Quickies

I hate blog posts apologizing for not posting, so this won't be one.

Nor do I have a proper post in me now.

But there are a couple of things I think you should know:

1. It's CD1. Yeah.

Not sure what the next course of action will be, but at the very least we will probably switch donors, since we need to order more anyway. More on that later.

Also, I need to do my taxes so that we can see if we can even afford to order more.

2. Mrs. Spock made me cry. Practically everything's been making me cry lately, so that's not much of an accomplishment per se, but she made my cry in a good way. She sent me the ...I'm looking for a word, and all I'm coming up with is "bestest"... BESTEST! sock-gram package! It arrived when I was really at the very bottom of feeling crappy about everything, and it was just the very thing. Pictures to come.

3. A toddler I hang out with has been read somewhere -- I think in a Moomintroll book, but hers are in Danish, and I can only read the third-rate, adulterated Danish we call "English" -- about creatures cheering one another up by kissing sad creatures on the nose. She has become a dutiful practitioner of this technique, which is predictably sloppy and surprisingly effective.

Hopeless

(I told Sugar I'd post something so her deer necklace would come off the top of the blog and people would go easy on agreeing with me about it. Heh. She should be grateful: now my loyalty has been aroused and I love the damn thing -- I never thought it was hideous, just a little unbearably hipster-ish. Which it is.)

I have never felt less pregnant in my life. Even when there was no sperm at all in me, I felt more pregnant than this. My knees don't even feel pregnant. True, I have no way of knowing for sure that I'm not, yet -- it's only 8dpo -- but the whole idea seems laughable. In a bitter-laugh kind of way.

In a sense, this is easier than feeling hopeful, as I have in previous cycles. Much less up and down of the ol' emotions when they just stay obediently down. Sure, I still get weepy, but at least I'm not coming down from feeling giddy and warm.

It does make my few tangible concessions to the whole "PUPO" fantasy -- not drinking, not taking any real painkillers, not having (very much) caffeine -- seem insane, though. Like I am playing some mad game. Like I am pretending my handbag is a kitty-cat and no one knows whether I know it isn't.

Baby Dust

Still not feeling very enthusiastic about this cycle. Meaning: I'd like to get pregnant. I'd really, really like that. (And don't get me started about the little voice in my head pointing out that this would be the cycle that would continue what my birthday-mate aunt calls the family tradition of first children born in late November/early December. Quite a number of us within only a few days, it's true.) But I feel like it doesn't matter if I'm hopeful or not -- my endometriomas are just too fucking big.

And we're out of stored sperm now, so we'll have to scrape up money again. (Thanks, body, for slowing things down enough that we JUST crossed the line into having to pay for a second six month's storage at the Baby Factory. Nice work.) And the sperm bank raised their prices. Yippee.

So, yeah. I'm not drinking or anything, but I wouldn't say I feel terribly PUPO, as it were. Nonetheless, I made a nice little baby dust* blingee for a board friend last night, and I thought y'all might like it, too. The pink background -- attentive readers will recognize the Sparkle Menace -- makes the dust itself a bit hard to see, but yes, it is meant to be emanating from the...hindquarters.








I've got a baby-dance one, too, but it still needs a little work. Something to look forward to.


*a phrase that makes me think of ashes. Nice, huh?

Not It.

Pregnant, that is.

Thought for a few hours that I might be.

It was a nice feeling.

Lovely Day

Happy Valentine's and Year of the Tiger and, of course, Mardi Gras! Laissez les bon temps rouler!

Sugar and I had quiet plans for Valentine's -- I made her the stamp above, she gave me cute underpants with a hedgehog from my favorite store in Brooklyn and picked up fixins for a nice dinner for two -- but while I was furiously carving and Sugar was waiting for the chocolate cake layers to cool, the phone rang. It was The Dane, the wife/mother portion of our favorite neighborhood trio, asking if we'd consider coming over to help them eat the duck she was roasting.

(What kind of a question is that? Isn't a question supposed to have more than one possible response?)

We did consider, briefly, staying home alone, eating lamb chops and being generally Valentine's-y. But only briefly. Because why turn down an opportunity to spend time with people you love just because Hallmark says so?

