burnt toast life

It’s February

I keep referencing February and psychics, so I figured I would give a little background on that for anyone who doesn’t know the whole story.

Back when we were diagnosed as infertile and when I was riding the emotional roller coaster of not getting pregnant every month, certain things were tough. Baby showers were tough. Kid’s birthday parties were tough. Any event that may or may not feature children was tough. That’s practically everything, by the way. Kids are everywhere and any little thing was likely to set off a sadness bomb inside of me.

As you may imagine, Mother’s Day was a particularly hard day. On that Sunday in 2011, I awoke in a foul mood. I distinctly remember lying in bed at my apartment, delaying the start of my day and wallowing in self pity. I checked my phone, as I always do first thing in the morning, and discovered the following message from my dear friend:

I would like to offer you this small piece of hope on this special day… I went back to the psychic yesterday. The one who did a group reading for me a couple of months ago and left me with goosebumps after reciting my entire life story. This time we were alone and I asked her about you and Eric. I told her I had friends who are having trouble conceiving. She asked me for your first name only and paused for a while. She said she definitely sees you getting pregnant and the pregnancy surrounds something with a 2. She thinks the 2 is for February. She said to give you 2 pieces of advice. One, be patient because IT WILL HAPPEN, and 2 continue using those fertility sticks. The second they show you’re ovulating you need to find Eric and go to town!
I know it doesn’t take a psychic to know fertility sticks help people conceive, but the specifics of info this women gives about everything else tells me she certainly knows her stuff.
Also, she said sees a beautiful baby girl. (I loved that part because she said it so full of emotion.)
I hope you have a Happy Mothers day, because you are a mommy, even if your baby hasn’t arrived yet.

Ok, let me premise with this: I didn’t know if I believed in psychics. It certainly never occured to me that I should go to one for this issue. And given the choice, I’m not sure I would want to know. What if the psychic said I would never have kids? How could I live with that every day, true or untrue? So this scenario was perfect. I had not asked my friend to ask for me, so I wasn’t worried about getting an answer. Plus, the answer was so full of hope on a day that I desperately needed it.

Remember, this was May. I manipulated that psychic prediction every way I possibly could all year long to fit my needs at the time and justify a pregnancy. In late May and June, I said the baby would be due in February. In the summer, I said the baby could be premature. In the winter, I said February would be the month we found out the gender. So no, I did not sit by patiently waiting for February to arrive.

February 2012 was a fantastically stressful month. It was, not coincidentally, the time of my first panic attack. I was driving home from work and had to pull over because I got myself so worked up that I could not breathe. To say that I had become obsessed with the prediction would be an understatement. I spoke to people about it as though it was a fact, not a prediction. The friend who sent the message was probably ready to disown me. I begged her for more details, nuances, anything she may have left out. She’s probably happy to live 300 miles away or I would have been at her house every night dissecting something that may have been literal, symbolic, or who knows, may have just been a big hoax.

February came and went. We did not get pregnant. It was almost a relief to have it over with, even if relief was quickly replaced with despair. I went through the rest of 2012 with a lack of enthusiasm compared to the year before. I don’t know if I believed it anymore.

As soon as we got our appointment with New Hope last year, I began thinking about February again. I started getting really excited. Without trying, all of the scheduling lined up for February of this year. Our first tentative embryo transfer (ET) was supposed to be Feb 1, but with my high estrogen was delayed to Feb 24-27. It’s still February. It’s still all about February.

I’m definitely less worked up and anxious than I was last year at this time. This is our first real, honest-to-goodness try, and that’s incredible. But tell someone you’re undergoing IVF and they’ll tell you about their friend’s neighbors cousin who tried 5 times or 6 times or 12 times and was unsuccessful. It rarely works on the first round; I know that. But I do have my determination, my hope, and a very promising psychic prediction on my side. Take THAT, universe!

Notes from Colorado

We went to Denver, and it was wonderfully relaxing. Yes, I managed to take it easy and enjoy myself. I’ve compiled a list of observations from the trip.

1) They put green chili on everything. Also, there’s always a bottle of malt vinegar to put on your French fries.

2) They have the best damn beer I’ve ever tasted (and I’m not even sure I like beer).

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3) I wore a knit winter cap the whole time. It just felt right.

