My God is bigger

My God is bigger than all of my fears. He just simply is. Yes, you know what, this might turn out badly. And if it does, I will survive.

But it probably won't. Because my God is bigger. Because He has a plan, whether I can see it or not.


And in other news: I'm a homeowner!!!!!!
I didn't sleep well last night, so I'm cutting this short and heading to bed early, but I thought 2 happy posts in a row was warranted.

Thank you for all the positive comments, emails, IMs, phone calls, etc...they mean the world to me. Even if I don't respond. (I still love you! I promise!)

What a difference a day makes. Take 2.

Ok. I'm back.
And again, I say. I refuse to give up on my little Poppy.

Hey, we've made it this far! 10 weeks today! In my crazy-girl mind, I thought if I could just make it this long, I'd be fine. So I'm going to stick with that.

Everything is going to be fine. Besides, what is stressing about it getting me? A lot of sleepless nights and stress I just don't need to deal with. I'm sad and nothing has happened. Well now, if that's not silly, I just don't know what is. And it's not like I'm the only woman ever to have a tough pregnancy. So I'm telling myself to put on my big girl panties and deal with it.

Anyway, just thought I'd share.

Oh, and in other news, in 24 hours the HG and I will be homeowners! Whoo hooo!!!!

What a difference a day makes.

I take back my big sigh of relief.

I don't even know what to make of this anymore. I don't know how to cope. I don't know how to handle it. I don't know how to be optimistic anymore.

Above all, I don't know how this can turn out OK.

If it's possible, the spotting is worse and scarier than it's been. And yet it's not actual bleeding. Oh, it's blood, there is no question of that. But it's still just spotting. I'm not sure I'll be able to say that much longer.

After a fantastic day yesterday (no spotting! Heartbeat!!), I woke up to more of the same. More and worse. I have the HG on standby to leave for the ER. I have my doctor on speed dial. I took a shower and shaved my legs (hey, I'm not going to the hospital all nasty! I might be sad, but I'm not gross.) And now I'm lying in bed hoping for the best and preparing for the worst.

It's raining out. A lot. And it really matches my mood. My babies (the Sir and Babygirl--the best kitties ever) are sitting at the foot of my bed. Babygirl is keeping a close eye on me and the sir is occasionally bumping me with his head to let me know he loves me. They're good babies. I'm glad it's raining. If it was sunny, they'd be out on the porch looking for bugs to terrorize. But instead they're here with me. The HG is in his man-cave working. I think that's good. I don't want to talk about it out loud.

I have a friend on the way over to watch movies and order in some dinner. I hope I can find the strength to be happy. I'm just so tired.

It just feels so cruel. I've tried for 2 years to get pregnant. We worked so hard at it. And yes, I got pregnant on a "break" cycle. I know that. We got lucky. But it doesn't feel so lucky anymore. It feels like a cruel, cruel joke. The second I allow myself to get excited or to be optimistic, the spotting starts up again. Just read my post from yesterday. I was so happy. So excited. So optimistic.

I even planned to go buy a Bella Band today (or whatever Motherhood's alternative is). And I kid you not, not 3 minutes after I solidified plans to go to the mall with a friend, the spotting started up again. Worse than ever. (I will spare you all the details. Even in this state of mind, I'm a giver.) So I ask you: What is the point of optimism? What is the point of thinking the best? All it does it make things worse. I can't do it any more. I don't want to think the worst, but I don't know how not to.

All I ever wanted was a happy, healthy pregnancy. I mean, we worked so hard to get here. So hard. And now....this? Really? It's just not fair. And I know, I know. Life isn't fair. Trust me, I get that. I know I'm blessed in many, many, many ways. Does that mean I'm not allowed to be blessed with a child, too? Does that mean I have to suffer so painfully right now? Because I'm blessed in other ways? Somehow that doesn't seem right. I know plenty of other people who are equally, if not more, blessed. I mean, when you count up my blessings, and I'm not complaining about them, but when you really look at them, they're not all that out of the ordinary. I have a good job. I married a good guy with a good job. We saved money and bought a house. I'm not sure I'm special. It all seems kind of normal to me. Not that I take them for granted, I do not. I know it could be very different. I know it could be worse. I know I could lose my job, the HG could lose his....a lot of "bad" things could happen to us. But because they haven't, I should somehow have to suffer through this? Is that how this works? I don't think so. That's not how I always understood the world to work. So why does it feel that way now?

Let me try to explain how I feel.
Some of you may know just how painfully afraid of flying I am. And for those of you who don't, let's just say, the HG likened me to a cat in a bath the first time he and I flew together. I was so terrified that I drew blood on his hand from grasping it so tightly. So flying is not my thing. We fly to Florida to see the Florida family at least once a year. It takes a night of not sleeping (so I'm nice and sleepy) and a triple dose of xanax to get me on the plane. Then I have to take 2 more doses of xanax on the flight. It's a 2 hour flight. I'm not just afraid of flying, I'm terrified of it. And the whole time I'm on the plane, I have the sensation that at any moment the plane will plunge from the sky. I sit on the edge of my seat waiting for that inevitable moment where I feel us rapidly losing altitude. Imagine how it would feel to be on a roller coaster, blindfolded, without a seatbelt. The drop is coming, you just don't know when. That's how I feel on a plane.

And that's how I've felt for the past almost 2.5 months. Only without the xanax.
And I'm not sure how much longer I can keep it up.

Yes, I would take this feeling over the feeling of loss and despair I'd have should I actually lose this little baby. But I really can't take this feeling anymore, either. And I don't know how to stop it. Because I fear this anxiety and fear is just a precursor to the despair I'm about to feel.

How am I supposed to stop feeling this way? I can't stop the spotting. I can't stop the bleeding. I can't do anything but wait and see. Wait and see. Wait and see.

But for how long? Certainly this can't keep up for the next 30 weeks, right? And if it does, will I ever get used to it?

In the meantime, I think I'm going to continue to pay for COBRA. Our infertilty benefits were provided by my previous company's benefits. So we've been paying to keep them for the past year. I can keep them through next June. At this point it seems prudent to keep them. Just in case.

And now I'm going to go try to be happy. I'll let you know how it goes.

Big Sigh (Relief)

I have to say, it really sucks that they can't figure out what's wrong. But at least my doctor is really good about seeing me when I need to be seen.

The HG and I made an emergency trip to the OB this afternoon. After a very scary afternoon yesterday, I called the OB this morning and they wanted me in right away. Which, frankly, is easier said than done.

I was in the car on the way to a work meeting when the nurse called me back. It was a non-optional meeting. That was at 11am. We agreed I'd come in a 1pm. So my morning looked something like this:

11-11:30 Rush meeting with customer (hurry! stop talking! I have places to be.....)
11:30-11:45 Run to DD to feed my aching belly. Oh, so hungry. Also, change out of suit coat into sweater
11:45-12:05 Rush, rush, rush back to the office to tell them what's going on
12:05-12:10 Look frantically for someone to talk to. Damn this "lunch hour" thing.
12:10-12:11 Confess to boss that I'm pregnant. Went well. "Hi, I'm pregnant and my OB needs to see me ASAP." Blessesdly, my boss is a man and wasn't going to ask. I should have just told him it was that time of the month.
12:12-12:29 Fight traffic and torrential downpours to pick up the HG (hey, I'm not going through this alone) at work
12:30-12:55 Fight more traffic and rain to get to the hosptial
12:55-12:55:30 Change out of dress pants into jeans in the parking lot (hi, I soooo need to stop trying to wear my "regular clothes")
12:55:30-12:59 Navigate 3 foot deep puddles, some girl from the psych ward on her weekend pass, and broken elevators to get to the office on time
12:59-1:55 Wait in doctors office for my turn

Good times.

