sueeeus

…fruits of the forest

…dangerously delicious

While on the phone with my sister, and forced outside to obtain a clear signal, I discovered some very odd looking mushrooms growing amongst the bark chips. I picked one and brought it in for some google research.

Lo and behold, the elusive, the mighty, the morel. Morchella elata, to be precise.

Brave Stupid All those warnings and red flags about lethal mushrooms mixed with memories of childhood tales of that most sought after specimen of culinary delight. I sauteed the first one in some butter. It was to die for (although I hoped not literally). I gathered my courage, collected the crop, and proceeded to make this.

I’m not a pasta aficionado, but the recipe sounded so good that I thought I’d give it a try. I followed the recipe completely, with the addition of shallots. After much toil –it takes quite a bit of effort to roll out pasta dough to the appropriately thin consistency, the result is was, indeed, divine.

Oh. My. Goodness. As an old friend would say, budgasmic. But I don’t speak like that. Of course, anything that’s cooked in butter and cream can hardly help but taste incredible. Especially if there’s garlic and shallot involved. I happily indulged, all the while wondering in the back of my mind how much of an idiot I am for eating something so questionable. I’d feel so much more comfortable had I found the mushrooms at the local grocer, rather than in the wild. My pioneer spirit won (after considerable reading and comparison of photos, dissection and inspection). And I did live to tell.

Mr. Gadget wanted no part in this, and of course I wouldn’t try to extend such an experiment to my loved ones. I fashioned a nice red sauce for them. Safe. Fresh roma tomatoes, basil, garlic, onion, and beef.

Dinner at 9 p.m. isn’t the best of ideas, though. If ever I’m fool enough to attempt pasta from scratch again, I should start by 3.

And speaking of fools, today marks four happy years with the Gadget man. Four years ago today, we stood together in a little chapel on the Vegas strip, and said I do. I picked April 1st. My quirky sense of humor. It’s a date that’s easy to remember. Isn’t our wedding announcement fun We went to a photo booth and inserted our faces on a magazine cover (I always wanted to be a dancing girl, deep down inside).  We got the license plate as a souvenir from the chapel, and I merged it all together (covering the scantily clad parts so as to make the announcement more office appropriate).  People at work thought it was a joke — they didn’t believe that I really did run off and get married.  It was a fun reveal.  Four years later, and all is well.  Four fleeting years.  My, how swiftly they’ve passed.

I distinctly remember when my own mother was 42, and how old I thought she was. She had announced her 9th pregnancy and I remember being so upset with her for being so irresponsible, bringing another child into the world and at that age. I was 17, graduating from high school and on my way to university, and was certain that I was quite adult enough to know and say these things. How awful of me, and that phrase ‘never say never’ has so many times reared its head and forced me to swallow an ounce or two of pride. Now I’m 42. I don’t feel anything like the age I projected on my mother, all those years ago.

We had a long weekend trip to Reno which turned out to be fun, apart from the cacophany of slot machines and persistent wafting cigarette smoke. There is a pretty river a few blocks from the hotel with a very nice walking path. We had all four seasons in just one weekend – sun, wind, rain, and snow. I gambled 20 cents in a penny slot machine and decided it was an entirely stupid waste of time. I am not a gambler at heart, and just. don’t. get. it. At the airport MG plugged a $5 bill into a machine for me, to increase the thrill, you know. That took all of two minutes to disappear. The wheel of fortune granted me some winnings, but quickly took them right back. The inlaws, self-labelled casino experts, explain that you don’t win big unless you play big. That’s why the front street is lined with pawn shops bursting with merchandise that people trade for that one next chance to make it big. That’s why those multi-bazillion-dollar casino monstrosities are dripping with stained glass masterpieces, fountains, and other architectural details. There are so many more losers than winners, but that bait certainly draws many. Granted, it would feel good to put down a bet and walk away with a bundle, but the flip side isn’t appealing at all. I’m a firm believer in earning. Work. Get paid. It makes sense. There’s balance. Equilibrium in the universe. The in-laws are some of those people who park themselves in front of a slot machine and push that button for hours on end. They seem to eventually ‘win’. They have these ‘comps’ — credits that accrue with each push of the button, that can be redeemed for casino amenities such as room and board. Somehow they were able to stay in a whirlpool tub suite, the kind you see in movies, and treat us to several lush meals, and walk away from the entire weekend with a net payment of less than a hundred dollars. They kept insisting ‘it’s all free’ and I just couldn’t grasp it. My mind whirls over the amount of money they had to have plugged into those machines in order to accrue that many ‘comps’. They insist that they walk away in the plus, but I just can’t quite believe it. We walked away from that weekend with a net minus of about a thousand dollars, after airfare and hotel. They shake their heads at me, because I don’t take those big risks. But I just don’t have it in me. And thank GOD, neither does MG. He did spend several hours in the casino, hanging out with his brother and sometimes playing on his brother’s card. When he came back to the hotel room, he told me he’d lost $400. I was a bit sick over that. We had a $100 mad money budget, for the whole weekend. I didn’t rail, though. We were there to visit his brother – Brother Gadget (BG). BG has recently recovered from cancer, and he’s only 44. We are all grateful that he’s alive and with us. His hair is growing back and he’s putting on a little weight, but he’s still very weak and very thin. MG was gambling on BG’s card, after losing his $100, and BG didn’t seem to mind a bit that MG had lost $300 of his. He kept saying it was just comps, and not to worry about it. On the last night MG went to spend a little more time with BG and a winning streak ensued, so MG got a little bit back and BG and wife walked away with $3000. So they were happy and I was relieved. Still. I don’t thing they fess up to how much they lost, and I don’t think they do a net tally. They just sort of ignore the losses and accentuate the wins.