4) I was definitely the fattest person there. Even in 9 degree weather, people were working out everywhere you looked. “Health conscious” may be an understatement.

5) All the cars had 4 wheel drive. Obviously.

6) Buffalo meat was readily available. It tastes just like beef, but is supposedly less fatty. Plus, it feels cool to order a buffalo burger.

7) The people really are nicer out West.

8) I also wore a ski jacket the whole time and felt like I fit in. Makeup was overkill. I’m pretty sure NY Fashion Week isn’t the event of the year out there.

9) Ok, so Coloradans don’t care about fashion. Things they do care about: music, the environment, and locally brewed beer.

10) The bread doesn’t get stale for a really long time. No humidity!

11) Colorado: Flat. Flat. Flat. Flat. Foothill. MOUNTAIN. HUGE EFFING MOUNTAIN.

12) On a clear day, you can literally see Kansas.

13) It’s the mile high city. You could say we were really high the whole time we were there. IMG_1109

14) Listening to the radio, we heard a song called “There’s No Tortillas” by Lalo Guerrero. Watch the video, it will make your day.

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the biggest mistake of my life (it’s probably not what you’re thinking)

Actually, I have no idea what you’re thinking. Who are you? Do I even know you? Is anyone actually reading this? I don’t even care. I have a big glass of red wine and a couple of dogs laying at my feet. Life is good.

Anyway, every couple of years I like to spend a few agonizing hours playing “what if?” I’m sure we all do it. I like to do it right as I’m about to fall asleep, or better yet, when I wake up for no reason at 2 a.m. The game is quite simple: just imagine the outcome of your life if you would have done this and done that. How much better it would have been. Because that’s all we can focus on, right? How much better it would have been? What we’re missing out on? It’s probably not accurate to think that way. I just finished an intriguing book called The Post Birthday World, which explores both sides of “what would happen if she did” and “what would happen if she didn’t” one chapter at a time. I won’t spoil it because I highly recommend it, but I’ll just say there was no right decision. There were pluses and minuses to each life she could have lived. And that’s a pretty smart way of handling it.

ANYWAY. Regrets, I have a few. I wish I had gotten my shit together in high school and figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wish I had never wasted my time and money on a worthless school like The Art Institute of Philadelphia (damn con artists). I wish I had started writing sooner, I wish I was writing more now. I wish I never signed up for a credit card. I wish, I wish, I wish. But in a more tangible way, I really wish I never bought that car in June.

I swear, no single decision has more completely and swiftly impacted my financial life.  I remember, for one second while sitting at the dealership, hesitating. And I could have just walked away right then. I should have. I didn’t.

Why did I buy the car? I wish I could say because my trusty old Blue Civic finally died. But no – she’s still chugging away. If I’m being honest (and why would I not be honest rambling to myself?) it was sheer vanity. I look around and I see my peers with new-ish cars. I talked myself into believing that I deserved it. And so, with my arrogant head held high, I plunged us from a comfortable existence into counting every penny. From spending without thinking to logging into my bank account before stopping at Wawa for coffee. One car payment can do that? Seriously? Yes, yes it can.

I went from having a $0 car payment to having one I’m too ashamed to disclose. And the worst part? I just have to live with it. It’s not like they have an exchange policy. I seriously hate myself a little bit every time I slide behind the wheel. But damn, the built-in Bluetooth is nice. I am definitely in love with that.

Silver linings: well, I have learned to be a lot more conscious of my spending, simply because I have to be. Gone are the days of aimlessly wandering through Target and leaving with $200 worth of “What the hell did I just buy?” I don’t whip out a credit card to pay for whatever I need; I don’t even carry credit cards anymore. And Eric and I finally got rid of our personal accounts and joined forces 100%, so I’m a little self-conscious about spending what I used to spend on trivial shit. It’s just not worth the fight justifying $50 visits to the nail salon.

We’ll bounce back, of course. Maybe we’ll look back and laugh. In the grand scheme of bad financial decisions, I don’t think buying a car ranks up there with bankruptcy and such. But I’ve learned an important lesson about biting off more than I can chew, and I learned it the hard way. Target…. I miss you.

Juice

So I’ve been juicing.

Yeah, I know, once again I’m behind the bandwagon. But it’s never too late to start good habits.