But finally the nurse came in and said she'd try to get the heartbeat on the little office ultrasound. "However," she said, "you're a big girl, so we'll see if I can get it." Hi, yeah, I prefer the term "fatty" thank you very much. Anyway. She also said that if she couldn't get the heartbeat, it didn't mean anything. We'd just be in "limbo" until I could get in for a real ultrasound on Monday. Now, to a normal person, this is a reasonable suggestion. I, however, am NOT a normal person. The prospect of having to wait all weekend for an answer was not a pleasant one.

But I didn't have to wait. After helpfully pushing my fat out of the way ("you hold your tummy out of the way, please" this nurse and I are gonna fight!), the nurse was able to find the heartbeat on the ultrasound right away.
Phew.

And as a bonus, she set me up for what she called a "Maternal Reassurance Check" on Wednesday. In other words, they'll let the crazy pregnant chick come back on Wednesday to check for a heartbeat again.

I'm feeling much better today! MUCH better!

I'm so over this.

Make it stop.
That is really all I have to say.

I am not so slowly going insane and frankly, it sucks.
And so I repeat.
Make is stop.

I'd like my life back, please.

I was ROBBED!

I was born in 1974 (if you do the math, you'll come up with 33. I'm not sure how that works, since I'm only 26, but I'm more an English girl anyway....) so I did a lot of growing up in the 80's. I have a picture of me in an acid wash mini-skirt with an oversizsed Guess? t-shirt, silver conch shell belt, keds, and like 4 pairs of socks to prove it. Spikey hair and all. And as a certified child of the 80's, I am a New Kids on the Block fan. Not like a super fan or anything. I never had posters, pins, books, a Trapper Keeper, sheets, shoes, dolls (excuse me "action figures"), or ok, even any of their tapes. But I was fan. And in my defense, we were under a veritable "media blackout" in my house.

No really. When I was around 10, my father decided that "secular" music, books, and TV was going to send us all to Hell. So the TV was moved to the closet (funny, though, the TV in my parent's room was allowed to stay. Guess dad wasn't worried about going to Hell....) and the radio was banned. All books were pre-screened for acceptability. It was pure craziness.

When my older sister learned to drive, she and I would ride around town listening to the "Evil" music on Kiss FM. Then we'd change the station back to the Christian one right before we pulled in. Somehow, we got busted every.single.time. How? Well, I'll tell you. The Christian station was one channel lower on the dial than Kiss. So my dad would get in the car, hit a button, and the last station played would come up.

Or so I thought. In reality what happened is that dad would get in the car, hit the "scan" button and the radio would automatically seek out the next station. Then he'd turn to us and say "Is there something you want to tell me?" And we'd confess. Man were we stupid. The best part of this story? Yeah. I just figured it out like last year.

But none of this kept me from loving NKOTB. In my sad, pre-adolescent mind, I was totally, totally Hangin Tough. Or something like that. All I know is that I knew every lyric of every song. Know. Not "knew" or remember. Know. Yeah, I'm pathetic. But you know what? I'm totally fine with it! So fine with it, in fact that when the local radio station started running a contest to win tickets to the concert this weekend, I dialed as fast as my bloated little fingers would dial. Ok, I have the station on speed dial. Stop nitpicking.

I have tried to win a couple of times (couple=everyday for the past 2 weeks) and haven't even gotten a busy signal. Until today. I dialed once. And heard: Caller 21!!
OMG OMG OMG I'M SO GOING TO SEE THE NKOTB!
I giddily waited for them to take my name and address and record my crazy squeals for everyone in the area to hear.

But all I heard was dial tone.
What?!? Where are my tickets? I was totally caller 21! I won!
But I got nothin but dial tone.

The radio robbed me. Sigh.

I suppose in the end it's for the best. I'm not sure how dancing to The Right Stuff all night would fit into my "pelvic rest". But really. That's not the point.
Stupid radio.

Maybe Dad was right. Radio is from the devil after all.

Back up off me.

Alright, alright. I know. It's been a long time since I blogged. I'm tired. Hi, I'm growing a human.

Ok, that's a terrible excuse. Like sitting on my fatty butt and typing for a few minutes is so difficult. It's more that I don't know what to say. I thought that NOT being pregnant was hard emotionally. Being pregnant is harder. If that's possible. What's that saying "be careful what you wish for...." I think it's true.

I soooo badly wanted to be pregnant. If I could just get pregnant, I'd be OK. I'd just KNOW everything was going to be OK. That's what all my friends said. You'll just know it's fine. You'll feel it in your heart. I feel nothing like that. I feel fear and panic on a daily basis.

But that's not all. I also feel a sort of peace. Yes, I'm spotting on a daily basis. And that is simply terrifying. And it makes me think of all kinds of terrible thoughts. Starting with "I'm going to miscarry" and ending somewhere along the lines of "My baby has a horrible defect and only the progesterone I'm taking is keeping me from miscarrying." Hi, I'm crazy. If you've been reading my blog for any length of time, you know that. If you're new, please make a note. I'm crazy. It really makes my mental ramblings easier to understand if you just accept that I'm not sane.

But Ok, so I'm spotting. It's not much (TMI alert...please skip the next sentence if you don't want to know)...it's generally just a dot or two of red. Or a red streak once or twice a day. I never need a panty liner. It doesn't last all day. (Hey, you were warned. Karma points for me for warning you.) My nurse calls it "scant". Whatever. I call it "scary as shit". Po-tay-toe/po-tah-toe. Then I think that if it was going to turn into more, it would have, right? (This is where you all chime in and tell me it'll be OK)

Let's discuss my day. I start off completely optimistic. I am pregnant! I'm going to be MOM. There is a little heartbeat (and legs! We saw them!) living inside me. And it's not mine! Yay! Then every time I go to the bathroom and have a "safe" trip, I feel more and more reassured that in April, we will come home with a healthy baby. Then it starts. Sometimes it's bearly noticeable. I wonder if it's really there or if it's all in my mind. So I keep checking. Until I get the confirmation of what I was afraid of. And then every reassurance I felt that everything is OK flies out the window. And the terror is back.

It's sad. My mom wants to talk about the baby. My sisters want to talk about it. My MIL wants to talk about it. Heck, **I** want to talk about it. But I feel like as soon as I start to feel good, it starts up again. So I avoid it. As though by avoiding talking about the baby I can prevent the spotting. As tough I have that kind of power. If I did, this stupid spotting would have stopped already. Because I try the mind body connection thing on a daily basis. You know, the new-age touchy feeling theory that you can heal yourself by thinking it. For the record, it doesn't work.

You know what else doesn't work? Prayer. I have prayed and prayed and prayed for it to just stop already. Just stop. I can't take it anymore. But it doesn't. Of course, I also pray and pray and pray for Poppy to be just fine and frankly, if I can only get 1/2 of what I pray for, I'll take that, thank you very much. So really, I'm not even complaining about that. Just pointing it out!