So we packed up the cake and carried it over. And we had the most wonderful feast of duck braised in beer, roasted sweet potatoes and onion, red cabbage with clove, and apple stuffing particular to The Dane's home island. We played with Mr. Potatohead smashed playdoh between our hands. The Aussie Super Geek convinced us that we ought to be building thorium-reactor power plants, though he clearly remains scandalized by my hatred of efficient light bulbs. The Charming Toddler invented a perfect game for Valentine's, which consisted of her gathering her bucket and "going out" behind the chair, then "coming home" to tell us what she saw ("Ice!") and be greeted with exuberant hugs. Over and over, and it never got old.

For dessert, we at Sugar's fudge-y, nearly black chocolate cake, piled with whipped cream (as things tend to be, when The Dane is serving). And just like love, there was plenty for everyone, once we'd decided to share it.

/sappy part


We did get a time alone at the park before dinner, when The Dane suggested we take their sled on our walk. Normally I don't post pictures of us on the blog, but what the heck?

First, Sugar (right, foreground, by the bench):




And Bionic (by the lamppost):




You'd know us anywhere, right?

A Fine Idea

It was a fine idea, the idea I had, earlier this week, for a blog post. It was going to be about Unknowingness, and how surprisingly comfortable I was finding it, this time around. It was going to be about how during the last TWW, I couldn't stop thinking about the binary possibilities -- that I was pregnant or not pregnant -- while this time, this calmer time, I was enjoying the peaceful, uncanny feeling of admitting the Unknowing into my heart, of thinking of myself not as either/or but as ? How thinking about what was happening in my body was like trying to see to the bottom of a too-deep pool of water, that my state is literally unfathomable, and how that was okay.

What a load of horseshit that was. Or rather, is.

I really did feel like that, at least part of the time, for 7 days. By 8, I was starting to feel a bit more invested in binary realities. And by 9? Yesterday?

Stark raving mad.

In the past 24 hours I have been:
1. pregnant
2. not pregnant
3. riddled with cancer
4. pregnant with TWINS! OMG TWINS!
5. menopausal

My breasts have been more swollen than ever, rapidly deflating, reinflating, and so forth. Sometimes they hurt too much, sometimes not enough. (Full disclosure: the hurting could be related to my constant grabbing to see if they hurt.) My ovaries are similarly mysterious.

I find myself typing things like "I'm not pregnant, am I?" into Google, expecting a useful response. (And, following links, finding instead a dilemma: does one give medical advice about infertility to a 17-year-old and her boyfriend? How about to a 17-year-old who doesn't know the most basic things about how and when ovulation works? Is it judge-y not to? Plenty of people think I shouldn't get pregnant, after all....)

And the uterus? Naturally I scrutinize its every twinge, most of which are probably gas. I AM SO PREGNANT, I decide. Then, for a thought experiment (for I am nothing if not scientific), I decide to spend five minutes thinking about my left knee as closely as I have my ute.

OMG, Y'ALL.

I AM PREGNANT.

IN MY LEFT KNEE.

I AM GOING TO HAVE THE WORLD'S FIRST KNEE-BABY.

And you can all say you knew me when.

Breadwinner Woes

For the umpteenth time, I'm contemplating leaving my university job for the for-profit world, mainly because while my current job is interesting/helps people/provides occasional international travel, it barely pays a living wage. (This makes my handle on this blog a bit of a joke, although at least my wage is one we can live on, unlike Baby's. She makes kind of a zombie, undead wage)

So right now I'm staring at a byzantine job application for a consultancy. You know the kind of application: please tell us why we're wonderful, please tell us why you're wonderful, please be different from everyone else out there, make us an online portfolio, write us a bunch of crazy essays, etc., etc. (Let me pause and say, WTF, I'm not applying to Vassar here folks).

I'm wondering, should I put the work into this? Sometimes I believe that I've been in the academic world for too long, and I'll never be able to get an interview at a real firm. And if I do get hired, it will probably be in my contract that I'll have to use 'words' like 'impactful' on a regular basis.

Here's how far I've gotten:

Why I am wonderful:
Because I'm secretly a unicorn, a care bear, and a vampire combined. My superhero name is The Sparkle Menace.

A Super Duper Worker!

Why you are wonderful:
Because you have money.