I’m trying out this juice thing for two reasons:

1) I watched the documentary ‘Fat Sick & Nearly Dead.’ I liked it. It wasn’t the most inspiring or revolutionary thing I’ve ever seen, but it was well done. It piqued my curiosity, that’s for sure.

2) My entire extended family is doing a Biggest Loser style competition, complete with cash prizes at every weigh-in and a grand prize at the end in December. It’s a great way to potentially earn a little extra cash, fit in my jeans again, and feel better about myself in general. A win-win-win, if you will.

I borrowed the juicer from a salesperson at work, and I freaking love it. I’m going to have a hard time giving it back, that’s how much I love it. Eric says I’m not allowed to actually buy one because he sees juicing as a passing trend for me. I guess only time will tell.

I didn’t go cold turkey on food, but I did stock up on fresh fruit and veggies so I can replace most meals with juice. Right now I’m “enjoying” the Mean Green signature recipe from the documentary while Eric feasts on a steak dinner. Fun times.

In case you’re feeling adventurous, here’s the recipe. I left out the ginger because it’s too expensive. (Actually, all of it was expensive. No wonder poor people eat junk food).

bottom's up

Mean Green Juice

6 Kale Leaves
1 Cucumber
4 Celery Stalks
2 Green Apples
1/2 Lemon
1 piece of ginger

We shop at Target

Dear Marie Claire magazine,

Hi, I’m sorry, I am your audience. At least I thought I was. But month after month I go through the same cycle of emotion when you show up amongst my pile of bills. It starts with excitement (Fall fashion!) and ends with depression ($900 boots?). Along the way there are pit stops at outrage, confusion, envy, lust, hopefulness and resignation.

You know the women in your magazine? I don’t know these women. For once I’m not complaining about impossibly skinny models with airbrushed faces. I actually do know plenty of slender ladies with gorgeous skin. No, I speak instead of your “respondents” to various polls in various articles. The women who have questionable job titles, are 24 years old, and who cannot live without $1200 studded belts and $200 face cream. To some extent, I understand – magazines are not about reality, they are about fantasy. They set themselves as a fashion compass and we can choose to follow to the extent that we are able. It’s sort of like runway vs. the real world – no, you won’t be wearing the 8-inch spiked heels, but you might spring for the 4-inch. But still. I read each issue cover to cover and finish feeling anxious, overstimulated and woefully left behind. Sometimes I do wonder if my peers are lounging out in their mid-century modern lofts admiring their newest Birkin. But I also find it hard to believe.

Here in suburbia I can pinpoint where my friend’s new cardigan came from because I have the same one in teal. We didn’t get them at Bendels; we got them at Old Navy. We shop the Target clearance rack like its a second job. Our shoes are from Macy’s, but sometimes they’re from DSW or if we’re really lucky, they’re from Target clearance. Did I mention we like Target? Our face cream comes from Walgreens, but on payday it comes from Sephora. It almost never comes from Neiman’s.

No offense to those who do, but I don’t live in West Virginia. I can (and do) drive to NYC in under two hours. While I don’t live in the most happening metro area, it’s not quite east of nowhere. I have a few friends who live and work in the city. They shop at Target. We also like Marshalls and Forever 21 and when we’re feeling edgy, we really love H&M. At Target we scoop us $13 sundresses and $8 tank tops and $10 braided flat sandals. We compare notes and compete and try to figure out who paid the least. We walk down the back of the aisles for end cap sales, because everyone knows that walking down the center of the aisle is pointless.

That’s not to say we don’t splurge. I used to work for a luxury handbag retailer, and you’d be hard pressed to find a bag in my closet worth less than $200 – but remember I bought them all for half price with my discount. I couldn’t help but notice that in this month’s “Look Luxe for Less” feature, you offered a $998 Tommy Hilfiger coat as the cheaper alternative that would help to keep you from “straining your wallet.” Seriously? Our splurges are $168 dresses from White House Black Market. I own exactly one $300 Theory blazer (it was a gift) that I’m almost frightened to wear. And yes, $998 would most certainly be a strain for my wallet.

So what do we want? A little perspective, maybe. It’s like in the HBO series Girls, the one where the characters are real. They’re real and they’re likeable and they’re messed up and they probably shop at Target. It’s so easy to relate. We watched Sex & the City when it was cool (before it was a movie) and we loved it but we also scratched our heads and wondered if these women really existed. Someone finally figured it out – real women with budgets are out there, not with closets full of Manolos, but with mortgages and student loan debt and half priced gift cards to Applebees. This is your audience.