So I wonder. Will blogging about it have any effect? What do you think? Perhaps the Internet has some power I'm not aware of. Any chance I can ask you all to pray for me? And Poppy? And the poor HG? The HG has been a trooper. I have to say he's like the best and stuff. In addition to dealing with a really nasty work problem (think absolute terror on a daily basis of being fired--for the record, this won't happen and was never going to happen. But I, of all people, understand irrational fear), finishing his Master's thesis, and buying a house, he's been dealing with the crazy, terrorized wife. For real. If ever I wondered if I married the right guy (um, I never have but if I ever had), those thoughts would have been put to rest after all of this. He is a trooper. I don't know where he gets the strength to deal with it all. I wonder if he taps my Xanax....hmmmm....

To sum up this rambling, not so amusing post, I'm a crazy girl. Who is going crazier with every passing day. And as I cannot take any xanax, Valium, lithium, or even aspirin, please send help. Post haste.

PS--The HG has reassured me that he does not tap my Xanax: "It's expired anyway." Good to know.

We have heartbeat!

114 BPM!
The ultrasound tech made me lay down completely on the table, making it incredibly difficult for me to diagnose myself. So I had to ask her if she saw a flicker. She did. I immediately started crying. The HG panicked and said "What's a 'flicker'?" I love the HG. He had no idea if my tears were tears of joy or pain. Once I choked out "heartbeat" he started to tear up, too. Poppy is alone in there and has a heartbeat! Poppy's gestational sac measures 6 weeks, 2 days and our little overachiever is measuring at 7 weeks! What more could we ask for?

I'll tell you what more I could ask for....
Some symptoms. I'd love some morning sickness. Boobs that are sore to the touch. Heartburn. Something. I just don't feel very pregnant. I want to know everything is OK in there. I know, I know, I know. A heartbeat is the best news at this stage. There is nothing more I can know or ask for right now. I know. But it's hard not to want more.

And I'll tell you why I'm worried this time. I'm worried because my progesterone level dropped. It went from 14 up to 21 then down to 15. So I'm freaking out. But you know what? It's my own fault. I asked. The doctor had no interest in sharing it with me. She wasn't going to mention it. Why? Because she wasn't worried. So please, someone, please tell me why I am? Please? I just want to be able to relax and enjoy this and so far, I'm not. Even though everything is looking good. A heartbeat is a really good sign. It's the best indicator of a viable pregnancy. It's what I prayed for. And yet. Sigh. I want to stop worrying. Perhaps after next week's ultrasound, I'll feel better.

Yes, that's right, I get another one next week. Because I was released to OB. Yikes. That's scary. I like the comfort of seeing the RE every week. Of having repeat betas to see that number going up. But my RE is letting me go to OB because I have a "normal" pregnancy. Why doesn't that reassure me? What will reassure me? Probably labor.

And then I'm sure I'll find something new and fun to obsess over. This child will give me sleepless, prayer-filled nights from now till the end of time, won't it?

Here's what I've decided.

I refuse to accept defeat.
This is my little poppy and I'm not going to accept anything less than a perfect pregnancy from here on out.

Here is the story. I have been spotting on and off since the very beginning of this pregnancy. At first I didn't think anything of it. It was light and was really only pinkish. And it's really quite common during the first few days of pregnancy. Then it changed to bright, scary red. But it's only on the TP, never any more than a very little bit. And despite the increase, my numbers keep going up, up, up. So really, what am I worried about?

Plus, boobs bigger? Check! Sore? Well, sort of, but they never were. So check! Nausea? Well, no. But then again it's early and morning sickness doesn't usually start this early. Food aversions? Oh CHECK! Big, ginormous check! (For the record, Poppy doesn't do too much cheese, zucchini, green beans, or malted milk balls.) Hungry? Check, check, check! Which doesn't help when nothing sounds good. (oh, except milk. YUM!) Tired? There isn't a check mark big enough and I'm not even sure "tired" is an accurate description. Mood swings? Ok, well this isn't a fair one. I'm the queen of mood swings. But Ok, I'll bite. Check.

So we had our ultrasound yesterday. And it was a mixed bag. Oh wait. It was great! I'm only giving good news from now on because this baby WILL be ok. I just know it. (Ah well, now I'm tearing up. What mood swings?) So at the ultrasound, all they could see was the little gestational sack. But I'm only roughly 5 weeks, so that's not unexpected. In fact, it's a reach to say I was even a full 5 weeks on tuesday. I'm fairly certain I ovulated on August 5th (hey, we infertiles can often time it to the minute...) but that doesn't mean I conceived on the 5th. So a gestational sack at late 4 weeks/early 5 weeks is just fine. And it was where it belongs! Which, for the record, is the uterus. Rather than say, my ear. Or fallopian tube. So that's a good thing! And, the best news of all--they can find NO source of bleeding in my uterus. And none in my cervix either. The only source of bleeding they could actually find was some irritation on my cervix. And my cervix was closed. All of that is the best they could possibly hope for this early.

I'll have a repeat ultrasound on Tuesday (which should be late 5 weeks/early 6). At that point, we'll be looking to see a little fetal pole (Poppy is a pole dancer!) Ok. Not really. The fetal pole is actually the little baby. They should also see a yolk sac (mmmm...Poppy loves eggs!) which nourishes the little poppy. I'd LOVE to see a heartbeat. Honestly, I could use some prayers for a good, strong heartbeat. So please send some up for me, the HG, and our little Poppy. We're really quite attached (some of us more literally than others....) to the little guy.

And you know what? Positive thinking is really the way to work this. Earlier today I told this same story to my mother, with a lot more doom and gloom. And wow. It put me in a bad mood. So not having that. Poppy needs a happy place to live.

So I'm about to go feed the Poppy something yummy (not sure what that'll be yet. I'm only good for deciding on food about 3 or 4 minutes in advance. And by the time it gets to my plate, I'm no longer interested....) and celebrate good thesis news with the HG!

Wait, don't I get 12 years?

Seriously. I thought your children weren't supposed to give you sleepless nights until they were almost teenagers.

This one has only been around for like 12 days and it's already keeping me up at night. I've had some red spotting--the scary kind they tell you you don't want to see--so I'm having an early ultra sound in the morning. I'll only be 5 weeks, so there isn't much they'll be able to tell me. Just that my little poppy is still in there and safe. Or maybe that poppy has a friend in there. Wouldn't that be something?

Twins is a bit of a stretch for a girl with one good fallopian tube and an ovary that doesn't like to ovulate, but my numbers have been reasonably good, so doc says there's a chance. Hmmmm....maybe the blood was the two of them duking it out for the best view. Or if there's only one, maybe poppy was just haning up some pictures and curtains to settle in for the long haul.

I'm not really in the mood to blog. I'm just scared. I want my poppy(ies) to be OK. Please pray.

OH, did I mention?

In addition to a new poppy, we're buying a house. The HG and I are on a life changing roll!

Check out the pictures of our new pad. http://picasaweb.google.com/idkmybffk8/House
Fancy, huh? Ok, not so fancy, but perfect for us and our new little family!

We close September 30th and barring a total collapse of the mortgage industry, we should be good to go! And frankly, if the entire mortgage industry collapses, well, not getting our house is really the least of our worries. Just sayin. (Note to Freddie and Fannie--hang in there! You can do it! Do they have progesterone for mortgage lenders???)