Why I am different from everyone else out there
(see point one)

What inspires me:
Interesting art! Great novels! Not your dopey firm! Have you heard of
hubris? No? I know it's an older word than 'impactful' but I think it's still in the dictionary, and in modern usage . . .

Ok, possibly I'm not ready to do this application yet . . . .

Thinking of England

Inspired by Twangy Pearl, Sugar presents an artist's rendition of last Tuesday's inspermination:




Note, please:
- Funny Socks
- Good Luck Thumb Ring on left hand
- Comfort Items Worthy Of A First-Rate Nerd: a hardback, high-ish brow, dystopian novel (quite excellent, by the way -- and while it is grim, I was at least reading the chapter titled "Pollination," which seemed apt), cell phone, and trusty journal. With pen. You never know.

Your wonderful well-wishings were folded up and tucked in the book. I got them out at the word "tenaculum."

But wait, you say. Didn't you need those buoying comments precisely because Sugar wasn't able to accompany you? How does she know what it looked like?

Well, because on this snowy evening, I have just now been re-enacting the scene on our living room couch*. Yes, I put the socks back on and everything. The Society for Creative Anachronism's got nothin' on us.

Next time someone asks what exactly it is lesbians do, perhaps I will tell them about this.

Happy Snow Day, everybody. Check out what the other kids are up to on Mel's Show and Tell.


*NB: our couch does not have stirrups. Fear not. Also, full disclosure: I was really wearing a zip-up cardigan, like the nerd professor I am.

Tylenol

It doesn't actually DO anything, does it?

I'm not terribly sick, but I do want an aspirin. I don't really think I'm...marmot...but just on the off chance....

Thank heavens for Sugar, who brought my lunch to the sofa, and for my cat, who's loyally guarding me as I rest.

A Good Day For Scones

Hello, dearies. Is it snowing where you are? It is here, but so far there isn't enough for sledding yet, which is WRONG. And I'm getting a cold. Maybe.

Mel mentioned her attempts at making scones without heavy cream, and it reminded me of Sugar's yummy ginger scones, which don't call for it. I asked for the recipe to share with Mel, and Sugar said she'd make them! Things are certainly looking up around here.

Sugar's Yogurt Scones

(recipe clipped by Sugar's mom from...some book on bread, and adjusted a bit here and there. This is half the listed recipe, as it makes too much for us and doesn't keep all that well. This way makes 8 large scones.)

1 1/2 c flour (or use half whole wheat)
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
4 Tbs butter (1/8 lb, if you buy it in big chunks the way we do)
1 packed Tbs brown sugar
1/2+1/8 c firm yogurt
1 egg
1/4 c ...stuff. The recipe calls for raisins or currants, but since raisins are less than awesome and my body treats currants like DEADLY POISON DO NOT TAKE INTERNALLY ALERT POLICE, we use crystallized ginger and nuts, ideally pecans. (We're out of pecans, though, so today we're trying flax seed.)

1. Preheat oven to 400. Lightly grease baking sheet.

2. Sift dry ingredients (flour, soda, powder, salt) together. Cut butter into brown sugar (food processor or pastry cutter) until uniformly blended, resembling coarse meal.

3. Beat yogurt with egg. Make a well in the dry ingredients; add yogurt and "stuff." Mix minimally ("with swift, decisive strokes." Hot.) until well-blended.

4. Drop by rounded quarter measures onto cookie sheet. [And then it says to brush them with egg, which we never to. When I wheedle, Sugar sprinkles turbinado or other fancy sugar on top. Today, I wheedled.]

5. Bake 12-15 minutes.

Makes 8.

It's taken me longer to type this than it took Sugar to mix up the batter, that's how easy we're talking (or how slow I type). Pictures to come when eating commences! Yay!

ETA:

Here! This photo taken shortly before the scone died a glorious death in my mouth. YumYumYum. Flax seeds are fine -- inoffensive, but not a huge flavor addition. But I like how they feel when I bite them with my front teeth.

True Confessions

And now, for your TWW entertainment, results of a quiz link I found buried in starhillgirl's archives.


I'm going to lose a lot of lesbian points when I tell you that I got this result (instead of Toni) by admitting that yes, I do find the spelling "womyn" hilarious and unsophisticated.

I don't drink much herbal tea anymore, either. (But I do still have cats and quite a number of Dar Williams albums. No need to confiscate my credentials.)