Reno, the complete den of iniquity that it is, has a casino for kids. Circus Circus. That was more my speed. They have arcade booths with winnable prizes. We let Boo play some of the coin toss and ball toss games. I played a cork gun game and won him a nice stuffed animal, for only $1. We spent around $15 there, much of which was thrown promptly away, but we also won seven stuffed animals. Boo has a menagerie of fluffy stuffies to snuggle with now. I dread the day when he’s old enough to want to play at things like that on his own. I will have to instill the work ethic before that day comes.

We got home the day before my birthday, so we could rest up. It feels so. good. to. be. home. For my birthday, MG and I dropped off Boo with his babysitter, so we could go to the movies. We’ve been twice in two years. It’s just not something we can do with a toddler in tow. We saw The Last Mimsy. It was adorable. I like family films. After that we went shoe shopping. All three of us now have a pair of sandals for the warm weather days ahead. We collected Boo and went out for Chinese dinner. My Boo loves Chinese noodles, and slurps happily away.

MG presented me with a beautiful cake, and my new hard drive arrived in the mail. It’s very compact (see mouse for perspective of scale). I am pleased. It’s a NAS (Network Access Storage) – a mini-server. It has 500GB of storage and an ethernet port so I plan to offload all my photos and music to this device, to free up the memory in my computer so that hopefully it will run better. It’s supposed to work as a print server also, so perhaps we can clean up our PC and network configurations as well.

All in all, it was a very good day.

Me, to MG:  I used to be fun.

MG, eyebrow raised, no effort to conceal incredulity:  When

Me, after a long and thoughtful pause:  In my twenties.

There are times when I lament losing track of the person I was when it seemed that I had it all together, but I must remind myself that

1) It is only an illusion — my life has been in many ways like a broken record in which I repeat or revisit the same tune, over and over and over again — and when I wistfully recall a smiling exhuberant bright eyed youth, I must not overlook the fact that that same smiling girl had many a cloudy day in which she felt unloved, unwanted, unaccomplished.

-and-

2) I have never had it all together.  I just didn’t have as many or the same responsibilities, so the load was (perhaps) less heavy and certainly different.

Sometimes I get caught up in regrets over the possibilities of what could have been had I only made better or different choices with my words and actions.  Assuming that the outcomes would have been better, I am convicted after losing an unwinnable trial within the confines of my mind, and thus saddle myself with a life-sentence of guilt and remorse.  All this over the what ifs of life and living. 

How easy it is to forget that there is no changing the past; there is only learning.  And these experiences bind together to form the fabric of our lives.  They add color and texture.  The trials and tribulations make us strong.

How important it is to remember that what we have is the now.  How we live in the now will affect the memories and reflections that we will have in the future.  If we want to paint the fabric of our lives in different hues, then we must get down to the business of living, and paint the now in the vibrant colors of which we yearn.

This is the only moment we have, this moment right now.  This is the moment we must savour.  This is the time to love.  This is the time to rejoice.  This is the time to breathe, deeply.  This is the time to turn our faces to the sky and smile.

I’ll sing my song to the wide open spaces
I’ll sing my heart out to the infinite sea
I’ll sing my visions to the sky high mountains
I’ll sing my song to the free, to the free

Searchin’ for a note, pure and easy
Playing so free, like a breath rippling by

The first cycle.

