In which I am a raving lunatic, for about one day

Yeah. I've been kind of crappy with the updating. But let me tell you, I had a long, not-so-good week. Last Friday, I began my first Clomid cycle. I was worried that I would become a raving maniac, because I have, shall we say, a history of the bad PMS. My poor, beleagured husband can attest to the extremity of my symptoms (although he will still seemingly purposefully incur my wrath by asking if I'm "on the fucking rag.").

Anyway, imagine my surprise when I seemed to be on an even keel. I took Clomid from Friday through Monday, happily popping my pills at the same time each night (as instructed), even trundling home from our local bar with a friend to do so before going back to have another cider. Everything was cool.

My doctor told me to take ovulation tests for a week after starting. My husband was going on an overnight business trip on Tuesday, so of course that was the night I got a positive test -- maybe, because I peed on the stick and then forgot to look at it again until 15 minutes had elapsed. Sigh. I went to bed early and decided not to worry. The following night I went to pick him up from the train station, and wouldn't you know that it was then that the hormones started kicking in? I cursed, screamed and generally acted an ass to all the other drivers on the road (though, in my defense, they were pretty bad drivers, and I'm not known for my patience on a good day). Things only worsened when we got home and Booby was irritated that I hadn't emptied the dishwasher or put away the dishes he had left out before going away. That didn't go down too well with Mrs. Hormones, and she let him know who was boss (i.e. not him). I threw things, sniveled and wondered if 8 months would be considered too early for divorce. Booby went to bed. We worked things out later.

Skip ahead to Friday morning, when I had scheduled a PK . My doctor informed me of a few things:

1. I was supposed to test the week AFTER the Clomid cycle, because it's been known to give false positives (ding ding!)
2. I had, as of that day, "gorgeous follicles" (I believe that means they are ready to go forth and be fertilized). She showed me them on the ultrasound screen and they just look like big black spots. She showed me my uterus, too.
3. Our PK results were the best the visiting gyno had ever seen (he is a man, very nice, but I'm not thrilled with male gynos; so sue me. He had a clammy handshake and didn't gel up the ultrasound wand to my satisfaction. I feel sad for his wife, whomever she is). Even my doctor pronounced it "A+". They let me look at the swimmers again. This test is one of the few that my shitty insurance company will actually foot the bill for, so that makes the experience a little more enjoyable than some others. They don't however, pay for the ultrasound.

I'm glad to have such visible results after just one go on the Clomid. Now we'll see if we can make this thing happen sometime soon.

But wait!

OK, I totally swear I will get off the Golden Globes thing (I mean, the Oscars are coming up soon, right?), but you have to read this.

This guy should be on the red carpet with Isaac Mizrahi. And the Fug Girls.

That would rock.

Words, words, words!

I'm kind of a word nerd. If you are, too, you might enjoy this link: Words: Woe & Wonder.

Link courtesy of Sans Pants Revolution.

Blog for Choice

In honor of Blog for Choice Day, please turn your attention to Feministe, whose commentary on Crisis Pregnancy Centers will perhaps make you think a bit harder about the ethics of the pro-life movement in this country.

I was also taken by this post about Jimmy Carter's new book by Mediagirl. I saw Carter interviewed on The Colbert Report about a month ago, and he came across as a very kind, gentle, fair man. This commentary reinforces that overall impression. Perhaps not a very good president, but a good man.

I have so many reasons for believing in reproductive rights. Many of them are deeply personal. My family is very Catholic, and I know they would be disappointed to know of my feelings. My mother still wears a pro-life rose on her purse. It makesd me angry that women's choices are being held up as both a religious and a political issue, and that churchgoers are being called on as a moral army to right the situation. The first blog post above contains a quote from a representative of a crisis pregnancy center who claims that young women are "bombarded" with pressures to abort. The most bombardment I ever felt on the issue was in church, in parochial school, driving down the road and being faced with billboards claiming a link between abortion and breast cancer (false), and, best of all, posters of fetuses placed in the windows of a house situated alongside the local Planned Parenthood.

No one wants to get pregnant and have an abortion. But every woman deserves the right to have control over her own body. Hopefully once Samuel Alito is approved (and he will be, bet on it), he won't take this right away from our daughters, sisters, nieces, and friends.