So many happy changes make me nervous. I know, I need to focus on the positive, not the negative. I know that. But still, after many false starts, it's hard to believe this is really happening. This is the third house we've tried to buy. We lost the first 2 after inspection. Apparently a cracked foundation and bad electrical="move in ready!". I suppose if you want your house to collapse in a fiery mess, that's not so bad. The HG and I are more high maintenance than that. You know, we have this thing about safety. Crazy kids.

Now that the house and the baby are happening, I'm just nervous. I'm not sure how to handle all this good news. And does good news get balanced with bad news? I mean, I also recently got a raise and a promotion. Is this too good for one person? The paranoid crazy bitch in me is spinning out of control. Is it fair for me to get what I want in such a short period of time? Is it a disaster waiting to happen?

For the record, I am unbelievably happy about this pregnancy, the new house, and the job. I feel so incredibly blessed right now. The HG and I have been blessed beyond my wildest expectations. But I guess I don't know how to NOT worry. For years I've worried for the 2 weeks after I O'd...would **this** be our cycle? And then it wasn't. And I'd spend the next 2 weeks worrying about when I'd O, what was wrong with me, would it ever happen... The worry was never ending. And then, it finally WAS our cycle. And it ended before I had a chance to enjoy it. So I think it's just so normal for me to worry, I don't know how not to.

But I'm working on it. I repeat 1st Samuel 1:27 to myself all the time: I prayed for this child, and the LORD has granted me what I asked of him. (NIV) It's become my mantra. So much so that I want to name the baby Sam--Samantha or Samuel. And I'm going to stencil it in the nursery. I cannot express how blessed I feel. I just wish my joy could over come the worry. With every passing day, it gets a little better. My mother says it will never end. Hmmm...do you suppose the Donster still worries about me? I hope so. Mom, if you're reading this, hi, can you worry about this one for me? It's exhausting. Plus, I have to save up my worry. This little poppy is going to need me to screw him up once he's here...I mean, I didn't send my RE to Aruba, I'm going to have to do my part to keep the medical community in vacations, so it's only fair that I make sure my kids need years and years of therapy. And if I keep up this whole worry thing, I'm going to be wicked successful. (note to therapists: you're welcome.)

Oh! There's a thought. I can't give my worry to my mom...but I'm sure I can give it to God. He can have it. He's like, WAY bigger than me. Despite my big swimmer's shoulders (and occasional fashion faux pas with shoulder pads...), my shoulders simply can't handle all the worry. And His are specifically designed to handle my worries. So I'm over it.

For now.

But, despite my fears, I'm loving this pregnancy thing.
Me to HG: "I'm thirsty"
HG: "Oh yeah?"
Me: "Yeah."
HG: "Juice?"
Me:"Yes please."
Ahhhhh. I can finally be waited on. Next time I'm gonna test the waters on having him run to the store of something we don't have....like guava nectar and lobster.
Bwah hahaha.

So I have news.

I'm pregnant.
Me.
I'M
PREGNANT.

Take THAT Baby Nazi.

So, the logical question is: how did that happen?
Well, kids. When a man and a woman love each other very much, sometimes they do a special hug. And if they do the special hug at the right time, sometimes the woman gets pregnant.

Rough translation: we did this one on our own! No needles. No monitoring. No egg retrieval. No embryo transfer. We did it the old fashioned way. Bow chika wow wow... The HG is so proud of himself. His guys can swim and you'd think he taught them himself based on the way he struts around the house. I suppose sometimes it's the little things.

Speaking of little things, right now my little miracle is the size of a poppy seed. I wonder if it would test positive for opiates right now. Note to poppy seed: drugs are bad. Except progesterone. Progesterone is good. Very good. It keeps the little poppy seed right where it should be! Growing big and strong in mommy's uterus.

Of course, progesterone isn't all kicks. First of all, it's icky. I mean, it's not exactly a pill I swallow...it's more like one that gets up close and personal with my cervix. Yum. You should not eat it. So it's in my body and it warms up and melts. And well. Ick.

Secondly, it can cause some spotting. Which freaks me out every time. But it's not unheard of since the cervix is such a sensitive part of the body. It doesn't take much to irritate it. And when it gets irritated, it bleeds ever so slightly. Funny, because when I get irritated, I yell. And not ever so slightly, either. Though I guess if the alternative is bleeding, a little yelling isn't so bad. Imagine if instead of yelling at Macy's employees (bad, bad Kate, you so lose Karma points), I bled all over them? Um. I'm sure that would earn me a trip to the exit door escorted by the mall's finest rent a cops.

Speaking of mall rent-a-cops at our mall have taken to riding Segway. Ok, seriously, not to judge or anything, but the already have the easiest job in the world. I mean, what, chasing down the occasional shop lifter or breaking up fights between pre-pubescent boys? Not exactly the most taxing job. I think it would be a harder job if they had to walk around the mall with a pre-teen girl. For that, they'd deserve a medal. Or at least the right to ride their little scooters. But seriously, the biggest crime at this mall is someone taking an extra refill from the soda fountain at the Quiznos. Ok, so it's a big mall. I will grant them that. And we recently had a movie filmed there where the mall security guards (would it be more politically correct if I called them "security engineers" what about "contracted security engineers"?) rode around on Segways. So Ok, I get that now the security engineers at our mall fancy themselves as famous...after all, they did hobnob with the rich and famous recently, which clearly makes them important by extension. However, the only thing riding around in scooters is doing is extending their backsides. Seriously, I swear, I saw at least three of them today who were bursting out of their pants. I love a man in uniform as much as the next girl, but either the morning sickness is kicking in or that makes me want to toss my cookies. My money is on the latter.

Anyway, I'm tired and my wit is low this evening. And so Poppy and I are headed to bed!

Why no blog?

I know, I know. Long time since I blogged.
Life has been crazy busy.
And now what I want to blog about, I can't. Yet.

Hopefully there will be a happy updated tomorrow night. :)

And now. A Play.

On our diet, we have to drink 3 shakes a day. Which gets a bit boring at times. So to break up the monotony, they've created some options: chocolate and vanilla shakes, chocolate and vanilla pudding, cereal, and a chicken soup. The shakes, pudding, and cereal are quite good. The soup is not.

The HG decided he'd try the soup one more time. This time without hot water.

This is a what happened:

See? I'm going to try it again! Looks good!

You gotta shake it up.

So excited!

Oh, this is going to be so good!

Huh. Smells good.

Real men eat with their hands.

Down the hatch!

Hmmmmmmm.....

not sure.....

Oh. That is not good.

Lesson learned.

Well....wow.

So, I love movies. I mean, I LOVE the movies. I'm not even sure why, they're rarely good and even more rarely have any redeeming content. Anyone remember Road Trip?

I spent the day at the mall, searching for a shirt for the HG to wear to my little sister's wedding in 2 weeks. I found a wicked cute Polo dress shirt on sale. Rock on. I think Ralph has designed the Polo line for my HG exclusively. It fits him perfectly. Every time. And makes him look just ever so cute. Seriously. I love a man in a suit. But I think I love men in Polo even better. Yum.