Previous cycle lengths with cc on cd 3-7: 31, 31, 33, 30

Morning bbt difficult due to frequent waking for diaper changes and interference from cpap.

Important Dates: Jan 29 – Feb 7. Norethindrone 5mg.

Cycle Days and Symptoms:

1. Feb 11. Clomiphene Citrate 50mg (cc50); normal flow
2. Feb 12. cc50; normal flow
3. Feb 13. cc50; normal-light flow
4. Feb 14. cc50; no flow
5. Feb 15. cc50
6. Feb 16.
7. Feb 17.
8. Feb 18. guaifenesin 400mg (g), baby aspirin (a), bd
9. Feb 19. 98.4. g,a
10. Feb 20. 97.2. g,a,bd
11. Feb 21. 97.8. g,a
12. Feb 22. 98.3. g,a,bd
13. Feb 23. 98.3. g,a, nauseous headache, constipated
14. Feb 24. 98.3. g,a,bd
15. Feb 25. 98.4. g,a, nauseous headache, constipated, sore neck, low back pain
16. Feb 26. 98.1. g,a, bd, nauseous, post nasal drip, constipated, water retention. 7:30 p.m. pinch sensation in area of left ovary, low back pain, stretchy but minimal cm
17. Feb 27. 98.1. g,a, stiff neck, nausea, low back pain, styes on eyelid. Possible ecwm but dh not interested in bd.
18. Feb 28. 98.1. g,a, bd, sore gums, canker sores, sty is worse, eyelid swollen, upset stomach. Appx 5 p.m. pinch in right ovary area. Possible ecwm but v light.
19. Mar 01. 98.1. a, same symptoms as yesterday except no ovary sensation. Hand numbness in evening.
20. Mar 02. 98.3. a, bd, small pinch sensation right front uterus area appx 10:30 a.m. Possible implantation Such a dreamer. Mild cramping 1:10 p.m. Bowel or uterine Sudden depression and anxiety. Possible ecwm but not sure. Maybe a bit thick.
21. Mar 03. 98.3. a
22. Mar 04. 98.1. a, bd
23. Mar 05. 98.4. a, slight burning sensation in top part of breasts. Soreness/ache in hip joints. Very slight cramping. Low back pain.
24. Mar 06. 97.9. a, slight morning nausea, somewhat constipated. Hungry. hpt bfn, but tricked myself into imagining a faint line. still bfn though. Temp 97.9, down a bit, which makes me crabby, thinking that I must not have made it this time. But it’s still early. No idea when/if I ovulated, so who knows. Very emotional and moody. Irritable. Nipples sting. Too crabby, tired, and NOT IN THE MOOD for bd. V irritable.
25. Mar 07. 98.3. a, bd, environment seems more moist but no ew. Stinging nipples, burning top area of breasts. Spring allergies set in with itchy eyes, etc.
26. Mar 08. 98.4. a, slight nausea feelings, but I suspect they are all in my head. Burning/stinging still.
27. Mar 09. 98.1. a, woke up 5 a.m. hungry, burning stinging breasts. hpt bfn but trying to convince myself I see a line, however faint. v v v faint. Probably evap. New stye or infection starting near tear duct on right eye. DN baby at 18 wks diagnosed with hydrocephalis. Heartbreaking and terrifying. Makes me reconsider why I want to ttc at this late age. Depressed and despondent over these things.
28. Mar 10. 98.4. a, tender nipples, no flow yet. Still irritable. Sensitive to loud voices – husband on the phone BOOMING in my ears, driving me nuts. Nausea during late morning drive to in-laws. Probably imagined.
29. Mar 11. 98.1. a, generally no symptoms. Tired. Irritable. hpt bfn. Despondent due to bfn – trying to convince myself the evap line is a real line. Wondering why no sign of period, if that’s going to be the outcome.
30. Mar 12. 98.4. a, pain on left breast close to under arm side. Can’t feel a lump. Pain in hips – sort of a ligament feeling Allergies have been acting up for days now, so my eyes are miserable scratchy and sore. Mild morning nausea, psychosomatic most likely. Getting v irritated with self… NO MORE hpts (trying not to take any more, anyway).
31. Mar 13. 98.4. a, ice nipples.  This is getting OLD.  Hungry at 3:30 a.m. Low grade nausea continues, as does low back and hip aches.  Breasts stinging sore on tops with more localized sore spots on the outer/arm sides.  Keep feeling as though I’m leaking and rush to the bathroom, convinced I’ll find blood, but nothing.  Creamy discharge, I guess.  Crying with very little provocation — song lyrics or melody, or just a thought.  Have convinced myself that I must be pregnant because I never, ever, EVER have these feelings and sensations, for goodness sake.  Annoyed that the hpt won’t confirm, plus a bit terrified that I’m actually not.  I’m just plain insane, at this point.  Maybe I’ll test tomorrow, even though I swore I wouldn’t.  Slight frontal headache.  Sinus/allergy or menstrual   Who knows at this point.  Such a danged flip flop of rationality and optimism vs. despondency and doubt.  Have probably gained ten pounds in the last two weeks, but am afraid to look.