An open letter to my fellow commuters

Dear People on the Subway:

You seem like nice people, for the most part; really, you do. Except for you folks who have your cell phone ringers set to "In Da Club," because that shit is unforgiveable. Anyway, you're good folks. That's why it upsets me so to see the clothes you wear every day. Witness:

Ugg boots. Those were in style for about 20 minutes, 2 years ago. First Pam Anderson wore them, and then Marlon Brando wore them. With a muumuu. In a wheelchair. Then they were declared officially over. Stop wearing them. They are ugg-ly.

• Chain wallets. These do not make you a badass. If you're not a biker or a bouncer or working in a leather bar, there is no reason to wear one. A good pickpocket can take a tie from around your neck without you realizing, so I doubt a chain wallet is going to pose much of a challenge, Killer.
• Camouflage outfits. A shirt or pants separately is one thing. But a whole outfit just makes you look like you're plotting a takedown. Save it for when you get drafted.
• Multiple bags. Do you really need a backpack and a giant suitcase of a purse? Consolidate - it looks much tidier and you'll look a lot less "Cracker Factory"/OCD. Special dispensation given to people carrying a separate lunchbag; thriftiness has its rewards.
• Sneakers with a suit. I'm courting danger here, because this is something Booby does (sorry, honey). Are men's shoes so uncomfortable that you need to wear sneakers? Last I checked, men's shoes are not the foot binders that women's high heels tend to be. And ladies, I understand your need to be comfortable on your commute. But there is a whole world of flats and low heels out there.There's even a line called Cloudwalkers. They're wonderful. Buy a pair in black; they'll go with everything.
• Mid-length coats with mid-calf skirts. These make you look like a segmented bug, or perhaps a tapeworm. It's worse than white shoes after Labor Day. Choose the short coat that hits you at the hip, or choose the long coat that hits below the skirt. The mid-length coat has no place in this equation.
• The puffy coat. Why? Do you need to look bigger than you are? Do you want to look like Missy Elliot in that "Rain (Supa Dupa Fly)" video, which was long before she went on a diet and got all skinny and cute? I didn't think so. It's been a mild winter. Get a nice tailored coat that flatters you.
• Yellow "Live Strong" rubber bracelets. Can these just be over, please? And all of the knockoffs that followed? I knew it was a bad, bad thing when I saw the middle-aged Asian man wearing a purple bracelet which bore the legend: Player. I get that they support a good cause and all, but why not cut out the middleman and donate directly to the Lance Armstrong Foundation (or other high-scoring cancer charity)? It's tax-deductible, unlike the money you spend on merchandise. Check out the Charity Navigator to see how Lance stacks up (hint: he's doing a better job than the folks at The Cancer Fund of America).
• Brightly colored Wellington boots. Unless it's flooding, or you are gardening in a swamp, you don't need these. Consider, for a moment, why you have seen them on all the sales racks. I know, they're cute. But they're cute in that two-Pippi-Longstocking-braids-are-cute-even-if-you're-over-30 way. That is to say, embarrassingly so. Resist their pull.

Not from concentrate

Tuesday night, we were watching a Fashion Police program on the Golden Globes. Footage of Teri Hatcher * appears on the screen.

Booby: "She looks like she needs to drink the blood of a few more children in order to reconstitute."

Me: "Bwaaa!!!"

I have to say that her face is starting to resemble a Kabuki mask.

***

Earlier that week, watching TV (um, maybe we need to cut down on the TV viewing?), an M&Ms commercial came on: a kaleidoscope of M&Ms rising and falling to the tune of "Such Great Heights," by Iron & Wine. We like this song so much that we considered dancing to it (too slow), and ended up printing the lyrics on the back of our wedding programs.

Booby, as realization of what he's hearing sets in: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

*Image courtesy of Eonline.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled reading for a brief pity party

I was a bit aflutter over the weekend because I was 2 days late, and I had vague hopes that I would turn out to be pregnant. I was too afraid to take a pregnancy test and be disappointed, so I waited it out. I had felt crampy on and off since Friday, but I'm starting to feel that my body can't be trusted. Crampy or no, I end up getting my period, and finally, last night, I started spotting and later that night, my period arrived, bringing with it a LOT of cramps 'n' backache pain. Wooo!