And you know, it's not fair that he gets a new shirt and I get nothing. He doesn't even care about clothes. Much. He does like it when I dress well. And he likes it when I think he looks good. But for the most part, he doesn't care much. When we met he wore black shirts and jeans. Exclusively. Black polo shirts (not the Ralph kind...the cotton collar kind), black t-shirts, black sweatshirts, black coat. On our first date, he wore his "best" black t-shirt. He was proud of himself for wearing his best shirt for me. He is such a boy. I do have to give him credit for going with black. At least he always matched. I have since fixed his color problem. He even has a pink shirt. Oh yeah baby. And plenty of shirts with actual buttons. He is practically a supermodel.

But unlike him, I actually like clothes. Scratch that. I love clothes. I only wish I could afford the clothes I love. Well, first I wish they made the clothes I love in my size. If they came in my size, I suppose I could afford most of them. I'm not a label whore. I like quality, well tailored clothes. But I'm not about to spend $98 on a Lacoste shirt. Even that tiny little alligator isn't worth almost $100. (I think. These are largely the things I tell myself to talk myself out of buying $100 glorified t-shirts. Karma points baby.) However, I do wish I had the body to dress better. I just feel that at my current weight, well tailored clothes are wasted. Like, why bother? Besides, my waist size fluctuates so much, it's not worth spending a lot of money on clothes. I would be impressed if you could find any item in my closet that cost more than $40 (Stacey, Clinton: call me). Some day I will spend too much money for a polo shirt. But it'll fit for a long, long time.

In the meantime, I'm a bargain shopper. And I didn't think it was fair that the HG got a new shirt and I didn't get anything. So after I chose his wicked cute shirt, I headed upstairs to the fatty section of Macy's. (The escalator was broken. I did the stairs. whoo hooo!) Oh, can someone explain to me why Macy's hides their fatties behind the bras? What's that about? Seriously. Michael Kor's has a plus size line. You can't hide us forever. For one, we're pretty big and therefore hard to hide. But more than that. The average American women is a size 14. What sense does it make to hide the clothes half of us need? That's just silly. The first time I shopped in that particular Macy's, I left angry, thinking they didn't have a plus size section. (No, I didn't make any sales girls cry...that was a completely different Macy's. I think I have a Macy's problem.) I stumbled upon it a year later while looking for the outwear section. Makes sense. Hide the fatties under a coat.

So, upstairs I went. And it was like shopping heaven. Those little white "sale" signs were everywhere. It would have been rude not to at least try things on. I mean, they went through all the trouble of marking everything down. I should be grateful for the work they did. Plus, if I spend money, I'm doing my part to stimulate the economy. And stimulate the economy I did. I found three of the most adorable dresses ever. And they all make me look so thin. Well, thin is a stretch. But they make me look not fat. Oh, and I found a $130 jacket for $25. Oh yeah. Shop with me. Deals find me. I'm a sale magnet.

Anyway, when I got home, I had nothing to do. I did, after all, do two full trips around the mall (3 miles, thank you very much.), as well as, three loads of laundry this morning. So, in keeping with my love of movies, I popped Evan Almighty into the DVD player. Ok, not the best example Hollywood has to offer. And certainly not a shining example for ethics training. But one line stuck with me.

In the movie, Evan's wife prays for their family to become closer. Evan prays for help in changing the world (I know, nutrasweet on film). And just when everything seems to be at the very worst it can possibly be (Evan is suspended from Congress and his wife left him), God has a conversation with Evan's wife. And he says to her, "If you pray for your family to be closer, does God make your family closer or does He give you an opportunity to make you family closer?"

Um. Huh. I've been praying for patience and understanding for years. And I have no more understanding and no more patience then I did two years ago. Some days, I think my patience has worn even more thin. I lie in bed at night and just think about how it would feel to be pregnant (again. This time for keepers). I think obsessively about my friends who are pregnant. How do they feel? What does it feel like? What goes through your mind when you see your baby's (your baby!!) heartbeat on the ultrasound for the first time? The second time? The third time? Does it get progressively more exciting? Less exciting? What does honest to goodness morning sickness feel like? What about the nursery. How will I paint it? How does it feel to shop for your own baby?

So no, I can't say that I've gotten any more patient than I was two years ago when we started. I think I might seem more patient. I have days where I actually have good humor about it all. Where it doesn't bother me for every second of the day. But it's a forced patience. It's not real. I'm patient because I have to be. I don't have a choice. I'm not pregnant and I can't make myself be pregnant. So I have no choice. I have to be patient and take one day at time.

As for understanding. I don't. I don't know if I ever will. Maybe someday I will. But right now, not a single iota.

But you know. I've been praying for it. And perhaps, just perhaps, my prayers are being answered. I want patience. So I'm getting an opportunity to be patient. I've prayed for understanding. So I'm getting an opportunity to understand. Ok. I can do that. I can learn from this. Really, I can.

And in the meantime, I can look at all the good things that have happened to me (and the HG...I'm not exactly alone in my struggle) in the past two years. We both got promotions at work. We moved to an adorable new apartment. We didn't buy two money pits....and we dodged one of the money pits twice (Long story. Let's just say our housing angels must be exhausted.) We were able to spend more money than I'd like to fix one of our cats who was sick (poor babygirl!). We've paid off all of our consumer debt and most of my student loans. We've been able to travel at whim, buy new computers when we need them (um, for me, this is virtually never. The HG has a computer problem similar to my shoe problem.), and sleep till 10 on the weekends if we want. So you know, I might not have a baby, but maybe when we do, we'll be more prepared. Who knows.

Maybe this is what patience looks like.

The Fatty Show

Imagine my weight loss class is a play. I do. For starters, meetings of this nature generally bore me, so it's easier to pretend I'm watching a movie or a play. A bad movie. But even bad movies are better than watching paint dry if you're trying to pass the time.

Well, I suppose not all bad movies are better than watching paint dry. When I was 16, a friend of mine took me to the movies for my birthday. We saw Bonfire of the Vanities. I should have known it would be a disaster. For one, I had never heard of it before. Secondly, I didn't, and still don't, understand the title. Can someone please enlighten me? I really have no idea what it means. And that doesn't bode well for the movie. I am one of the few people I know who ever saw it (and I use the term "saw" loosely) so I can't even ask anyone what it was about. Even the HG, the world's biggest movie trivia buff, can give me a coherent description of the movie. Why? He was smart enough to skip it. Take my word for it. Don't waste your money or space in your netflix queue with this one. It didn't even deserve the Raspberry Awards it won.

But on a snowy, winter day in late December my friend Shane and I got on the bus and headed to the closest movie theater. 20 miles away. Ah, small town living is such fun. The best part of the day was the 30 minute ride we bought $3 each. Oh, and the twizzlers. I love twizzlers. They make the best straws. Bite each end off, insert in soda, and voila! Yummy straw. And the twizzler gets all mushy on the inside so after a while your soda takes on twizzler flavor. This is my second piece of movie advice. Get the twizzlers. (I'm racking up loads of karma points tonight. I'm going to need them in a moment.)

We were, quite literally, the only two people in the theater. We should have returned our tickets, crossed the street to the 24 hour diner and drank our weight in coffee. It was, in later years, one of my favorite pastimes. But, alas, on that day, we elected to stay for the entire movie. Can someone please call Brian De Palma and ask for those 2 hours and 5 minutes of my life back? He doesn't take my calls anymore.