So about that Chanel watch – I won’t be calling to inquire for the “price upon request.” I’ll be at Target. Thanks, though.

 

 

Massacre at Harding Farm

Based on the title, and because I’m not the most adept at suspenseful openers, I’m just going to say it: the chickens were murdered. Well, not all of them. Just three of them. That leaves one confused, lonely hen that we found wandering the driveway in a state of shock (not sure if chickens can register shock, but if they can, that’s what she was).

We went on vacation last week and of course it was relaxing. However, I realized something about myself. While I did not face work stress or home stress or regular daily stress, I managed to create vacation stress. Rather than just live and let live, I found myself worrying about who was doing what and at what time, when I should be ready by, how long I should stay at the beach, whether I should pack a turkey sandwich or peanut butter and fluff, etc. You know – big decisions. It’s not that my problems were monumental, it’s just that my poor brain doesn’t know how to function without at least a modicum of anxiety. In the absence of actual drama, I somehow manufacture faux drama.

One thing that was actually worth worrying about came in the form of text around mid-week. I had a friend checking in on the animals at home (cat, turtle, fish, chickens), and she found an ominous pile of feathers in the front yard, which she reported to me with a sad face emoticon. She said that she did not see any chickens wandering about.

We got home and immediately set off looking for our flock. It didn’t take long to discover the aforementioned feathers in the front yard… and then the second pile near the neighbor’s yard… and also the third pile near a pine tree. A quick stop at the neighbor’s confirmed that nary a rooster crow had been heard since Tuesday (it was then Friday). Dismayed, we walked up and down the driveway until we found our lone surviving hen, who turned her head at us inquisitively as if to ask, “Where were you? Where were you while my family was being murdered?” Eric quickly gathered her up into the coop and locked it up tightly. The giant food and water feeders we purchased recently take up half the floor space of the coop, serving as a cruel reminder to all that we had and all that we lost.

all that remains

Obviously, free ranging has its limitations. Eric tried to make me feel better by justifying that this would have happened even if we had been home since we weren’t corralling them at night, but I would imagine that we would have noticed they were being plucked off one by one and locked them up sooner. Really, we should have kept them in the coop full time once the first hen went missing weeks ago. But we loved seeing them strutting around the yard, hiding in the front bushes, perching on the wood pile out back, and creating a little haven in the dry creek bed beside the driveway. The neighbors also enjoyed them immensely, saying it warmed their hearts when they found chickens wandering around their backyard.

Silver linings: we still have one hen. The three roosters that we gave away to the farm are still living (hopefully). And the ones that we lost had very good, albeit short, chicken lives. They roamed freely, eating bugs and ruling the yard. They were not restricted to the tiny cages of giant eggs factories. If it were me, I would prefer a short and free life to a long and imprisoned one. However, these could all just be justifications of a woefully inept caregiver.

The next steps involve finding a chicken friend for Diana Ross (Get it? She will survive?) [EDIT: Diana Ross DID NOT, I repeat DID NOT sing “I Will Survive.” Shame on the writer for not doing her research. The hen’s name shall be Gloria.] and then starting the whole process over again in the spring, if my uncle allows it. Maybe I shouldn’t tell him this little tale. To my lost chickens, I will just say this: I’m sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.

fighting the good fight

First, just allow me to apologize. I am forever one step behind when it comes to trending articles, videos, fads, etc. You can hear me saying things like, “Wow! So how about that Zumba?” two years after everyone else started doing Zumba. Maybe I live under a rock. Maybe I don’t watch the news often enough. Maybe it’s all of these things. But despite this delay, I almost always eventually figure out what everyone is talking about/loving/hating/eating/watching.

That was a rather lengthy preamble to introduce an amazing article (and yes, it’s from 2009). I stumbled across this gem from columnist Laura Munson. It’s a piece she did for The New York Times entitled “Those Aren’t Fighting Words, Dear.” I think everyone should read it. But if you don’t, the story in short is that after 20 years of marriage her husband requested a divorce, claiming that he didn’t love her anymore. Rather than rage, cry, become vindictive, or shut down completely, she chose to not believe him. She spent a summer giving him all the space he needed to be unreliable and unhusband-like, all the while remaining stoic and putting up with his shenanigans like a saint. In the end, they stayed together.