I had hoped that I wouldn't have to actually resort to taking Clomid (we decided over the weekend that it seems the best course of action, given the timeframe we'd like to work within), but it's not to be. Naturally, I'm frustrated that my doctor can't find anything really physically wrong with me, but things could be much worse, so I know I should buck up and count my blessings. And I will. But I'm allowing myself a few hours to wallow in self-pity, and you can bet your ass that I'm drinking a glass of wine with dinner tonight.

Abundant thanks to everyone who commented in Friday's post. You guys give me hope, and I really appreciate your support and kindness. My "real" life is full of women I can't really talk to (women who read this blog whom I know in real life excepted), my mother, my husband (who does do a good job, but is, you know, a guy), and a lot of people who are keen to give me assvice. Thank you for making me feel better about my situation without ever telling me that I should just relax and that it'll "just happen."

If you haven't already, stop by at Brooke's and leave her a nice message. She could do with some friendly support right about now.

The better to eat you with

This poor little darling, Emma, is my "special needs" kitty: she spends about half her life in one of the spare bedrooms of our house because the other two cats are bigger than she is, and if we leave her out unattended, she finds it necessary to mark her territory (i.e. pee on the couch) against the big kids. [I know it looks like she's in jail, but she's actually behind the rungs of the stair railing of our hallway.]

She's very sweet and loving, but also extremely skittish. She's still afraid of Booby, and he's lived here for well over a year now.

Today I have to take her to the vet because she mysteriously broke not one but TWO teeth (the fangs) in a one-week period. I've since read that broken teeth lead to festering bacteria and eventual breakdown of the jaw (!), so it's off to the vet we go. It's take us awhile to find a vet we like, and I haven't ever been to this one yet, so the search may be yet ongoing.

One of the vets wouldn't let us in the exam room "for our own safety," and then was pissed at us when our very upset cat with impacted anal glands (you don't wanna know) bit her. Hey, doc, I could've told you that he needs one of us there to keep him calm, but whatever. The vet tech came out to talk to us and lo and behold! she was the daughter of one of the agents I worked with at the Insurance Company of Doom in my youth. She and her boyfriend would come in to "work" and end up racing the halls barefoot and playing endless games of Minesweeper when they were supposed to be filing. Assholes. I'm glad to see she realized an office job was not her forte, anyway.

The other vet was a bit too holistic for my taste, and she wanted us to see about alternative therapies to find out why Emma was "acting out." Now, I have done aromatherapy with this cat. I have tried positive reinforcement. I have tried everything I can. Having her in her own kitty apartment is the only thing that works, and sometimes that doesn't even work. I don't want to waste money on a pet therapist, thank you. I am saving that sort of thing for when (if?) I have kids.

Wish me luck, because I'm pretty sure I'm going to get a lecture for not brushing the cat's teeth and causing their eventual departure from her mouth. Yay!

It's just a luteal phase I'm going through

In honor of the person who arrived at my site using the search thread "tissue floating uterus," this post will be a brief update on my fertility woes. Or, should I say, lack thereof, as my doctor can't really find anything actually wrong with me, and so she's going to treat the slightly negative tendency to have a 12-day, rather than a 14-day luteal phase.

What does that mean? I tried to get her to explain it, and she sort of did, but maybe I'm a little stupid, so I'll paraphrase my understanding, and PLEASE feel free to hop onto the comments and advise me if I have this wrong:

The longer my luteal phase, the better the chance of the (if applicable) fertlized egg of implanting. The shorter phase lessens the chance of implantation and increases the likelihood of the (supposed) fertilized oocyte [fancy word for egg I found on the internets today] being flushed right out of my system. Sound good so far?

Basically, I need more progesterone, despite the fact that my progesterone levels have been checked and are good. More progesterone will increase the length of the luteal phase and give Little Egg a better shot. The phase has to be at least 10 days in order for implantation to occur, so really, it could be a lot worse.

My choices are to take progesterone suppositories or to go straight to Clomid. The Clomid is considered to be more aggressive a treatment. I briefly talked this over with Booby, who I assumed would be all set to go for Clomid, and he said he felt like it was "going straight to Def Con 1." While I see his point, I kind of feel like pulling out all the stops at this point. My doctor said to me, "Well, you've only been trying for 8 months, so it's not like you're desperately infertile yet." Or maybe she didn't say "yet." Maybe my paranoid mind added that part. Anyway, I'm not terribly sure why 12 months qualifies as desperate, any more than I know why being 35 or older qualifies as being high risk (when being 34 1/2 doesn't).