So the moral of the story is that sometimes, watching paint dry isn't so bad. But that's an extreme example. At the fatty show, I simply prefer to sit back and watch the actors play their parts. I am convinced they are simply actors and actresses. Caricatures of this nature cannot simply exist in real life. And if they do, certainly I am not lucky enough to spend roughly an hour a week with 6 of them at the same time. The HG goes and attempts not to speak at all. I, on the other hand, and am sucker for interactive theater and often join in the show.

Perhaps my favorite of the group is a guy I'll call "Denial Boy". When come into the meeting, there is a big board where we write down the number of meal replacements we've had all week, as well as, the number of days we've been on the diet (without cheating) and the amount of physical activity we've gotten during the week. Denial's stats frequently look like like this: 10, 3, 5,000. In other words, 10 meal replacements, 3 days "on plan" and 5,000 calories burned. Week one he lost 9 pounds. Week 2 he lost 9 pounds. I think I hate Denial. But week 3 he lost 2 pounds. And this week he lost 1.5. And yet, despite his dismal results, he consistently insists that his plan works for him. He is, after all, still losing weight. Um, yes, yes you are. But when asked why he's spending hundreds of dollars a month on a diet he's not following, he insists he is following the plan. That's where the denial comes in. There are two rules on this diet: eat the food they give you and nothing else and work out daily. Hitting one of two rules doesn't count. Our leader keeps trying to point out that his habits will not lead to long term success. He disagrees. My 10 year old niece could point out the denial here....9,9, 2, 1.5....would seem his success gets less and less obvious as time goes on. But hey, whatever works for him (insert sarcasm here. Hey, I warned I'd be cashing in some karma points.).

There is also a sweet young girl who I adore. She's just so cute. She's 17 and I swear to you, if my children end up like her, I'm giving them up for adoption. But, hey, she's not mine, so she makes me laugh. Last week, we engaged in a discussion regarding her recent failure to make it all week on plan. She was honest in admitting she didn't follow the plan one night, while out with friends. Our fearless leader asked her what she ate. Sweet young girl said, "I didn't eat anything off plan." Our leader further questioned, "So you were on plan all week?" SYG: "No, I wasn't." Leader, "So what did you eat?" SYG: "I didn't EAT anything..." Leader, "So you were off plan because you didn't get all your food in?" SYG, "No, I got my food in....I just didn't EAT anything off plan." Our poor leader was confused. I, having been SYG at one point, immediately understood that the cheating was in liquid form. Illegal liquid form. She cracks me up. She frequently doesn't eat anything off plan...thank God she's not my kid. Though I suspect my children will also not eat off plan....

Then there is the one we call Boca Burger. Boca Burger earned her name when she confessed that during week one she consumed 1/2 a boca burger at a BBQ and was "so full" she couldn't finish it. Can we discuss this? Boca Burger weighs more than I do. And while I suppose I can't say for sure that she can probably eat more than I do, let's just say, she didn't gain weight by only eating half of her burgers. I'm just sayin.

I could continue to describe the players in my little show. But really, they all have one thing in common: failure to do what they're supposed to do. I know it sucks, I do. Trust me, it sucks for me too. I want nothing more than to not eat anything off plan. Or eat 1/2 a boca burger. Or spend 4 of 7 days deciding I've "earned it". But the fact is that doing those things is what landed me the role in this show as it is. I've certainly earned it. Pizza, chips, cookies, and things with cheese were my main food groups for a long time. I have no excuse. I have reasons. There are reasons I gained weight. I was depressed. I had a shitty job. I was bored. I was angry. I was going to start my diet tomorrow. But none of my excuses make it OK. And it doesn't mean I can keep doing it and hope that somehow the food in the little blue boxes will help me reach my goal if I don't do all the work. Not half the work. And that means always, ever day, doing what I'm supposed to.

I know, not so much fun. But you know what is fun? Losing weight. Looking in mirror in the morning and seeing almost the same girl when I get to work. Mirror girl sticks around a lot more these days.

And shopping is more fun. I like going to stores and dreaming about the things I could wear if I just keep doing the work. That's wicked fun.

And the most fun of all? Knowing that with every day that passes, I'm getting closer to getting my babies back. And that someday, when they're old enough to understand I can tell them just how hard I worked for them.

I suppose it's wrong to talk about the players in my show like this. But come on. As the HG says, it's like smoking. If you quit smoking, and then have a cigarette, you're no longer a former smoker. Either you're following the diet or your not. And if you're eating (or NOT eating) food off the diet, you're not on the diet. See, simple?

And yes, I feel somewhat superior for not cheating. Hey, before this, the only thing I committed to for a long period of time was my love of all things baked. Ok, baked goods and the HG. But other than that, there's not much. Not even jobs. So, yes, I feel superior that I'm doing this now.

See? I told you I'd be cashing in a bajillionty karma points. I wasn't wrong.

Jealousy

I've found something new to be jealous of.


I used to be jealous of girls who had boyfriends. I was Sweet Sixteen and Never Been Kissed. That was me. I could have written that Drew Barrymore movie (Never Been Kissed). I have mentioned before how painfully shy I was growing up. Even after a lot of that wore off in high school, I was still ridiculously shy around boys. I was afraid that merely talking to them would make them think I liked them. And of course, they would then tell all of their friends that I liked them and they'd all get a good laugh out of it. Because of course I wasn't thin enough, cute enough, funny enough, anything enough to want to date. Hi, low self esteem much?


But then I went away to college and instantly racked up two different boyfriends...and a whole bunch of kissing before that. Apparently I was totally worth liking. And apparently a pretty good kisser at that.


And then I realized that boyfriends kinda suck. So was jealous of girls who had husbands. Oh, to be married and never have to looking for a boyfriend again. To be with the one for the rest of my life. **Swoon**


Yeah, after many years of trial and error, I finally nabbed a husband. And not just any husband. He's the honest to goodness one. Swoon.


Then I developed baby envy, house envy, body envy, career envy...the list of my envy is long and usually distinguished. Not always distinguished, though. Lately I've developed food envy. There were two people in my office eating Cape Cod Salt and Vinegar chips for breakfast the other day. And I swear to you, just the thought of those tangy, salty, crunchy disks of goodness hitting my tongue, made my mouth water as though I had actually eaten the sour chips. That slight tingling under my tongue. The increase in saliva to balance out the extra salt. Even just thinking about it now, I'm having the same Pavlovian response. Oh, how I love those chips.


A few weeks ago, the HG and I were at Six Flags with some friends. While we were waiting out a rain delay (ahhh, New England in the summer...don't like the weather? Wait 15 minutes. It'll change.), one of them asked if I'd cut off a toe to get the body of my dreams. Hmmm...just a toe?? I'll give up a leg. They have really good prosthetics these days. But that was a month ago. Before the diet. Now I think I'd give up a leg for those chips. No. Seriously. I'll give you my leg if you hook me up. And, as an added bonus, I'd instantly be at IVF weight...


But the cause of my food envy is also the cause of another of my envies. And probably the worst one of the bunch.


IVF envy.


I so want to be cycling. I long to discuss what drugs I'm using and what side effects I'm having and how my follies look and when the RE thinks I'll be able to trigger. And then I could talk about if the symptoms I'm feeling are real or imagined. Real or the result of progesterone. Real or not. And then there is the anticipation of the beta. What will it say? Will it be over 5 and therefore I'm technically, though likely not successfully, pregnant? Will it be in that magic range of 75-100 and therefore likely successfully pregnant? Should I test out my trigger? Should I POAS before my beta? Oh the discussions and thoughts and options are endless.


