is making me unhappy and nuts-- but it makes it harder to just chuck it all and get a job making espresso drinks somewhere, or working retail, or waiting tables. In a way, it was all easier when I was making ten dollars an hour and not worrying about health insurance.

Not About My Uterus, for Once!

The stress-eating that Vanished an entire bag of cookies is not due to the miscarriage/ infertility drama. I'm actually feeling pretty sanguine about that; excited about my appointment next week and fairly confident that it will all be OK soon. No, unfortunately, it is work that is driving me to the Ben&Jerry's.

I almost never talk about my work here. For one thing, it's boring. I don't relish my days at work so much that I want to relive them in my entries. Work is simple, black-and-white, and requires no thought or analysis afterwards. For another, it's dangerous to talk about work on the Internet. Careless writers can and do get fired for revealing too much information, or even just for insulting the wrong people. In the past, I have made the uncomfortable discovery that at least one person I worked with was reading my blog unannounced, which reinforces the fact that you never know who's reading. For all I know, my manager reads this blog. (Or my 'little' brother--who has the nerve to suddenly be almost six feet tall and have a (really fantastic) girlfriend-- if you're reading this, munchkin, I do not recall giving you permission to grow up.) Or former friends, ex-boyfriends, whoever. You just never know, so I clear away from work-based issues and concentrate on my private life, figuring that anyone who wants to read about my uterus, my dog, or my Harry Potter obsession is welcome to do so.

Now, I'm going to break all my own rules and spill about work. Don't worry, Powers-that-Be; I'm not going to suddenly name the corporation that I work for, or dish any insider secrets. It's just that things have been coming to a head, and gradually/suddenly/lately(?) I find myself wanting to leave. My job has gone from merely not making me happy, to actively making me unhappy. I no longer wake up neutral about going to work, but dreading it. And it's not just my manager (although it's not NOT her, either), but the entire situation. My talent for fitting in almost anywhere has warped me somewhat, and makes it difficult to see when the square-peg/round-hole situation just isn't working anymore. I am not a salesperson. I never have been, I never will be. I'm too introverted, too honest, and not nearly motivated enough by money to sell things to people. And yet, my job is partially based on sales. It's not the only thing I do by a long shot, but it's the part that I'm measured by.

I have opportunity, in my job, to do good things-- that I am proud of, that I even enjoy. I get to help people, sometimes, and educate them; sometimes I can diffuse difficult situations just by listening and being empathetic. But nobody above me cares about that. I don't mean that in a wah-wah-wah, nobody-appreciates-the-good-that-I-do sort of way, just that it's not the part of my job that produces "results", and it's natural for a company to focus (solely) on the results.

Part of this unhappiness is the fact that there is very little similarity between my job and my job description. Every day, most of what I do is not what I "should" be doing as a ____-- and let's be frank, my pay and such are based on that job title. Because this company is so big, I can compare being the ___ here, with being one somewhere else, simply by chatting with old friends. I supervise two other associates-- definitely not part of being a ____. Supervisors and managers definitely get more pay and more status than ____s get, as they should. I am in charge of operational issues-- auditor stuff-- which again is not a part of the job. It's all due to the unusual set-up at this location. At a typical location, there is one person, who in addition to her regular duties, also orders all the supplies. Another, who is in charge of the cash vault, in addition to regular duties. A supervisor, who's main job is to oversee the operations/ audit stuff. At least of couple of salespeople, who do nothing but create new sales and address customer problems. And of course the manager and perhaps an assistant manager, to oversee everyone else. Where I work, there is just me, and two other girls. I do the ordering, the cash vault, the operational stuff. I do all the sales, handle all the customer problems, and oversee the other two associates, in addition to just handling regular transactions. Frankly, I'm exhausted and annoyed. There is never a single day when I feel as though I finished everything, or, lately, that I even care enough to want to. I don't get the support I need from the manager and assistant manager, who would prefer to not deal with our tiny little branch except to claim credit for the sales we make. My manager has tried to convince me that I'm gaining valuable experience by taking on all these extras, but when it comes down to it, my resume will still say: am a _____. It's not as though I can claim to be anything else, regardless of whatever I do all day.

I am tired of the Wednesday morning Sales conference call, the Thursday morning Operations call, the Friday morning staff meeting, and--recently-- the Tuesday morning Associate Appreciation conference call, which is so ludicrous that someone must be reading Dilbert, because the best way to appreciate your staff is to NOT make them come in early yet another day of the week. I am paid by the hour, but not allowed to accumulate extra time beyond the 35 hours I'm allotted; I can't come in late or leave early, so I am reduced to ridiculous contortions to get rid of the extra hours created by having to come in early three or four days a week. That doesn't even include the Saturdays I work; I have to "lose" those hours as well. It is well-nigh impossible to get rid of four hours in addition to all the rest, when leaving early isn't an option. It is not unusual for me to have to come in early for a call, help with opening, then have to "disappear" for several hours to make up the difference, and then be questioned at the end of the day for not getting enough sales.

For the first time in three years, I am considering leaving this company and seeking employment elsewhere. I know that I have useful, valuable skills, and that somewhere out there is a job I can do well and that would make me reasonably happy-- or least, not make me miserable. I have squashed myself into this job and stayed in it, for all the wrong reasons: security, money, health insurance. These are not reasons to remain in a negative situation, I know. But I don't know what I'm going to do.

Diet-- what diet?

ARghhhh. I just ate two-thirds of a bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies in less than an hour. Emotional eating, much?

I feel ill.