[If you have no idea what this quiz is about, here. Also, thanks for being a terrific ally. I love you even you're straight ;) ]

You Scored as Sydney

You are Sydney! You know that most people are too foolish to make the world a better place, so you're not looking for a better tomorrow -- you're looking for some new clothes and a little respect in the academic world. You can be self-important, so be sure to hug your girlfriend and thank her for putting up with you.

Other Great News

Whatever else comes of yesterday's endeavors, this means a whole 4 weeks without holding my pee for an OPK. Praise the Lord.

You Know What Else They Sell At the Grand Central Rite Aid?

Sanitary Napkins.

CD 1, y'all.

What We're Weeping Over, Sunday Edition

Have you already watched this? I'd seen it pop up on friends' Facebook pages, but hadn't taken the 4 minutes to watch it for myself until today. It's from testimony in Maine concerning marriage equality.



"What do you think our boys fought for at Omaha Beach?"

For me? You fought for me? Oh, man, I'm tearing up all over again.

The old folks are all right.

Book Fair Betrayal

If you're as nerdy as I am, perhaps you remember with a similar fondness the Scholastic Book Fair. Ours was around this time of year, as I recall. Parent volunteers would set up table after table after table of books in the GYM -- double-bonus, since that usually meant no dodgeball for at least one day. My mother could usually be convinced to take me to the fair after school (massive understatement -- apples don't fall far from trees, and the woman is OBSESSED with books), but even if your parents weren't the sort who understood why you HAD TO HAVE that shiny copy of The Boxcar Children or Sideways Stories from Wayside School or Harriet the Spy -- a new copy, of your very own, a perfect rectangle that you would be the first to peel open -- the school would lean on them to send you with a little spending money for the day your class went to the fair. (Triple-bonus: book fair, no gym, and less time in class.)

Scholastic makes money hand over fist at these things (and gives less back to the host school than they used to), as one would expect with a captive and coerced audience, but it's hard to begrudge them a little profit for something as all-around good as the book fair.

Which is why it made me so sad to read this:

You have to wonder why an organization dedicated to getting students to read would decide to make censorship such an important part of their work. You also have to wonder why one of the leading organizations dedicated to helping students learn would decide to wallop a giant blow of discrimination toward gay and lesbian families and children of same-sex parents.

But that's what Scholastic Books is doing by banning a book from its book fairs simply for the fact that the book contains a girl character who has two lesbian moms. The book in question is Lauren Myracle's book Luv Ya Bunches, a new book that wittingly covers the trials, tribulations and friendships that a group of young girls go through in school.

Teh Gay Agenda?

And yes, the book is definitely, no question about it, being censored because it dares to suggest that not all children grow up in heterosexual households. Scholastic is up front about that:

The company sent a letter to Myracle's editor asking the author to omit certain words such as "geez," "crap," "sucks," and "God" (as in, "oh my God") and to alter its plotline to include a heterosexual couple. Myracle agreed to get rid of the offensive language "with the goal—as always—of making the book as available to as many readers as possible," but the deal breaker was changing Milla's two moms.

"A child having same-sex parents is not offensive, in my mind, and shouldn't be 'cleaned up.'" says Myracle, adding that the book fair subsequently decided not to take on Luv Ya Bunches because they wanted to avoid letters of complaint from parents. "I find that appalling. I understand why they would want to avoid complaint letters—no one likes getting hated on—but shouldn't they be willing to evaluate the quality of the complaint? What, exactly, are children being protected against here?"

And here's where I get all misty (am I pregnant or just PMSing???) and fall in love with Myracle a little bit:

“Over 200,000 kids in America are raised by same-sex parents, just like Milla. It's not an issue to clean up or hide away,” says Myracle. “In my opinion, it's not an 'issue' at all. The issue, as I see it, is that kids benefit hugely from seeing themselves reflected positively in the books they read. It's an extremely empowering and validating experience."

So here's what we need to do:

1. Sign this petition at Change.org

2. Especially if you're a parent whose kids will have a book fair (or who just love Scholastic Books), let Scholastic know why appeasing a few testy weirdos who hate everyone who isn't just like them is a bad business decision.