But not me. Not now. It's just one more game I can't play. It's just one more place I don't fit in. See, when you're trying to get pregnant and you're not having trouble, you can play the dream game. I wonder if we'll have a boy or a girl. I wonder if he'll have blond hair like his mom or blue eyes like his dad. I wonder if she'll be smart or if she'll be funny (not that you can't be both. I clearly am.). You can dream of little league games and soccer practices. You plan your baby shower, your birth plan, your nursery. You chose names. You chose professions. Before the stick gives you two lines, you've planned a life for a life that doesn't yet exist.


But then the stick never turns. You get one line. And one line. And one line. Month after month after painful month. But you get to join a new club. There is a new place for you. A sadder place. A place you don't really want to be. But you find help there. You find friends who share your pain. And it doesn't hurt as much. Because you all talk about your hormones, your cycles, when you ovulate, what tests your RE ran, what your next step is. And eventually talk comes around to what will happen when. When you're pregnant. When you have children. When you're a mom (or dad). The if fades and becomes when. And with the when comes hope. Hope that all the needle pricks, and all the pills swallowed, and all the nights you cry yourself to sleep, and all the pain will be worth it. Because you have hope.


But I have nothing. I just have this envy. This wish for something different. This anger at myself for gaining the weight that keeps me from my hope. I don't have anything to talk about. I'm not saying I don't have hope. I do. I have hope.


The thing is, I believe this will all end with my, our, happily ever after. But in the meantime I feel lost. I just can't wait until I can get back to the baby making.


Actually, if I'm being completely honest, I just want to know how it's all going to end. The HG thinks it's funny that I always read the last page of a book first. I like to know how things end. And right now, I have no idea how this is going to end. So I have to hurry up and get there. So I can know.


My grandmother always said, "Patience is a virtue, possess it if you can. Find always in a woman and never in man." She got the saying wrong, but she knew it. But I will tell you, if that's the case, I'm SO not virtuous! (And not just for the patience thing....**evil grin**)


Anyone have any suggestions about how to slow down? I could use that.

Wednesday already?

I'm too tired to blog.
I am in desperate need of a life off.

I'm just.
Grrrr.

I want to be happy about the good things in my life. Because being sad about the bad things feels like I'm being disrespectful to the good. Isn't that silly? Like being sad means I'm never happy or grateful. But it feels that way. One emotion at a time, ma'am. Please check your emotional baggage here.

For the record, I have a fabulous husband, great friends, wonderful sisters, an awesome apartment (I'm, like, totally running out of hyperbolic and vaguely juvenile ways to say "good".). But.

I want. A house. A dog. A new car. More friends. Less fat. A baby.
And every day that passes makes me feel just that much more inferior. Yeah, that's right. Inferior.

I don't like feeling not good enough. It reminds me of 7th all over again. Those days where I'd cry on the swings because the cool kids didn't like me enough. I thought they hated me. At the time I was downright convinced of it. In hindsight, perhaps I was overreacting just a tad. I was young, and I didn't understand that just because someone didn't want to be your friend, didn't mean they didn't like you. I simply means they don't like you enough. I've learned that as I've gotten older. I know, sad and depressing, huh? But lately I've just felt that way. Like I'm not enough. Damn those karma points. I can see them getting sucked into the tumbleweeds of my life. Perhaps I should trade the Xanax for some Prozac. Think that would mix well with my coffee (which I cannot have).

For the record, I'm not depressed. Even though I sound a tad like Sylvia Plath on lithium right now. I just want more. And I don't know how to get more. So when you want a new job, you interview for, and get a new job. Done. When you want a new car, you go to the lot and pick out a new car. I want a new cell phone, so tomorrow, I will take my tiny little butt (hey, something on me has to be tiny. I have the whitest-white girl ass around. Flat as a pancake.) to the AT&T store and get a new phone. Complete with a brand new 2-year contract.

Can you believe I actually ran my previous contract to the end? Craziness, right? For realsies. I've never been that committed to anything. Well, besides the HG. But he doesn't count. I couldn't be married to anyone but him, so it's not commitment so much as karmic requirement. That was my second contract in a row. I think the only thing I've dated longer is the HG. I'm not sure who I love more. I mean, I love the HG. But I need my phone like I need oxygen. What would my poor thumbs do with their time if I couldn't text?

I once read a post on a message board I frequent on occasion asking people how much they texted. The responses varied greatly, but one theme was constant. The people who didn't text much, if any, always qualified their responses with "But I'm 30x year's old....". Um. Ok. So either you lost brain cells at 30, or you're implying that texting is a juvenile activity. Yeah. Bitches. But my point is more that people my age don't seem to be so much with the texting. Except my friends. Who admittedly don't text me as much as I text them. Hmmm...perhaps it is me.

Is it wrong that I hate talking on the phone? It always feels like a first date. And, oh dear Lord, how do I not miss those. I do sometimes miss the giddiness of a new relationship and as twisted as it might be, I think I might miss the whole "he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not" game. And I can play that game with anything. "Ok, if that stop light turns green before this song is over, he totally loves me." "If I can hold my breath for 45 seconds without gasping for air, he loves me." "If I see a cop on the way home, he loves me." Hey, I never said it was an effective game. But tell me you've never played it. But as far as first dates go, I can leave those, thank you very much. All that "what should I wear? And what if he somehow totally forgot what I look like and is expecting a super model to show up? OMG, what if I totally misinterpreted his invitation and he'll be there with his girlfriend? And is that ironic or not?" Yeah, I'm good. And phone calls can be like that for me.

Well, more specifically, getting off the phone is like the end of the first date. Are we going to kiss? Hug? Say we should do it again sometime? What's the protocol? And what if I accidentally say "I love you" to someone I don't love? Like the AT&T sales person I spoke to earlier tonight. She was super friendly and gave me fantastic service (Coming from me, this is the highest form of praise. I hate customer service phone reps. I'm sorry, no offense if you are one. I'm sure you're lovely. Just don't take my calls. I'm pure venom. I regularly lose karma points for this. I'm ok with that.) but despite having told her I love her, I'm pretty sure I don't. How can I love someone I've never even seen a picture of? Don't be ridiculous. So that's why I text.

So I want a new phone. And I will go get a new phone. As an anniversary gift. Yeah, we're the romantic types here in the Bitter household. Last year I got a Dyson and the HG got a PSP and Nintendo DS. We may not be romantic, but we certainly are big dorks. Good thing we're already married...finding mates for us would not be easy.

But I can only fix certain things. Easy things. What about the hard things? How do I fix those? I don't like how I feel about not being able to fix these things. I know, I know. Everybody has things in life they want to fix, change, improve. I know I'm not alone in that. I get that my feelings of inadequacy are not exclusive to me. But, like focusing on the good, that does not make me feel any better.

And so the quest for perfection continues. I swear, I am the worst perfectionist on the face of the earth. I want to be perfect. I'm just too lazy for it. That's what it all comes down to. I feel like my failures (or perceived failures) are my own fault. That I didn't do something right or if I did it right, I didn't do it right enough for long enough. I never feel as though I've done enough.