The whole thing is enough to make me want to drink a caffeinated soda. But I'll probably have a cup of herbal tea instead.

Time and tide

I have had a strange thing in my life for the past several years: an ex-boyfriend who works very close to where I work. I used to work in the business district. He worked about a block and a half away. When I moved jobs to a different, trendier, residential historic neighborhood, his job also moved to about half a block away. This annoyed me for a while, but we have since mended fences (after a now-amusing, then-embarrassing near-miss on an online dating site years after our breakup). I almost never see him out on the street, but we did meet for lunch occasionally, at his suggestion.

He's a nice enough guy, but I really have no clue what I saw in him for five years (off and on) of my twenties. It's a strange thing to be sitting at a table with someone you used to know, but don't really anymore, mentally cataloguing all the irritating things he's doing (did he always blink so much? God, that's distracting! How is it that he still hasn't quit smoking?).

The last time we met it was by accident: my husband and I ran into him, his new, rather older girlfriend, and one of his friends at a local indie rock show a couple months back in South Philly. The new girlfriend was, as Booby would put it, punching out of her weight class, i.e., she was on a much lower rung of the ladder, looks-wise, than my ex. She's nowhere near as hot as I am, I thought unkindly (and conceitedly). I didn't know if I felt worse for him or for her, and then I chided myself for my uncharitable thoughts and the zing of enjoyment I got from them. Ah, schadenfreude, I know thee well. We exchanged a few words, but he seemed uncomfortable to see me. Fair enough.

Today I saw the ex walking down the opposite side of the (very small) street. I almost said hi, but thought better of it for some reason. I think he saw me, but I can't be sure. I'm just as happy not to have this awkward non-friendship. For awhile, I liked the idea that I could stay friends with an ex (it's never been a successful venture before; I'm way too bitter and I tend toward assholes (see #7 under Eight Ways to Win My Heart courtesy of Ultra Tart). But I guess now that's the kind of male friendship I'm pretty disinterested in - who knew this day would come?

The ten-toed sloth

... Is able to pick up small household objects with her long toes, eight of which are curiously all the same length.

Inspired by Mignon. 

Hope springs eternal

Now that I've confessed my garden nerdery, I'll go even further to prove it by posting this photo of my avocado seedling. These are ridiculously easy to grow; trust me, I might be good at nurturing plants once they are normal size, but growing things from seed is rarely my forte (yet, I soldier on, despite the odds).

Here is a bit of cribbed info from The Garden Helper:

The avocado tree (Persea americana), when grown by a hobby gardener, is normally grown from seeds removed from ripened fruit.
They are easily sprouted in a well-drained 4- or 5-inch pot of porous, fertile soil. The top of the seed should just barely peek above the surface of the soil. If the soil is kept fairly moist and the temperature is between 60 and 70 degrees, the seed will begin to sprout and a pretty, leafy plant will develop.
When the seedling reaches 12 inches, it should be pinched back to about 6-8 inches to produce a rounder, fuller plant. Avocados grown inside thrive in sun or in a good, lighted location. Once they've filled their pots up with healthy roots, they should be potted in larger ones. Repotting should be done in the spring. Well-rooted plants should be given a dilute liquid fertilizer every week or two. Watering should be done so that the soil never becomes really dry but isn't ever soggy and waterlogged. They should be fertilized with a balanced houseplant food every two or three weeks in the summer and about every six weeks during the winter. It's also a good idea to mist the leaves of your Avocado if the air in your home is very dry. Indoor trees need low night temperatures to induce bloom.

This plant has grown some since I took the photo. It took a good 3-4 weeks for the sprout to come up, but now it's going like gangbusters. I have it in a sunny window with Western exposure. If it ever produces fruit, it won't be for several years, so hopefully it'll be a pretty houseplant.

I'm also trying to grow pineapple plants from the crowns, but they are progressing very slooooowly. I don't really care if they bear fruit, because I don't have the space, and bromeliads are pretty even without blooms. 

