the little things Archives - Page 6 of 7

May 04

a bargain hunter’s paradise

May 04

I don’t know about you guys, but I get serious anxiety whenever I’m bargain hunting. Not that this is any different than my normal state of existence, but it kicks into high gear whenever I’m within ten miles of a yard sale or a TJ Maxx.

Here are the problems:

1) I hate to feel like I’m missing out on something,
2) I always imagine someone else scoring an item that’s perfect for me,

and

3) I always feel like I’m arriving too late and missed all the good shit.

Despite these truths, I absolutely love clearance shopping. I have no qualms about digging through racks and bins to uncover amazing finds. In fact, the more buried the treasure, the more value I attribute to that particular item. One of my favorite treasure hunting spots is Ross Dress for Less. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel dirty the minute you walk in. It’s like the Walmart of off-price retailers in terms of clientele and cleanliness. But the bargains? Unbeatable. They have the same housewares as TJ Maxx and Marshalls but so, so much cheaper. Those places can be kind of expensive, even for discount store standards. For home goods, I go to Ross. For clothing, yes, Marshalls and TJ Maxx are better. (I swear, I’m not getting paid to say any of this, even if it’s starting to sound that way).

The Far Hills Rummage Sale (if you click on the link, understand that these pics do not do it justice) has been described to me as “a place where super rich people discard unwanted Vera Wang sheaths and Louboutin pumps that are so last season.” For those of you not familiar with the area, Far Hills is a New Jersey suburb of Manhattan where most residents are very well off. Common sense dictates that a yard sale in an expensive development tends to yield better finds than a yard sale in a trailer park. No kidding. So my mom and I finally hit up the Far Hills Rich Person Castoff Sale for the first time in October.

map of so much good stuff!

The whole thing is overwhelming, but in a good way. There are tents set up by category and people line up outside, so you’re never really fighting for elbow room as you’re digging through the racks. They literally have everything. EVERYTHING. I read in one article that there were 25,000 plush toys, 2,500 vinyl records, 2,000 pairs of women’s shoes and 50,000 books. Not hard to believe – just when you think you’re done looking, there’s more to see. At the October event, I made a beeline for the Boutique tent (clearly) and scored a bunch of adorable dresses that could have come straight off a rack at Nordstrom. Many of them still had tags on them. No, I did not find Louboutins, but I did spy a few pairs of Coach sandals and plenty of other respectable brands (rumor has it that the Manolos are gone before you can blink). The best part? The system is streamlined so that you just pay one price for each type of item. So all shirts, regardless of condition or designer, are $5. All high-end designer dresses (think Cynthia Steffe, Alice + Olivia, French Connection, Laundry, etc.) are $25. Yes, you read that correctly. $25. With tags. Hallelujah.

Admittedly, this season’s haul was a bit less impressive than last fall’s. The sale goes on for three days, and the diehards all line up first thing Friday morning (which is when mama bear and I went in October). This year we skipped the Friday crowd and went on a Saturday, so the Boutique tent had fewer amah-zing frocks.

We did find a whole bunch of random things, including one thing I’ve been trying to talk myself into buying for ages now… an under-the-desk elliptical machine. These babies go for about $100 on Amazon, so I hadn’t pulled the trigger just yet. But at the Rummage Sale? $15. I could not be more excited. I’m the girl who swapped her desk chair for a giant fitness ball months ago, but it’s not as effective as I’d hoped. This elliptical thing is perfect. Bring on the buns of steel.

Oh, and since I’ve made it through five paragraphs without mentioning baby drama, I’ll mention now that I did suck it up and peruse the maternity section (because, you know, I’m insane). It was oddly disappointing. I’m talking one small rack of totally random, ugly clothes with a preggo chick huffing and puffing her way through it, lamenting that she had “Four more weeks to go. Just four more weeks to go.” You’d think maternity wear, the single biggest category of castoffs, would be a gold mine. But alas, no. At least I didn’t have to obsess over it.

under the desk elliptical!