I can completely relate to this piece. No, I have not yet been married for half a lifetime. I don’t know the exquisite pain that must go along with hearing those words from your partner’s mouth after building a life together. I do, however, adopt the same tactic when it comes to marital spats that Laura Munson suggests. Rather than fight back, I fight passively. This was not always the case.

The absolute hands-down worst fight of our entire relationship occurred on August 20, 2010. Whoever claimed that the first year of marriage is the hardest wasn’t kidding. It doesn’t matter what we were fighting about on that evening – what matters is that a series of smaller fights over the previous three months culminated into a spectacular volcano of pure anger that lasted well into the next morning. I should probably mention that we were married that May. And while that fight was raging I truly believed that our marriage was over.

Many men turn into their father. My husband has plenty in common with his dad, it’s true. But mostly he is exactly like his mom (sorry, Cindy). When he is worked up and combative, he tends to say things that aren’t true. My biggest mistake for those first three months was believing those things. So when he said things like, “I hate you. This is terrible. You’re the worst thing on Earth. I’m leaving you,” (um, I have cleaned this up considerably. You don’t want to know what he really said) I fought back. Then he fought back. And then the fights became something out of a terrible, terrible soap opera.

The secret to fighting with him, I finally realized, was to believe absolutely nothing that came out of his mouth. Or even to believe the exact opposite. Because not only does he not remember half the things he spews while going off in a fit of fury, he also doesn’t mean them. Ever. It was a hard lesson to learn and sometimes it’s a hard lesson to practice. It’s a lesson that Laura Munson took to heart on a much, much larger scale. I’d like to think I would have the courage and strength to do the same.

I have no idea if this method is considered “healthy.” It’s sort of like refusing to negotiate with terrorists, I think, and in this scenario his dramatic proclamations are the terrorists. By denying them validation and praying they go away quietly, I am weeding out the truths from the exaggerations. I am separating the real arguments from the overinflated petty bullshit.

We still fight all the time. It’s part of what makes us us and it goes hand in hand with a passionate relationship that I can’t live without. But now the knock-down, drag out fights of legend are fewer and farther between. I no longer live in fear that our next fight will be the end because learning how to fight properly has instilled a sense of security in me. I don’t know how, but so far it’s working.

Of course, he definitely just read this entire post, so he’s on to me now. I’ll let you know how it’s going in three months.

calorie free living

Tonight’s meal was inspired by kgbdeals.com, or more specifically, my employer. I could not believe my good fortune when the Miracle Noodle deal landed on my desk. Calorie free, carb free noodles? Could it be? Is it possible? And more importantly… how have I been missing out for so long?

My diet obsession since finishing Insanity has ebbed and flowed. One day I would manage to eat nothing but a smoothie and some diet iced tea, while the next I guiltily stopped at Wawa for breakfast. And lunch. And even dinner. Ok, I’m addicted to Wawa. So kill me.

But this… the very idea that I could eat an entire bowl of something, that I could trick my body into thinking it was eating yet still level out as though I was eating nothing at all – this was a revolution. This was going to change my entire universe.

My two dozen packs of Miracle Noodles arrived in a very heavy box this past Saturday. At first the weight of the box perplexed me. I had expected tightly coiled and dry noodles, Ramen-style. Miracle Noodles are quite the opposite. Each 7 oz. serving arrives in an individual packet, floating around in a gel-like substance that is far from appetizing.

Miracle Noodles - before!

Not to be discouraged, I planned tonight’s meal and included the following:

Miracle Noodles - after!

 

Miracle Noodles – 0 calories

1/2 cup of zucchini, sauteed in oil and garlic – 30 calories

1 packet of chicken soup flavoring – 10 calories

1/2 salmon fillet – 75 calories

It was amazing. No, it wasn’t delicious; it was palatable. The noodles were kind of slimy. But it was food. It filled me up, and my entire dinner was 115 calories. Granted, this is not the kind of meal you can eat every night. So what? I am in love with these noodles, and there’s nothing you can say to convince me otherwise.

turn off the faucet

Today was mildly pleasant at work. To clarify: most days I enjoy my basic job function. But there is one major drawback. It affects every minute of my day in an all-consuming way that’s impossible to ignore.