Frau Doktor's adorable daughter

Whom I am now exploiting on the interwebs. I especially love the last photo.

How does your garden grow?

I participated in a round robin seed exchange on You Grow Girl this week, and now that it's 60 degrees outside, I'm feeling all nostalgic about getting my hands in the dirt. The houseplants aren't cutting it (though I do have an avocado plant sprouting that I will show you soon, if I can get the damned Picasa to work). The fact that many of our plants are still green doesn't help matters. I guess we've only had a few killing frosts so far this year. No wonder the polar bears are drowning.

Last year, Booby and I made serious headway in having a real, sustainable garden that helped feed us, even if it was only tomatoes, peppers, green beans, various herbs and, eventually, carrots. A major step up from my piddly little green bean patch at the side of the house my first year in my house.

The gardening catalogs have come in, too, and they really get the mind going. Already I have big plans to grow broccoli and cauliflower, two of Booby's staple veggies (I personally dislike them, but I'm interested in growing them, since the organic ones at the Fresh Grocer ain't cheap, and I like to learn to grow new things). One of the gardeners/bloggers who inspires me in this effort is Anne of Slow Gardening, who I know from personal experience is super cool and a nice person besides. She also has a lot of well thought-out ideas about everything from rain barrels to saving electricity.

What are you going to grow come Spring?

Or friggatriskaidekaphobia, if you prefer

It was a whirlwind of a weekend, as we invited Booby's brother, his wife and their three kids over for dinner last night. Our house hasn't been that clean in forever (even Christmas didn't propel me to clean like this). Probably the root of my cleaning freakout was the fact that my sister-in-law is allergic to cats, and when you have 3 of the feline variety lolling on all the comfy furniture or any other flat surface, you tend to have A LOT of cat hair floating around the place. We vacuumed, vacummed again, and then vacuumed the furniture. Then dusted. And then Booby forgot to lock the cats in the basement once everyone got to our house. But that part was easily remedied.

And I cooked! Roast pork (fattier than I expected*), scalloped potatoes (cooked in my wonderful Le Creuset red pepper casserole dish given to me by my lovely former boss), organic baby carrots with honey and brown sugar, asparagus with butter and lemon, and an all-organic salad of red leaf lettuce with cherry tomatoes and red raspberries with a light red-wine vinaigrette. Oh, and plain white jasmine rice for the 2 non-potato fans (I will withhold comment on their lack of taste, as one of them is my husband and one of them is a boy of 6). It all turned out quite well, although, as usual, my ability to time everything to be done simultaneously needs finessing.

Everything went swimmingly until the youngest child started coughing a bit. Perhaps she is allergic to pistachios? Her throat hurt. As the evening wore on, she started looking distinctly funny around the eyes, and she sneezed on me twice. Hmmm, seems less like an allergy and more like a cold/flu/hantavirus. OK, OK, it probably wasn't hantavirus. I panic when sneezed upon, I think. Anyway, we sat and watched Little Einsteins, which is a pretty potent mix of annoying and mesmerising, and then they packed it in. About 10 minutes later, Booby's brother returned to get paper towels and a Tupperware container: the wee one had blown some chunks in the car. I feel for her poor mother, as Bro was shipping out for a business trip the following morning, and she is about 12 weeks pregnant and looking a bit green round the gills these days. But I expect she'll saddle up and manage. Any time I cringe about how hard it must be to deal with sickness, potty training, weaning, sleeping, school, etc. etc. times X number of children, mothers are quick to remind me that it's a cumulative effect: no one sentences you to three kids all at once (unless you have a litter of quintuplets. And yes, I said litter. One of my fears about fertility treatment is that I'm going to end up pregnant with 3 or more babies, and I'll have to crawl under the stairs of the cellar and heave them into this world while I lie on an old blanket in a cardboard box. I know, it's not rational. But there it is.).

But anyway! Speaking of pregnancy, I'm all a-quiver for my consult on Friday THE THIRTEENTH (my husband asked me if I could change the date of the consult, but I'll be damned if I give in to rampant triskaidektaphobia). Certainly, there will be further fertility news to report for anyone who is into that kind of thing (I promise to keep the physical descriptions to a minimum if possible, but as this is just a consult I think that should be easy enough).