Apr 26

Fat, poor and introspective in the Cayman Islands

Apr 26

Things got better in Cayman. We figured out that the room service was sub-par, but the restaurants at the hotel were pretty good, so we just needed to motivate our lazy asses to get out of the room. I never thought I’d have the life experience to say the phrase, “Don’t order room service at the Ritz in Cayman, it’s positively dreadful,” but here I am saying it. Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, there were no pregnant women on our snorkeling excursion. Right when I let my guard down enough to enjoy the trip, another boat zipped past and slowed just long enough for me to notice a very pregnant passenger, also in a bikini. Apparently that’s a thing there. Also, HAHA, UNIVERSE, VERY FUNNY.

There were times I felt a little bit like the Beverly Hillbillies at the hotel. It’s not just that we don’t fit into that financial bracket – it’s a whole other mindset and way of behaving. I think I’m pretty good at “faking it ’til I make it” but as for my husband… God love him, he does not care what people think, and he won’t pretend to be anyone other than exactly who he is. Really I should take a lesson from him and stop being so worried about appearances (and no, I’m not just saying this because he reads all my posts). I was the girl quietly slipping the complimentary Molton Brown shampoos and lotions and cute little jars of honey into my handbag while maintaining what I hoped was an expression of total indifference. But Eric totally surprised me when we went to a dinner with my aunt and two of her lawyer friends. Her colleague, a Caymanian resident, picked us up in his Jaguar and whisked us over to a gorgeous open air restaurant where we dined on lobster and sipped mojitos in the balmy 80 degree evening. I was thinking, “A girl could get used to this,” and hoping I’d think of interesting enough things to say during dinner. But then it turns out I didn’t need to worry about it, because Eric totally held his own during the conversation, regaling them with tales of the military that they found a hell of a lot more interesting than discussing billable hours. And he didn’t even have to fake it.

stole a lot of good free stuff

On our way to the beach one morning Eric asked, “Why are you walking funny? Just get off a horse?” I didn’t even notice I was doing it. But after he said something, I figured out the problem. When wearing dresses or bathing suit bottoms, it became apparent that my thighs rub together when I walk (something that has never been an issue before). To accommodate their larger circumference, I had inadvertently and involuntarily adopted a wider stance, therefore making me walk like I just got done jockeying or alternately, had just had some kind of bathroom mishap. Oh, the shame of it all.

I know I’ve been so weight focused and it’s probably getting annoying to hear but honestly, I was terrified when I got my BFP. I was certain that I would balloon to elephantine proportions during the pregnancy. My stomach getting bigger was one thing. But my thighs and my arms and even my calves? They were already too big for me, and had the potential of getting bigger still. I can’t explain how much I felt like a foreigner trapped in my own body.

Before packing for the trip, I made the mistake of hastily texting my sister saying, “None of my clothes for vacation will fit my fat ass. Looks like I’ll need to borrow yours.” I need to mention two things: 1) My sister is extremely sensitive and 2) She’s not fat at all. But we are built differently and she gravitates towards mediums while I (used to) make a beeline for the extra smalls. I also need to mention that my sister is incredibly beautiful whereas I am more “pretty” or even “average-leaning cute.” I think that’s part of the problem, or even most of the problem, with the weight gain. For the longest time I’ve relied on my thinness to keep me feeling attractive. Like, OK, my face isn’t a 10, but at least I look decent in a pair of jeans. It’s like I’ve become invisible to the world now that I’m larger.

The fact that I have to keep reiterating how I’m not obsessed with appearances probably proves that I am obsessed with them, and clearly I’m in denial. I’m smart enough to know that my self-worth is not directly proportional to my weight nor is my being thin or not thin an indication of how attractive I am. I know. But going on vacation in April forced me to thrust my winter-hibernation and especially out of sorts post-infertility and even post-miscarriage body into a bikini and skimpy cover-up. And I did this at a resort populated with women whose full-time jobs appeared to be working out, tanning and getting manicures. I felt a bit like the Pillsbury Dough Boy at the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. And, at heart, I’m feeling quite betrayed by my body both inside and out. It’s no wonder my self-image issues go deeper than just how much extra pasta I’ve been eating.

I stuck to my new diet today, which was extra hard since I haven’t gone grocery shopping since vacation and there’s pretty much nothing but eggs in my fridge. I took a great “before” picture that I contemplated posting, but I’m thinking I’ll wait until I have a noticeable “after.” I also ate an apple this afternoon and then suffered the absolute worst stomach pains, so I’m convinced I have Fructose Malabsorption as my PCP suggested. Looks like it’s legit broccoli and chicken from here on out. Bring it.