I feel like infertility is my fault. Actually, I know it's my fault. My particular form of infertility is caused by scar tissue that develops from an infection. Guess how you get those infections? I'll give you hint: you won't find it in a G rated movie. So Ok, I should have taken better care of myself when I was 19. But I didn't. So I put myself in this situation. Do you have any idea how much that freaking sucks? Especially since I was in, what I thought at least, was a monogamous relationship. I really thought he was "the one". Unfortunately, we broke up over a communication failure. He thought it was Ok to sleep with other women. I thought it wasn't OK. We just couldn't come to an agreement on that.

It's the same story with weight loss. Last I checked, I wasn't strapped to a chair and force-fed by a sadistic killer (Seven was a good flick. Creepy. But good. I learned at least one lesson from that movie: never open a box delivered to you in the middle of the desert. I promise you won't want what's in it.). No, I didn't get a secret starring role in any movies. I ate every ding dong, pizza slice, and french fry all by myself, thank you very much. I am quite the accomplished eater. I could give lessons.

No, my downfalls and the things that make me sad are all my own fault. So I guess if I did them to myself, I can figure out a way to undo them, too.

Hmmmm....
See? I totally don't need prozac. Pollyanna strikes again!

What I do need is some sleep. I'm way too tired to be blogging tonight.
Clearly.

Frozen flames and pigs with wings

Can someone look outside and tell me what the weather looks like?
I think hell has frozen over and pigs are flying.

The HG is at the gym. He went all on his own. At 10:00 at night.
I'm ridiculously proud of him.

That's all.

Personal Growth

I am 33 years old and I have never once been to the movies alone before.
Until this weekend.

I have no problem going out to eat alone. A lot of people do; they seem to think that's some how sadder than sitting in a dark theater watching the latest Hollywood drivel alone. They, apparently, are not big fatties. We fatties prefer to eat alone. Nobody to judge the fried chicken sandwich with extra cheese and fries you're about to consume. Of course, when I order, I pass it off like I haven't all day. "Oh, hmmm. I haven't eaten all day. I wonder if a salad will be filling enough. Hmm. Probably not. I guess I'll just have, um, the chicken sandwich?" Right. Cuz the waitress is buying that I haven't eaten all day. I'm pretty sure she's thinking "Haven't eaten in the last hour is more like it." But still, this does not stop me from going out to eat alone. I bring a book or a nice magazine (that slight obsession with the glossy pages I have pays off) and settle in for a nice night alone. I'm the refill queen. I linger till I'm ready to leave. Wait staff hates me. But the occasional night out with just myself is worth the risk of spittle in my mud pie.

And since I'm fairly certain the restaurants in my area do not serve the blue box food I'm required to eat for the next 10 weeks (2 down!!!! whoo hoo!), options for alone time are limited. I can only walk the 2.5 miles to mall and back so many times. A mani/pedi is nice, but now that we're contemplating another house purchase, it does seem a bit extravagant to do it weekly (daily....). So what is a girl with too much time on her hands to do? I started with a nice trip to the bookstore. But if you're not having a triple venti skinny vanilla latte (decaf, extra hot. Add cinnamon and splenda) and a cookie the size of a small planet, the bookstore is really nothing more than a library. With louder people. It certainly does smell better, though.

So with both the bookstore and restaurants having been ruled out, I was running low on options. And I simply had to get out of the house. I was having one of those The-world-hates-me-and-I-suck kind of days. I sometimes get to thinking that I'd like to do something special with my life. I want to be best at something. One of the reasons I want to have kids is because than I can push all of my hopes and dreams on them. Me and Lynn Spears. I'm kidding. I would just like to be the best at something, anything, in my life. But sadly, I am reminded on a fairly regular basis that I'm nothing special. I'm easily ignorable. That's not to say I don't have friends. I have damn good friends. I love my friends and I'm sure that at least one or two of them love me back. In a platonic way. I hope only platonic. Unrequited love sucks. I'd hate to be the recipient of love I don't return (at least 3 karma points for that). But still, I'm not very...good...at much. I don't have any hobbies. I sometimes fancy that I'll write the Great American Novel, or at least a Decent American Novel, or failing that, at least one that is publishable, some day. But then I read other books and realize two things: they're all better than anything I could ever come up with and they've all stolen my ideas. So not only am I on a marginal writer at best, I'm also not very original. And don't even get me started on the inferiority complex the Food Network gives me. Those cook-offs? Just hour long audio-visual reminders that there are scores of people out there who are infinitely more talented than I. And writing and cooking are the two activities I like best in this world.

So rather than stay home and indulge my silly pitty party, I decided it was time to get out of the house. But where to go? The movies seemed like a good option. Once I've passed the concession stand, I won't go back. So no real risk of eating my weight in two week old popcorn. Before this diet, I'd happily consume a bucket of popcorn the size of a kindergartner. But that's the old Kate. The new Kate scoffs at the idea of letting some over-salted, fake butter flavored kernels of packing peanuts (also known as heaven in a bucket) pass her lips. And since I've been known to drag the HG to the movies exclusively for the popcorn (and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I saw North Country), it's a big accomplishment for me to skip the corn. However, I'm too proud to skulk back to the concession stand once I'm seated.

Once I narrowed down my options (I use the term "options" loosely) to seeing a movie, I realized that since the HG is knee deep in thesis writing, this would have to be a solo endeavor. I headed up stairs to let him know where I was headed. He said: "Are you sure? Don't you want to call Jess and see what she's doing? What about Anne? Maybe one of them will go with you." Um, thanks HG. I was feeling self conscious enough about it. You're not helping. The thing is, I don't want to go to the movies alone because I'm paranoid someone will think, "Oh, how sad. She got stood up" or worse "Awww...she can't get a date". So yeah, HG, your comment? Not helpful. But I was bound and determined to go. An exercise in personal growth.

All the way to the theater I gave myself a pep-talk. How pathetic am I? It's just a movie. And hi, I'm married. Who cares if people think I can't get a date? They're right. I can't. Because I'm married. Nobody wants the old married hag. And there's the little issue of being off the market. Even so, I pep-talked myself all the way to the theater. I even tried to change my mind and head to the Barnes and Noble. But I just drove to the theater. Parked the car. And went in and stood in line. Ok. Almost there.

Oh, while I was waiting in line, there were two somewhat more than middle aged women in front of me. One was wearing a snappy outfit consisting of loud flowered capris, a bright pink tank top, and a gold and silver leather purse. Her friend was wearing khakis, a light blue cable knit sweater, and brown loafers. I realized two things: 1, her friend and I were wearing strikingly similar outfits (sigh) and 2, when I'm that age, I want to be rocking the silver and gold leather purse. Hey, it's tacky as hell. And she's earned it. I want to earn it too. And I think going to the movies alone is a good way to start. But you can bet I was flashing my wedding rings all over the place as I purchased my tickets, handed them to the ticket taker, and ordered my large diet Pepsi. Hey, I'm not old yet...

And I saw and enjoyed the movie. I'm so proud of me. The one thing I will say is that it is no fun to discuss the previews with yourself. Next time I go to the movies, I should bring someone with me.

As a final thought. More a note to parents. If the movie is rated PG-13, why would your bring your 6 year old? I realize the ratings are only a guide. But if Hollywood--the city that gave us Paris Hilton, Tara Reid, Lindsay Lohan, Drew Barrymore, Britney Spears, and a thousand other drugged up alcoholic party girls--thinks your child should be 13 to see the movie, don't you think you ought to at least consider their suggestion? Just a thought.