32. Mar 14. 98.4. a, hpt bfn.  DAMMIT.  Can’t even fool myself with an evap line. Weepy.  Anxious.  Worried about family.
33. Mar 15. 98.4. a, low appetite.  DS sick with vomit/diarrhea, kept me up all night.  Suspicious that all this lgn has been merely a bug that is now manifest in DS.  Wondering when to call doc to advise results of this bogus cycle.  It appears there was no ovulation, and no menses in sight.  May need another round of p and then cc.  Trying not to be disgusted with it all.  Happy news – sister at 21 weeks aok with flying colors.  Big sigh of relief.  I would have been 22 or 23 wks by now, had that worked out.  Sigh.  I was just going to keep this clinical, but who am I kidding.  I’m an emotional mess.  I keep crying for nearly no reason, other than wondering what is wrong with me.  All reason suggests there should be something by now.  If not a positive, then a period.  If I hadn’t taken the cc, then it would be way too early for me to be psychotic about things yet, only being CD33 and all.  I tend to be a 42ish cycle, if I have one at all.  But I DID take the cc, so something should be happening, one way or another.  I’ve exhausted myself going through ttc message threads, and have nothing to show but exasperation.  All my ridiculous hopeful notions early on that I might have ovulated, or even popped two eggs, based on those pinching sensations.  Silly notions of a possible multiple and then all those ridiculous symptoms and the wait.  Well, the window must surely be over.  I’ve had no interest whatsoever in bd for days.  My temps remain high.  Despair is such a crippling emotion.
34. Mar 16. 98.1. Tired of all this logging and charting.  What’s the point.  Feel relatively normal today, but tired, likely due to caring for sick child.  Now husband has the same thing – must be stomach flu.  He’s not taking it as well as the child, but that’s not much of a surprise.  Thank goodness the child is getting better.  Hardly any food in two days, but I’ve tried to keep him hydrated.  He’s empty, poor thing.  What comes out is still like water, so the bug is still working its way through.  He has much more energy though.  Husband, on the other hand, is now exploding with much ado.  God forbid I get this.  I am not one who can handle spewing very well.  And then it will serve me right, making wry comments about MG!  It was a beautiful day today, but who could enjoy it, with a house full of sick people.  I vetoed MG’s desire to sit in the hot tub.  The last thing we need is festering bacteria there.  Not that I plan to set foot out there.  I have a thing about hot tubs.  Bleccccchhhhh.  But that hot water and those strong jets are wonderful.  If only the water could be fresh.  Sigh.  Decided against taking the aspirin regimen today.  Again, what’s the point.  It was to help with implantation, and that window is over.
    …10 p.m. update…  Spotting.  HELL.  Well, actually, I guess I’m relieved.  At least now I know and I won’t be as psychotic over what in the heck my body is or isn’t doing.  Now the dilemma is what to do with the next cycle.  Since it’s Friday, I won’t be able to call for a prescription refill of cc until Monday at the earliest.  Why didn’t the doc write the rx to allow refills   Monday will be day 3 or 4, depending on whether I count today as 1 or tomorrow as 1.  I mean, if I’d just gone to bed I wouldn’t have known until tomorrow anyway.  I did get pregnant on cc once before, taken on cd3-7.  This time doc put me on cd1-5, so I’ll be too late for that.  I do have an old prescription that I didn’t need once I discovered I was pregnant with my Boo.  He’s two so that rx is nearly 3.  Probably not a good idea to take old hormones.  Maybe I should just chart and see what nature does.  Damnitallanyway.  Listen to me.  Mercy.  I guess I’ll call the doc on Monday.

1. Contribution :: to humanity
2. Ryan :: O’Neal
3. Minimal :: amount of effort
4. Cleansed :: and refreshed
5. Centered :: and alive
6. Arrow :: broken
7. Beyond :: all reason
8. Execute :: kill
9. Intuition :: faith
10. Apology :: sorrow

Well, I have an abundance, or overabundance of feelings, but I don’t feel like writing about them right now.  At least not publicly.  Which isn’t meant to sound as though there’s anything mysterious going on, because there’s not.  It’s all just blah blah blah blah blah.