Apr 22

Greetings from the Pregnant Women’s Convention, Grand Cayman edition

Apr 22

I was going to hold off on posting until I got back from vacation. I wanted to just take a break from blogging and infertility and drama for five days. But alas, you cannot take a break from reality, even when you are in paradise.

I could not wait to post because 1) shit is on my mind, 2) it’s a lot of shit, so I don’t want to post it all at once and 3) relaxing vacations offer plenty of spare time to write, write and write some more.

Here I am on Grand Cayman Island, staying at The Ritz-Carlton and trying to enjoy myself. There was one cute baby on the plane. Fine, OK, I dealt with it. But apparently someone forgot to mention that there must be a Pregnant Women’s Convention here at the hotel. Within the first ten minutes of sitting by the pool on the first day, Pregnant Woman #1 waddled her happy pregnant ass over and plopped into the chair right next to me. Awesome. Then Pregnant Woman #2 passed me in the hallway. Today is day two and around Pregnant Woman #6 (in a cute bikini, no less) I’ve stopped counting and just resigned myself to laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. I would not classify this as a “kid-friendly” hotel by any means. I would not come here for a wild and fun family vacation. But I guess there are a lot of lawyers and hedge fund managers here and the men brought their wives to enjoy the beach while they’re stuck in conferences. Their pregnant wives. Or maybe there’s really a Pregnant Women’s Convention. Frankly, it wouldn’t shock me.

Moral of the story? There’s no escaping your state of mind, even if you leave your state. As frustrating as it was to see those women and the occasional cherubic baby in a stroller, the worst moment so far happened when I casually glanced at Eric in profile and couldn’t help but picture that our babies probably had his facial structure. I don’t know why I thought that and it’s something that could have happened anywhere. It just proves that I’m never safe from my own self-inflicted misery.

I’m making it sound like I’m having a terrible time, but really I’m not. This place is incredible. The water is turquoise and warm, the sand is white, the weather (minus a brief rain shower today) is perfect. My complaints, besides the inundation of pregnant people, are just the food and the prices. I mean, $15 cocktails and $25 salads would be one thing if they were mind-blowing. But honestly? Every single thing I’ve eaten has left me uttering, “I’ve had better,” all while trying hard not to calculate just how much we’ve wasted on dried-out-cheese encrusted nachos.

Tomorrow we’re going snorkeling and swimming with stingrays, two things that are actually worth the money and will hopefully deter the league of pregnant chicks. Tuesday we’re planning to go on a rum distillery tour and a brewery tour, which are things I would not have enjoyed as much if I’d still been knocked up.

As far as existential crises and major life decisions, I’ll save those chats for a later post. Let’s just say I’ve been doing some serious thinking about my life and knowing that I’m a super control freak surrounded by uncontrollable situations, it should make for an interesting next couple of months and even years. I need to make real changes if I want things to change. Simple to say… not so simple to do.

And for now, here’s some sandy toes:

Apr 18

Broccoli! Lots and lots of broccoli!

Apr 18

As expected, my PCP was not thoroughly swayed by my food allergy argument. To appease my delicate emotional state, he offered to refer me to an allergist to do a more in-depth test. He also suggested that maybe I was reacting to the fructose in high fructose corn syrup, not the corn. A little bit of research determined that Fructose Malabsorption is a fairly common malady and gave a list of foods to avoid. This list included a bunch of fruits (boo), some vegetables (double boo) and even coconut milk. Coconut milk is a mainstay of the Paleo diet. So I ask you – what the hell can I eat? I feel like food is out to get me and it’s more than a little frightening. I really want to know exactly WHAT is causing these issues. Next week I will literally be subsisting on broccoli, which seems to be the only totally “safe” food. It’s OK; I like broccoli. And this could be a good thing because the doctor weighed me and ~~holy shit I almost weight as much as my husband~~ infertility/carb loading has caused my weight to skyrocket to an unacceptable number. So, broccoli it is. Mmmmm…broccoli. (Please don’t call the authorities on me, I’m totally kidding about only eating broccoli. I’ve also decided to include peppers and celery).