It is freezing.

I don’t mean, “Oh, they set the temperature a little low.” I mean that every single day of the year, from January 1st through December 31st, there is a constant icy cold stream of air steadily blowing from the moment I step in the door until the moment I leave. It is relentless.

I’m not the only one who feels this way. Most people wear their winter coats for the entire workday. I’ve seen everything from fingerless gloves (for easier typing, of course) to floor length blankets with sleeves, scarves, hats, thick socks, and year-round cable knit sweaters. Sleeveless shirts and bare legs in the summer is a laughable concept. You might as well strip naked and spend the day in a walk-in freezer.

So why? If it’s so cold, why don’t they turn on the heat (or at the very least… turn down the air)? Poor building planning is the short answer. The offices in the building are windowless and small, and seem to have been added on as an afterthought. They have terrible ventilation and therefore cause their inhabitants to swelter, even while the rest of the employees chip icicles from their chins. And as you may imagine, the people in the offices carry a little more clout than the lowly cubicle workers. So no matter how many times I email the facilities manager with desperate pleas for a temperature boost attached to pictures of the arctic Tundra, the constant frigid blast continues day in and day out.

Today, however, was a breakthrough. Someone who sits close to me unearthed a space heater from an empty office and turned it on full blast. The air conditioning tried its best to keep us in our frozen state, but that little heater won out and provided a cocoon of warmth that allowed me to shed a layer, stop shivering, and actually be a little more productive (thawed out fingers have that effect).

The whole thing reminds me of something my dad used to say: “We’re too busy mopping the floor to turn off the faucet.” That has always resonated with me. I prefer solving the root of a problem rather than constantly cleaning up the aftermath, which is why when other coworkers share their keep-warm tricks I often exclaim, “But why don’t they just turn off the air conditioning? It’s snowing outside.”

I don’t know the solution, nor do I have the power to “shut off the faucet” in this situation. As with most offices, the thermostat is literally kept under lock and key. But I am eternally grateful for that little space heater that gave me hope again.

Chickenworld: the opposite of China

This is a sad post. All other burnt toast sympathizers should abandon it now.

Still with me? I warned you. Ok, here goes.

In our attempt to create what can only be classified as the Harding Family Farm, we adopted 8 chicks. In fact, I’ve been meaning to write about them for quite some time, but then they got really ugly. When we first got them they looked like this:

"I'm so cute!"

Now they look like this:

"I'm pretty awkward."

We had toyed around with the idea of getting chickens for two reasons. First, the notion of having fresh eggs was appealing. Second, it sounded cool. Now, Eric was definitely the instigator behind this whole plan. If I’m being completely honest it was one of those ideas that I hoped would go away and never come back. It’s not that I didn’t want chickens – it’s just that I assumed (correctly) that they would be more of a hassle than we were bargaining for and we were probably romanticizing the notion of owning them.

Then my uncle sent an email saying that his children had embarked on a 4H project hatching chicks from eggs. At the end of it they planned to donate the chicks to a farm. Unfortunately or fortunately for me, they wound up coming home with us this past Easter Sunday.

Obviously we didn’t know the genders, though we crossed our fingers for 7 girls and 1 boy. Sadly, the odds were against us. As the weeks passed it became clear that we had 4 girls and 4 boys. Not the worst outcome, but not what we were hoping for either. And unlike China, the boys are next to impossible to get rid of.

No one wants male chickens. All you need is one. If you keep more than one, they will fight to the death (so I’ve been told). So what do you do with them? I can’t figure it out. I called a family friend with a farm who sounded delighted that I wanted to give away chickens until I mentioned the gender. “Well, I don’t want males. I need layers,” he explained. So what the hell do people do with the men?!

There are different types of chickens and the kind we have are meant for egg-laying, not for eating. Apparently they aren’t tasty and tender. So now I’m stuck with 3 male chickens who no one wants and who will fight each other into a bloodbath of rooster carnage in a few short months. I’m really at a loss here. Plus, I feel so terrible for them that I can’t even go into the dining room where their cardboard box resides. It’s totally out of sight and partially out of mind on this one.

So my question is this – does anyone want 3 awkward-looking and not delicious male chickens? Free delivery.