Well, I was up half the night tending to a child exploding from both ends.  Poor little guy.  Carpet cleaner and washing machines were both running in the middle of the night, and the house, it does not smell good.

The nice door to door religious people have been by again.  The JWs are especially nice, and I like them, but never invite them in.  The LDS boys are nice too, and they come because Mr. Gadget is on THE LIST.  I don’t let them in either.  I am so rude.  I don’t know what it is with them and keeping track of their people.  It drives me bonkers.  Actually, I sort of know, after reading on several ‘recovering from M’ sites, but don’t have the energy to get into it, and religion is just one thing that I can’t discuss reasonably with MG, so we just let our differences be.  Long and tiring story.  I will say that it really bothered me when his mother added me to their official genealogy.  I did NOT want to be on their list.  It’s so hyppocritical, anyway.  MG’s biological father is not on their list, because she’s ashamed that she got knocked up while separated from her husband.  So.  Hrumph again.  She got my middle name completely wrong, and I haven’t corrected her.  Parnath.  Who ever heard of Parnath   And how could she get that from my name   It beats me.  Parnath it is, as far as the LDS are concerned, and that’s okay with me.

I don’t particularly like the door-to-door conversion pushing experience.  Not that I have anything against the pushers.  I was once very zealous and pushy myself, but have learned that people aren’t receptive to that.  So I back off.  I try not to consider myself lukewarm.  I’m just not actively evangelizing or proselytizing, and I believe what I believe, and not without foundation or reason.  I’m not blindly following or accepting a particular sect or system, just because it’s how I was raised or how I was taught.  I sought and I found.  Enough said.  I tend to feel bad about not letting them in (the door-to-doors), but they have a charter that I don’t agree with, so they won’t be making a sale with me, no matter what they say or do.  It’s a waste of our time, theirs and mine.  I could invite them in and try to convert them, but that’s biting off more than I want to chew.  I ought not be so lazy, but I think that if I simply let my actions be loving, and leave it at that. then no harm, no foul.

I think the great commission is largely misunderstood.  Many sects zero in on it, and they think they need to knock on doors, make passionate altar calls, broadcast to the universe via satellite, or travel far and anon to spread the good news.  I say start small.  In your own body.  In your own life.  Live by example.  Live clean.  Live uprightly.  Live love.

Love is what it’s all about anyway, isn’t it   It’s the golden rule.  If we love one another, and treat them as we’d like to be treated.  Well.   The world would surely be a better place.

All this from some unconscious mutterings.  My sweet little sick child is asleep next to me, his feet on my lap.  He’s so precious.  No explosions for several hours, and so far he’s kept some soup down.  I hope he’s feeling better.  Poor little guy.

Midnight (a few nights ago). I’m awakened by a small presence and a soft touch on my arm. A little voice. “I’m wet.” And my heart swells.

New sentences rapidly form. “I go pee pee.” (After the fact, number one or number two, but it’s a start.) “Milk all gone.” “Guy all wet.” (Pointing at his motorcycle man’s private area.) “I hear big truck.” “I need bath.” “Go outside.”

And last night, atop the stairs after only an hour of sleep. “I want tee.” It took me a while, but I finally realized he was saying “I want to watch tv,” to which I inwardly groan. Even though I’m so proud of his progress, I’m not so keen that he become a tv hound. He knows that after he falls asleep, I go downstairs and watch tv before going to bed. He just wants to be with us, I tell myself. It doesn’t help that on weekends when I’m feeling lazy, I let him play at our feet while we watch tv and until he passes out, asleep. Because Lord knows Mr. Gadget won’t put him to bed…

He’s learning colors too. I like this, because I didn’t teach him this, so I know he’s picking up good things at daycare. “Red phone.” (My phone is red. He’s so good.) “White shoes.” His shoes are white. “Blue truck.” “Daddy’s truck.” He’s understanding size too. “Big bus.” And so on.

What I love best about this time is that he’s going through an affectionate phase! I’m counting my lucky stars and snuggling him as much as he’ll let me. He hasn’t been the most affectionate child, and I missed out on a lot of infant snuggling, so I’m drinking this up. My snuggle buggle bear.