I was over at my parent’s house last night for my little sister’s EIGHTH birthday celebration. I cannot believe she was born eight years ago. Where does the time go? Anyway, we were discussing natural healing and all that jazz and my mom got all serious and said I really needed to try acupuncture in addition to my crazy broccoli diet. She’s been seeing the same chiropractor/acupuncturist since I was eight years old and apparently he really wants to see me. I know acupuncture is huge in the infertility world, but I just never thought I needed it. Remember, I was strolling merrily along believing that my only problem was sperm count/motility/morphology, not anything with me. Last week proved otherwise. So now I have to figure out how to heal myself. She had mentioned yoga and meditation, which you would realize is totally out-of-character if you knew my mom. But again last night she said, “I’m serious about the yoga, meditation and acupuncture. You need to do those things.” And again, my husband gave me a look that said, “Seriously, between the grass fed beef, organic produce and acupuncture you’re going to put us in the poor house.” Which is probably true. But when it comes to healthy living, can you really put a monetary value on it? If anyone has any success stories or advice in regards to acupuncture, I would really appreciate it.

I was not expecting my PCP to be so concerned and involved, but he totally took me by surprise. He asked all the right questions and ordered up a slew of blood clotting disorder tests (as I figured he would) and made me promise that my OB/GYN would keep him in the loop on the tissue results from the D&C and any additional tests that she requests. He even shared that he and his wife had experienced a few losses early in their marriage, so he had personal experience with diagnosing the cause of this particular issue. I don’t know why I was so surprised that he cared. But anyway, it can’t hurt to have multiple doctors all doing their own individual research and diagnostics. I sort of feel like a lab rat, but since Dr. House does not exist in real life, I just have to work with who I have.

How many regular doctors does it take to match House’s misogynistic brilliance? Three, hopefully. And possibly an acupuncturist.

Mar 04

Progesterone is a big fat bully

Mar 04

So I’ve been giving some thought on how to handle the next steps. Either this works and I have a few weeks of walking around like I’m made of glass, or it’s negative and I’ll be crawling into a dark cave and waiting for death (kidding. I think). But the fact of the matter is that I’m supposed to wait 12 weeks to tell the public. And that public includes Facebook, I would think.

Here’s what I’m going to do: I will continue posting on the blog, including early pregnancy, negatives and whatever else life throws at me, but I won’t share the links on Facebook as I have been doing. All you FB followers are welcome to add my blog to your Google Reader or just click on it sporadically, but from now on you’re on your own to find me. Until my big obnoxious Facebook announcement, anyway. Sorry… I’ve suffered through so many of yours, I just have to do one (suffered may be too harsh. I endured them. Stoically. Big gulps of wine helped immensely).

Just one more quick thing. If you do choose to follow me and know what is going on, please do not share it with your friends (Yes, your friends totally care. The bump watch on me has been similar to the one on Kate Middleton and I don’t want paparazzi all up in my grill) or exclaim loudly if we should run into each other in the grocery store. Let’s just pretend it’s not happening, for now, or you can simply give me a slight wink and nod. I will start posting again in earnest once we get past the danger zone.

OK, now with that out of the way, let’s talk about Progesterone. Oh…Progesterone. I’ve been creeping on so many other blogs lately and I can’t help but notice that mostly everyone gets this in the form of suppositories or even, (lucky bitches) gets it in pill form. Um… wtf? I get intramuscular (read: in the ass) shots of Progesterone in Oil every single day and those. mothereffers. hurt. The shot itself is fine, but afterwards? What can I compare it to? It’s kind of like willingly getting kicked in the ass by an elephant every day.

They started nine days ago and yes, I know, they are supposed to be “tricking” my body into thinking it’s pregnant. I figured I would have to keep doing them until maybe the second positive beta, then would get to stop because my body would be producing it naturally, right? WRONG. In the event of a BFP (that’s Big Fat Positive, FB), I have to keep doing this until the 9 week U/S. AND, as if that’s not awesome enough, this whole thing could be for naught if it’s a BFN (you guessed it – Big Fat Negative) and I get to start all over next month. Woo hoo!