Investor Relations
Strategic Development
(212) 343-6741
investor_relations@scholastic.com


(Thanks to Mombian, Change.org, and The School Library Journal for writing most of this post.)


(Also: If, like me, you're wondering whether or not I have been knocked up, I feel I should let you know that I'm up at 5am on a Sunday not to begin walking across the fields to church but because I've been throwing up much of the night. Gross. I sure as hell better be pregnant.)

Signs Of The Times 2

Train schedules. They might also know if I am pregnant.

Not the ones online, only the big framed ones at the station. Definitely not the printed pocket schedules -- I'm not crazy.

This time...It's Personal

Here's something I learned during my month away from the blog: the Rite Aid at Grand Central does indeed sell OPKs, and cheaper than my local Duane Reade.

I learned this on Day Infinity of peeing-on-sticks (CD Infinity + 13). I had run out on the day before and assumed there would be none at the GCT store, a strange warren with much more in the way of Pringles than of anything drug-like. I catch the 7:12 train from GCT in the mornings, and even at that hour, a line of dazed people grasping Powerade and Funyuns clots in the hair-care aisle. The last thing I bought there was Scotch Tape in a donut-shaped dispenser.

So on CD (Infinity - 1)+13, when I realized it was time to traipse merrily along to the meeting of my Community Garden Governing Board (how I got suckered into that one is another story), I instead ran in the opposite direction, waited in line 4-EVAH at Duane Reade, and arrived late at the meeting, panting and with open wounds on my feet from flip-flops that aren't made for speed. That night I opened the box and made sure to leave one test out on the table, so I wouldn't forget to take it with me to school, where there are no drugstores for miles.

I'm sure you know where this is going. Yadda-yadda happy ending, although the message on the receipt still strikes me as slightly creepy.

Rite Aid is even more excited about peeing on sticks than I am!!
RA OVULATION PREDICTOR!! RA! RA!

The test was negative, of course.

Signs Of The Times

• I've realized I'm repeatedly refreshing my email because I'm waiting to find out whether I'm pregnant.

You've Got UteMail!

(click image for bigger)

I Really Don't Think I'm Pregnant, But...

...my hoo-ha smells funny.


(Probably because I started taking different vitamins -- ran out of plain folate right around the insem, started taking regular prenatals 'cause why the heck not -- but that hasn't stopped me from furtive TP-sniffing and general obsessery.)


Thought you'd like to know.

Three Cajun French Hens

Lookie: news that has nothing to do with my hoo-ha!

I got a pretty new dress!



It came from my very most favorite dress shop, in New Orleans. I thought about making that modifier restrictive, but I really can't think of a dress shop I love more...unless it's this one, where the dress is now off to be altered so it fits me just right.

Trashy Diva (where the dress came from) specializes in beautifully made dresses in 30s, 40s, 50s, and sometimes other styles. Their silk dresses are absolutely worth the money, and I say that as a notorious tight wad. The cotton ones are also awfully pretty...one of these days I'll try one out for real. Theses are dresses that make you so happy to have curves, and they don't top out at size 6, either. (The other one I was interested in this time didn't come in my size, but only because the factory shorted them, not because they didn't intend it to. Several of the dresses go up to size 18.) When I visited New Orleans and my friend offered to drive me around to save my renting a car, our first stop was their Magazine Street shop, where I reinvested the money I'd planned to give to Hertz in what has become my little black dress:

Yes, my little black dress has dragons on it.

Need I remind you what a mitzvah it is to send money in the direction of the still-recovering Gulf Coast?

Trashy Diva sell through the website but also in a few stores, including Brooklyn's splendid Flirt, which not only sells oh such nice things but also runs sewing classes and open studio time (with sergers!), makes custom skirts, and generally rocks. They didn't have the exact dress I wanted in my size, but the minute I stepped out of the dressing room in the one I'd tried on for fit, the owner said, "by the way, we have lots of experience with the alteration you need on that dress." So the dress went right to them after it arrived, and I don't have to fret about ruining it by taking the back in myself.

I promise this post is not empty product placement -- though Trashy Diva and Flirt are such magnificent establishments that I would be happy to shill for them both -- but rather foreshadowing of a kind. If I didn't owe you so many posts, I'd spit it out in this one.

Yay for pretty new dresses! Yay for occasion to wear them!