My grandmother had two children.  Sturdy Scandinavian daughters who produced a gaggle of offspring, which may or may not be surprising, considering the unhappy states of their respective marriages.  Each year my brothers and sisters and I would gather around my mother as she opened the hand-made Christmas card from her sister.  Those cards flaunted her limitless supplies of creative genius, and were usually filled with newspaper clippings of all the great accomplishments her children had made.  My aunt certainly could spin a tale, and how proud she was of her children.  When we visited our grandparents, we would hear all about these fine people and their accomplishments.  So and so is a national champion.  So and so is a fine actor, with all the leading roles.  So and so is the youngest all star ever to grace the state of Texas.  Did you know that so and so did this and that and that   Isn’t that just wonderful   And that one.  Isn’t she just beautiful   Obviously, Grandma was quite proud of those children.  How amazing and wonderful and wanted they were.  They could do no wrong.  They were the golden ones.  Not at all like the ragamuffin bunch of uncontrollable barbarians that we were.  We could do no right.  Grandma had to take valium when we came to visit.

We lived in a shambles of a home up to our ears in layers of laundry, dirty dishes, cats, dirt, more cats, and all manner of sundry items that one can find scattered about when one tries to keep eleven uncontrollable people under one small roof.  Their home was so much nicer than ours.  Clean.  Tidy.  Everything about them was superior to us.   

Granted, we were a wild tribe.  Strong souls, so defiant, trying to stake our claim in this world.  Wanting to matter.  Wanting to belong.  Wanting to be wanted.  

There were nine of us to their five.  Sometimes we felt as though they were the golden ones, literally, with their blonde locks and doe eyes.  There we were in our half-blood splendor. Dark hair, dark Korean eyes, creamy peanut butter skin.  We were beautiful!  We were brilliant!  We had talents.  We had abilities.  Yet narry a positive word.  My mother, bless her exhausted and exasperated heart, is an entirely different bird than her sister.  She’d share her life’s experiences and events with her mother and sister.  The reality spin.  The broken down, beat down mother of nine trying to make ends meet spin.  The good things were taken for granted.  They were good, so there was no need to go on about them.  The bad things, though.  They were bad.  They needed to be aired.  So and so got fined for this or that.  The police showed up for that or this.  That one wrecked the neighbor’s truck.  This one broke that.  That one spent the night in the pokey.  This one’s dropped out of school.   

Some young people can see through these things to grasp the reality and the truth, but I wasn’t able to until I became an adult.  I’m slow that way.  We were surrounded by continual reinforcement that, yes, we were indeed a band of inferior unwanted savages.  It was a miserable time for us, for me and my beautiful brothers and sisters.

Parents should edify their children.  Protect them.  Nurture them.  Bolster them so that they grow strong.  Help them develop and hold on to that precious, yet ever-so-elusive quality of self-esteem.  Encourage them so they are prepared to go forth and make it in the world, when the time comes. 

I don’t know if my aunt did as much of that edifying and bolstering as it appeared to us.  After all, she really could spin a tale.  She probably had her share of flip out days where she’d scream hysterically at her untoward children for not behaving or being mischievous.  Those kids had plenty of problems that we didn’t hear about, I’m sure. 

Now we’re all adults.  Some of us are doing well.  Some are doing great.  Some are just okay.  Some struggle.  One couldn’t find his way.  I think the cousins are in similar straights, except they’ve not lost one of theirs.

I’m not really going anywhere with this.  It all started with an overheard comment about weight that sparked a string of thoughts and memories.  That cousin, the one who is my age, was always the beautiful one, and she never had a weight problem.  Today she still looks like a Barbie doll, and her mother comments that she looks like she’s in her twenties.  She’s a bikini-clad beach babe.  All that I’ve never been able to achieve in life.

Isn’t it crazy   I’m as professionally successful as I want to be.  I’ve done well for myself.  I’m secure and confident in my professional life.  I have so many capabilities and strengths, yet this one thing, this body image thing, manifests itself beyond all reasonable proportion and overshadows every other shred of goodness that there is about me.  It shouts FAILURE!  It screams REPULSIVE!  It stomps on me, kicks me while I’m down, and leaves me cowering and quivering.

I wrote my mom a letter recently, and explained my miscarriage to her.  I generally don’t share much, because she just doesn’t get me.  Or us.  Any of us.  But I was reaching out.  I sort of hoped that she’d write me back and say she was sorry for what I went through, offer a little sympathy.  Not a word, though.  It’s not her way.  She doesn’t know how to deal with unpleasant things.  She just looks the other way and hopes they go away.