We switch sides every night but it seriously hurts to sit down and even walk sometimes. My whole lower back/upper ass is so sore. Oh, and I’m not even allowed to take ibuprofen anymore (just Tylenol). I also can’t lift anything heavy, drink alcohol or eat unpasteurized cheese. I feel like at least some of these things could help dull the pain.

Yes, I know that we can switch out and do my upper thighs for this shot. But the thought of that creeps me out and then my legs AND my ass would hurt – double whammy. I asked the nurse why I was the only person on the planet doing injections when clearly suppository (while not pleasant, I’m assuming less cripplingly painful) is the way to go. She said that above any other method, the shots work the best. When the suppositories don’t work, they switch the patient to injections. So really I’m starting out with the mack daddy of Progesterone delivery methods and I should be grateful thankyouverymuch.

Assuming this will all be much easier to take once I get that BFP. Or I can stop if I get a BFN. Either way… Progesterone is a big jerk and I don’t like it.

In other news I have been in a TERRIBLE mood these past couple of days and that’s probably why I’m bitching so much. I hope that’s indication of crazy baby hormones working overtime but I’m just not convinced. My dear friend and coworker talked me off the ledge earlier so I’m doing much better now than I was a few hours ago. I just expected to feel something. All I feel is bitter and irritated and mad at Progesterone. Boo.

Feb 26

all about my mother

Feb 26

Most of you have become acquainted with my mother-in-law Cindy via blog and in case you didn’t notice, I really lucked out with her. She’s basically a second mom to me. But what about my mother? What’s her story?

She called me the other day and jokingly complained about how the only things I have said about her in my ramblings are that she has issues with caffeine and she introduced me to diet pills. She said she was starting to feel like Mommie Dearest. I don’t mean to leave her out or to paint an unflattering picture. There’s a few good reasons that I’m always talking about my MIL (that’s mother-in-law for everyone who’s pissed at me for not explaining acronyms), not my mom. First, my MIL is a nurse, so she helps with the icky needle stuff. Second, she’s retired, so she has a lot of spare time for me. My mother works in an accounting department and literally works seven days per week between January and March, then kicks it down to six days/week until May. She is the one who taught me the value of a hard day’s work and taking pride in your accomplishments. She and I have a lovely phone relationship during this part of the year and will resume our weekend hangouts and shopping days in the springtime. If you want to know what my mom is like… just read my blog. Over the years I have basically become her clone. I look exactly like her (and that’s a very good thing. Here’s a fun fact – she’s almost 50 and has never had a gray hair. Ever.) Sometimes I’ll be off on some tirade and Eric will just look at me and say, “OK, Loretta.” So that’s my mom. More than just a bit character in the saga.

My mom was invaluable during my sister’s delivery. Ashley had her son when she was 18 and her now-husband was not much older. Sure, he was supportive and encouraging, but my mom ruled that delivery room. She knew exactly what to say and do during what I’m sure was a terrifying event. My sister’s second baby was born the weekend my mom was on a camping trip, so she drove for hours, lost in the woods in the middle of the night, just to come home for it (and she did make it in time). I can’t imagine not having her there when my baby is born.

When it comes to parenting styles, I want to mimic a lot of things that my parents did. For example, I was never mollycoddled. I might have been the opposite of mollycoddled. I’ll never forget at the age of 10 when I needed to make a dentist appointment. I called my mom at work to tell her and she said, “What are you telling me for? Call the dentist and schedule one.” (I should mention that our dentist was across the street, so going there by myself after school was really no big deal).

My mom always treated me with respect, and in turn I (mostly) lived up to her high expectations. I never had a curfew. I never had to go to school if I didn’t want to, but I was expected to keep my grades up. Basically, I was trusted to do what I needed to do to succeed in life and was expected to become self-reliant. This kind of trust absolutely prepared me for adulthood. I never had the shock of, “Oh shit, how do I cook dinner?” when I moved out. I was prepared to be a functioning member of society immediately because I had already been acting like one for so long.

My mom didn’t stay home and bake cookies. She worked her ass off so we could afford to buy cookies, even fancy Milano cookies if we wanted them. She was more likely to write a sarcastic note to my teachers and embarrass the shit out of me than she was to pack me a brown bag lunch with a “Love You!” note in it. She may not be Mrs. Cleaver, but she’s one hell of a mom.