And also speaking of pregnancy, I guess I shot my wad too early, but there will be a Blog for Choice event on January 22nd. I saw the link on the wonderful and so, so funny Twisty at I Blame the Patriarchy. I'll be blogging (assuming that I remember because sometimes I'm a little dumb like that, plus it's a Sunday). Will you?

*When I was 9, I ate over my friend Diana's house and there were plans for a sleepover. Those carefree, Go-Go's listening, friendship bracelet making plans came to an abrupt end after I became very, very ill - to this day I blame the pork roast because I accidentally forked up a piece of pork that had a rind of fat on it. I didn't wish to be rude, so I bolted it down, and that damn lump of fat churned in my stomach until violently reannouncing itself into the toilet bowl. I can still hear Diana's mother lamenting the fact that she didn't cook a pizza. I should have known better than to cook a pork roast for little kids. I'm sorry, kids. Never again.

Clowns, again

The Book of Ratings takes on Clown paraphernalia. Awesome.

Happy Friday

Holy shit, I just passed 1,500 hits on my site counter.

Let's pretend that many of them weren't just ill-advised Google searches.

I'm pretty pleased to be a B-ListerTM; it's just nice to see those nice, round numbers pass by.

And now, a Public Service Announcement

Since I'm well aware that the majority of my readers are women, and smart, independent women at that, I wanted to clue you in to something you can do to help other smart, independent women (as well as, potentially, yourself).

Perhaps you've heard about pharmacists who refuse to fill prescriptions for women's birth control pills. Target, in particular, has been having issues with this, largely because they aren't making their pharmacists pass the prescription on to a colleague who doesn't object to filling it. As Stephen Colbert's This Week in God says [click on This Week in God: Fanatics]: "Pharmacists say they have received no complaints from their customers who aren't huge sluts." Just to inject a little humor, here.

You can make your displeasure known to Target here. And here you can see a list of pharmacies and how they scored on filling women's prescriptions, every hour of every day they are open to do so. Interstingly, I see no disclaimer about these practices on the Walgreen's or Walmart's websites (I had thought that these two would be the most definite about their limitations, but perhaps they don't wish to court such scrutiny).

Amusingly, Walmart even has a Women's Health Page in its Pharmacy section, which focuses on osteoporosis, breast cancer and so on. They even sponsor a non-profit program called Speaking of Women's Health , founded by Dianne Dunkleman. The site is festooned with floral graphics and honors such heroines as Florence Henderson (Florence Henderson is a women's health pioneer?). This is what my mother would refer to as "fire insurance." It essentially says, "See, we care about women's health! That's why we are giving a fraction of a percent of our huge profit to a program that barely grazes the issue of women's health!" Seriously, this site has more to say about low-fat recipes and stress, topics certainly not exclusive to women's health, than about anything related to reproductive cancers, osteoporosis, or even breast cancer. It seems to be, more than anything, a pet project of fundraising for a society woman. Though I'm sure her heart's in the right place. Kind of.

Paperback Swoon

I am a person who always has lots of books. I go to the library a lot, too, but somehow I always end up with tons of books lying around, often of the paperback, mass-market variety that I can't sell for more than a quarter on Amazon.com, so I end up giving them away on Freecycle.

Until now.

Now there is this awesome site that I signed up for like, 3 months ago, and then never did anything with, but since I had a couple books that weren't selling on Amazon, I decided to try it out. Actually, I shouldn't say the site is awesome, because I just don't know, but trust me that if it sucks I will talk all about that, too. It's like a library through the mail. You get

I already had someone request one of the books I listed, and I'm mailing it out today. When she receives it, I'll get a credit and be able to order another book. Or something like that. I also ordered a book from someone, but I'm still waiting to hear back. Almost as good as Interlibrary Loan!

Open Letter to Tyra(nt) Banks

Real World Melissa (of New Orleans fame; I love her blog) has a rundown of the horror that was the America's Next Top Model finale posted.

If you are as crack-addicted to that show as I am, you should totally read it.


Image courtesy of UPN.

Friends in High Places

On Monday, I had the delightful experience of visiting my good friend and her husband and daughter in their new house in the nearby 'burbs and enjoying a meal there (and some wine, naturally). The friend in question, Frau Doktor, is one of my best friends and certainly my oldest one; nonetheless, I felt some degree of trepidation in revealing the fact of this blog to her (not unlike Arabella's when she "came out" to her friends), but the wine helped.