Not much nurturing, and it brings to the forefront of my mind all those feelings of childhood, and not being wanted.  These aren’t feelings I care to revisit, yet they rear their ugly head every now and then.  A 40-something year old woman on the outside, and an insecure, overweight, unwanted child on the inside.

When each morning for the past couple of weeks I am greeted with a not-so-friendly message that my computer has recovered from a serious error, and would I like to read the details in the error log, I wonder to myself whether my trusty desktop might be nearing the end of its useful life and the thought briefly passes through my mind that it might behoove me to back up my data.  However, I have not yet backed up my data.  I should.  I know.  I did back it up in December.  Mostly.  Sigh.  One more of the things in my life I want to organize, sort, scour, or purge.

Maybe tomorrow.  Or the next day.  Or the weekend.  Or next weekend. 

I did, however, do something wild and out of the ordinary.  I bought a brand spanking new laptop.  I’ve been looking at them for some time, but have always talked myself out of it.  All those ominous error messages of impending doom sort of scared me into action, though.  Plus, the bonus I received at work last week helped as well.  Woohoo!  Bonuses are always good.  Few and far between, to be sure, but very welcome when they happen. 

So, here I am, with my fancy new machine, sitting on the couch blogging, while Mr. Gadget watches American Idol and Mr. Busy Body stands on a step stool surveying his domain, considering what toys he will play with next.  The child loves to climb on things, and thankfully, a step stool satisfies his climbing tendencies while maintaining a fairly close proximity to the floor and relative safety (apart from the obstacle course of toys scattered at his feet).

I am sitting on the couch blogging.  Imagine it!   Although, I still feel guilty, but at least my body is in the same room as the rest of my family.

The computer is kind of odd-looking.  It’s a Dell E1705, which has a giant screen (with incredible definition and resolution – yay!) and a tiny keyboard.  I don’t know why they didn’t put a larger keyboard in it, since it has the real estate.  I was going to wait for them to improve upon that before jumping in and buying one, but there was the writing on the wall….  ….so I didn’t wait.  It’s got Windows Vista, which I also wasn’t too enthused about.  At least not for a few months, in case they need to work out the kinks.  And surely there will be kinks.  I’m okay with it, though.  All of it.  Because it’s new!  I have a new computer!  Woohoo!

I came across some boxes of books while going through things in the garage, looking for the next load of donations for the charity trucks that are making their rounds next week. They were part of the overflow when we moved my dad from the old shack where we grew up, and they’ve been here and there wherever I have been since then, but they’ve never made it to his new home. Realistically, he probably doesn’t even know they’re missing. He only has a few thousand books. Seriously, one time when we moved houses when I was younger, the weight of his books broke the axle on the moving truck. And that was in the 70s. One can (and he has) accumulated quite alot more books since then.

I’m torn as to what to keep and what not to keep, because I’ve decided not to reunite them. Bad daughter.

It’s not every day that one comes across graded readings and exercises in old Icelandic, and stacks of quarterly journals of classical philology, but alas, I know not what to do with these, so they are in the giant give-away pile.

I’m not sure what these are, but gosh, there is a full set and they’re dated 1854. Sämmtliche Schriften. By Gotthold Ephraim Lessing. Is it philosophy Language Philosophy of language I’m keeping these because they’re gorgeous, if nothing else.

I like the weary looks of these as well, so they stay, next to the Sämmtliche Schriften set.

My dad the linguist. He specialized in ancient classics — mainly Greek and Latin. This Latin course is a shambles, but it’s date is 1868, so I can’t help but keep it as well. Actually, I am keeping most of the Greek and Latin books. I love them, even though I can only stumble through them at less than a snail’s pace, and all I can do is pronounce the words, with very little understanding of their meaning at all.

Some of the other keepers include religion, philosophy, calligraphy, and poetry. The Four Books has an English interlinear translation, so that may be interesting if I ever get to it. I feel guilty about the Korean, Chinese, Japanese, German, and French books that are in the give-away pile, though. They could be treasures, for all I know. I just hope someone who cares will come across them in a thrift store one day and be blessed by their great fortune in such a find.

There are three huge bound volumes of the Illustrated London News, circa 1970s. I feel tremendously guilty about these, because I left boxes and boxes more of these when I sold the old school (another story for another time, but I once owned a 1910 red brick school building). I had limited time and space available for that move, so I had to decide what to leave behind, and sadly, they were amongst the abandoned. Vintage stuff of possible value to collectors, but I had to make a choice, so they were left behind. Not that I want those remaining. I’ll be putting an ad on Craigslist, to see if there’s any interest, and if nobody responds, they join the give-aways.