Feb 21

I broke the zipper on my fat jeans (true story)

Feb 21

I laughed when it happened. It was yesterday at NHFC while dressing after my ultrasound. Then I went to work hoping that my long sweater did not ride up to expose my busted zipper. How did I become this person?

Let me tell you something and then back it up with photographic evidence: I used to be thin. Like, actually thin.

little brother Michael and me, ’08.

seriously… LOOK AT THAT CLAVICLE

I didn’t really diet per se, but I did take diet pills that made me never want to eat. They worked. I’m not even going to tell you exactly what they were because this is the internet and I’ll probably get arrested, but let’s just say I put together a concoction and used things in ways that they weren’t intended to be used. Don’t judge me. I was thin and pretty, remember?

It’d be so easy to blame this weight gain on infertility, so that’s what I’m going to do. As soon as we started TTC, I went off the diet pills. I was also newly married and enjoying the prospect of cooking well-rounded meals. Before I lived with Eric, I used to have a bowl of peas for dinner and call it a night. That’s still one of my favorite meals (but he is not too keen on it).

That’s the thing, guys – I’m largely in denial. I still pick up a pair of size 2 jeans and think, “Well that looks about right.” I still gravitate towards the extra smalls. I have an itty bitty coworker who laments her gain of microscopic pounds and cries that she went from a size 0 to a size 2. I used to be her! Seriously! I desperately want to join in, but when I pipe up with, “Oh my God, I gained, too,” there’s no chorus of “Shut up, you’re so thin!” No one says that to me anymore. It’s really sad.

Fat crept up on me. I never thought I would be one of those people (like, how can you not notice an extra 30 pounds? Are you blind?). I think it finally sunk in around my birthday last year. I remember my dad snapped a photo of the lovely moment at Texas Roadhouse where they make you sit on a saddle while everyone sings to you. I looked at the photo and thought, “How can that be my arm? Whose chubby arm is photo bombing me?” It made me realize that I hadn’t liked a photo in a while. Then I slowly pieced together that none of my clothes fit. And yeah, it really was my arm. I would show you the photo but I untagged myself and deleted it from Facebook. I wish I could delete it from memory.

Then I started the injectables and it was really over. I swear, I gained 10 lbs this January alone. After digging out my best flowing, oversized shirts and wraps and praising God that it was winter and I could at least cover up in sweaters, I braced for a potential pregnancy knowing that I already weighed what I wanted to weigh at 40 weeks. I keep reading all these articles about breastfeeding being such a great calorie burner (oh em gee, not like I’m overly hopeful or anything reading BREASTFEEDING articles! Let’s get pregnant first, how about that). Then I mention them to the moms I know and they roll their eyes and say, “Yeah, OKAY. Right.”

I get it. I do. This is all for a higher purpose. My mom swears she could never get pregnant weighing less than 120 or while taking the concoction of diet pills (which SHE actually introduced me to. Thanks, Mom). I don’t think bony/angular/gaunt is an inviting description for a growing child. So I obliged and became soft/cushion-y/warm. It just sucks right now.

You know what? It’s more than just vanity. I don’t feel like me in this body. I’m long past the days of dressing like a total hoochie, going to bars and acting all offended when the guys stare. But I have all these clothes, and I like my clothes. I don’t want to start over just because my self control has gone to shit. But then at the same time, I want my body to change in huge, life-altering ways. I’m ready for that kind of fat, I’m just not ok with this pointless fat.

I don’t even care when you start to show, my first stop after a BFP will be some store selling maternity clothing. I cannot wait to do it. My wardrobe is at this weird place right now and I don’t want to (and can’t afford to) buy anything new. Plus, I hope it would be a waste to do that anyway. I also have this weird obsession with maternity clothes and have wanted to be buying stuff all along, but have not pulled the trigger yet, because clearly that would be considered “jinxing it.” I keep thinking I’m not going to have anything to wear, even though plenty of people have promised bags of clothes. I just want to look cute.