Fortunately for me, she was intrigued, having earlier gotten into the Finslippy and Dooce loops, and she eagerly asked me all kinds of questions, and even included Booby in her queries, since he is also a rather prolific blogger in his way. Then he and I harangued each other (as is our wont) about our differing blog styles; he prefers a breezy, fun, non-intimate tone, while I would unthinkingly invite you all into my boudoir without a second thought to discuss tampons and sex toys, because the concept of my enemies or even people I mildly dislike using such information for nefarious ends is just unthinkable to me. Or, perhaps more correctly, thinking about it hurts my head, so I don't think about it. So far the count is Three (count 'em, 3) blog posts he has suggested gently, asked nicely or demanded stridently that I remove. And I guess I love him, because I've honored his requests each time.

But I digress. Frau Doktor was kind enough to read my blog (after a near miss with her soul after my mistakenly routing her towards a Bible Study page) and even offered me praise on my writing and my acerbic wit (which of course, I didn't lap up like a greedy dog or anything). The bottom line here is that she is an amazing and dependable friend, and I'm lucky to have her. It is my fervent wish, also, that she decides to start a blog so you can all see how cool she is. Time will tell.

Will post photos of her adorable daughter upon my return home!

Tagged, again!

This time courtesy of Tink, who was tagged by Mama_Tulip. Here goes, 5 Weird Facts About Me:

1. All of my toes are about the same length, aside from the baby toes, which are very tiny. This trait was once the way I was identified positively during a childhood game of Blindman's Bluff at a slumber party.

2. When I was in 7th grade, I had to take the SATs after achieving a perfect score on the STS test the previous year. I scored a measly 710. My brainiac tendencies withered noticeably after that - it wasn't a fun experience.

3. When I was a kid I "kept" spiders as pets, feeding them and visiting with them in the garden. I was way into Charlotte's Web and saturated a dishtowel with my tears when Charlotte died in the movie. After getting largish spiders caught in my (long, knotty) hair on several occasions as an adult, my ardor for spiders has died, and I only enjoy them from a distance now.

4. I am one of the few people I know who doesn't like sushi. I've tried it numerous times and it always induces a gag reflex.

5. I have trouble sleeping with the closet door open; I always feel like someone could come out of there as I sleep (though I'm a very light sleeper) and get me.

For Lady Only (unless you're a really curious man)

So, last Thursday, I had the HSG (in which dye is pumped into the uterus, fallopian tubes and ovaries to ensure there is no blockage) that I blogged about previously. Some of you mentioned that you had undergone this procedure and it wasn't too awful, and I thank you for setting my mind to rest, because you were right!

Really, the worst part was having to roll around a bit on the table so the radiologist and the gynecologist could see the contrast dye doing its thing from all angles - that caused some pretty heavy duty cramping, the likes of which I hadn't felt since sophomore year of high school. But it was mostly painless, just unpleasant, and having to sit in a waiting room in a hospital gown for an hour waiting for the doctor to arrive kind of blew. The woman who was scheduled ahead of me wore her gown with her knee high boots, which was her prerogative, but made her look like a fashion victim rather than a patient. I opted for the no-skid booties in a fawn beige.

T.M.I. Alert - You Have Been Warned!
The sign pictured is in the changing cubicle. I just thought it was funny, but I guess sometimes you gotta spell it out. I doubt I was pregnant, but after I was allowed to get up off the table and clean up (the dye is sticky and slightly blue, and there was a surprising amount of bright red blood), a rather solid bit of something exited. From what I could see, it wasn't something that should have been staying up there (like, say, a fetus), and I had menstruated a week or so before, but I'm going to ask the doctor about it when we next do a consultation. It seems likely that Clomid is in my future.

**Update** I realized, after receiving an email from TB today, that I never let you all know the results. The doctor (who's not my regular Gyno, but very nice) said that she saw no blockages; she did see a small shadow but it disappeared after further coverage of the contrast, so she was unconcerned. Duh, I was so flipped out about bleeding on the floor that I forgot to get around to the results (which they can tell you straightaway after the procedure is through, before you're even off the table).