The same goes for these. An entire box of vintage classical 45s. They’re translucent red, and oh, so pretty! But what does one do with 45s these days, other than admire them while thinking nostalgically of days gone by.  I am feeling so guilty right now.

Two pairs of pants, four shirts, three sets of pyjamas, three towels, a set of sheets, and a couple of blankets, resulting in five loads of laundry. That was the casualty count from Beautiful Boy’s upset tummy bout on Wednesday evening. Poor little guy. He was boisterous and happy, with no fever. He didn’t seem to be feeling poorly at all.

Having requested assistance in cleaning up the mess on the sheets and bedding, and being told “I am quite capable of doing this without your help,” while I was struggling to clean the child while not spreading the spew any further than necessary, imagine the level of pleasantry in my attitude when I discovered that the bedding remained piled in a laundry basket, rather than in the washing machine, washing merrily away. Apparently, the part he was quite capable of was limited to removing the sheets from the mattress, and gosh, why would, should, or could I interpret that to mean that he would actually take the bedding downstairs, rinse off the chunks if necessary, transfer the bedding to the washing machine, and turn it on

So, I muttered something and threw the sheets in the machine, without rinsing off the chunks. Later, I speculated out loud as to whether the washing machine can handle chunks that size (moderately chewed grape halves), to which I was reprimanded for not knowing better, that one should remove the large debris before putting the soiled items in the machine. Okay, I knew that, and yes, I was being a bit lazy in not rinsing the sheets, but I was miffed that I had to contend with the sheets at all. So, I nearly exploded, because, hello Why is he reprimanding me, when he implied that he would take care of it in the first place To which he said, “Don’t even go there…” Which nearly sent me ballistic, as I was already on the verge of explosion. As if there were any remote way that I somehow might have shirked on my responsibilities? I think he uses that “Don’t even…” as some kind of a distraction tactic, because there are no grounds! Ever!

Because… I do most things related to keeping up a household (laundry, cooking, cleaning, shopping). He takes out the garbage. Okay, he does the gadget-centric tasks that spring up now and then, but I figure those get counterbalanced by the computing/techno things that spring up which I take care of. Therefore, in my view, things are grossly out of balance, so yes, it takes only the most miniscule hint of criticism or finger pointing to send me postal. Oh, so frustrating!

Thursday morning, he carefully inquires as to whether I will be able to make a doctor’s appointment for Beautiful Boy. I try to be calm and not get frustrated. I don’t know why he thinks that going to the doctor will make a difference in how fast he gets better. It’s an upset tummy. It will pass. He has no symptoms of anything serious. I just don’t see how a doctor’s visit will be helpful. I would have to keep him home until the time of the appointment, which wouldn’t allow me to get any work done, and then we’d go to the appointment and the doctor would most likely tell me to watch his fluids so that he doesn’t get dehydrated, and wait it out, which is what I am already doing. After which I’d have to drop him off at daycare, where he will cry and cry because that is what he does when I’m the one who drops him off, especially when he’s had a long and leisurely morning with me, so then I will cry on my way back home, because it breaks my heart when he does that. And then I’ll only be able to get a couple of hours of work done at best. So, all in all, a doctor’s visit would cause me a great deal of unnecessary stress.

I blew off the doctor appointment suggestion and proceeded with my work day. Things at the office started to get some resolve, although new things cropped up to keep me incredibly busy. All these things, so that I hrumph about in a snarly funk for a while, but then I notice a blazing blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds and it instantly washes my ire away. It’s amazing how that happens. A small part of me wanted to stay miffed a bit longer, because I wanted to attempt to express all that frustration to Mr. Gadget, but I was glad for the healing sunbreak. Also, he called and said something funny, to diffuse things, because, after all, we needed to be made up by the evening if we were to stick to our TTC schedule. So I forgave him.

Friday has arrived, and with it a nauseous headache. Maybe you’re pregnant, he says, puffing out his chest proudly. Mister Super Sperm. Right. Symptoms after less than twelve hours I don’t think so. I don’t think I’ve even ovulated yet, although we should be in that window right now. There have been no signs. The headache may be hormonal, so things may be on the verge. Who knows. All this elevated emotion of the past few days is no doubt exacerbated by hormone changes taking place. I should cut myself some slack and try not to get so worked up over every little thing, even though I do think my recent frustrations are justified!

Meanwhile, how thankful I am for a venue in which I can ramble on and on and on and get it all out.   A nice long whinge now and then does a body good.