I almost entitled this “my obligatory ‘I’m so fat’ post” because in my travels through IF blogs, I’ve seen so many. We’re all stressed out, freaking out, pumped full of hormones, bloated, depressed, and well acquainted with Ben and Jerry. So I know, I’m not alone. I’m just so ready for the next part where you don’t notice my other fat because you’re so focused on my huge round belly. Can I get there, please?

not quite obese… but on the road

Feb 13

damn you, caffeine

Feb 13

I was an addict and I didn’t even know it. I really don’t understand how 2 cups of coffee every morning makes that much of a difference for the entire day, but according to my head it does.

Everything went fine at my Day 3 baseline test on Sunday except for one (minor according to them) problem. I have two colossal cysts on my ovaries. These buggers are effing huge. The tech assured me that it’s totally normal, caused by the drugs and that they should go away naturally when I ovulate this month. I did not ask the obvious, “But what if they don’t…” because I didn’t want the stress of knowing that could be an issue.

When texting my mom the results, she immediately sent an urgent “STOP DRINKING CAFFEINE RIGHT NOW” message. Apparently she’s had run-ins with caffeine induced cysts and since I share part of her genetic makeup, this could also be a problem for me. I assured her that the cysts are more likely caused by the shitload of drugs I’ve been injecting myself with, but I would give up the caffeine anyway as an added precaution.

photo credit: tumblr

Well. I never thought it would be such hell giving it up. As mentioned above, I’m a two coffee cup a day drinker, both in the morning. Sometimes I have a Diet Coke at lunch, but lately I’ve been cutting back and just sticking to water. I’ll usually indulge in a little bit of chocolate in the afternoon, but I’m talking one little wrapped square of Dove, not 5 Snickers bars. Caffeine did not seem to rule my life.

I started out yesterday with 2 cups of decaf, thinking that would at least satisfy my yen for the taste of it. By 11 a.m., a small but persistent ache started right behind my eyes and mushroomed out to the rest of my brain. At 1 p.m. I was so tired that I put my head down on my desk. I can’t say I’ve ever had to do that before.

Last night the headache continued. I drank some herbal tea and it helped a little, but I’m not ashamed to say I went to bed at 8:45. If we’re being honest, I wanted to go to bed at 7.

It’s a little scary how much I depend on caffeine and that it has that much of an effect on my body’s functioning capacity. Today the headache is still there, but less mind-numbing than yesterday. I could definitely close my eyes and be asleep in under 2 minutes.

So we’ll soldier on. This coincides with Lent starting, so I decided to give up coffee (decaf and regular). Fun times.

Feb 10

A quiet house

Feb 10

I have always known that I wanted children, and here is one of the reasons why.

I grew up in a loud house. There was always someone yelling, lots of commotion, and lots of noise in general. I was one of three (for a long time, until I was one of five), but I would argue that my brother Eric counts for two or even three in terms of noise-making abilities.

Holidays were even crazier, typical Italian drama-fests with an entire extended family crammed into tight quarters. I loved it. That is what spoke to my heart. It felt comfortable, it felt safe, it just felt like home.

One of the first things I loved about Eric was his big, loud family. I immediately felt like I belonged there, because it felt just like my family gatherings. One of my great joys in life is our weekly Sunday dinner at his parent’s house, a cacophony of kids and grandkids and spouses.

Naturally, I imagined a noisy house of my own, filled with the harmonious sounds of kids and dogs and happiness. Of course, I treasure silence at times, but I like it as an unexpected surprise, not a normal state of being. This morning is so quiet here that you can hear the fish tank filter humming. Sometimes we keep a TV on to drown out the silence, but sometimes we don’t. And in those moments of quiet it can be so lonely.

The silence felt oppressive when there was no solution in sight. Now that we hopefully have one, it feels like the quiet before the storm. It’s a quiet anticipation. It’s like we’re collectively holding our breath, waiting for the next moment, waiting for the noise to finally come into our house. I like when things are clean and orderly, but once the laundry is done and the dishes are done and the vacuuming is done it’s a little bit sad. I definitely feel a sense of “Now what?” I mean, it’s obvious that I’m lacking a purpose. But it’s not so much lacking as it is having a purpose that’s unfilled for right now.

I’m just really looking forward to the noise.

Jan 17

Notes from Colorado

Jan 17

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).

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.

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.