Project Body and Soul

I am slowly getting past the initial shock of hearing my doctors advise surgery for my fertility issues. I am still coping with feeling unsexy, infertile, empty--basically, less of a woman. While I've gotten comfortable with having my husband see me in my pajamas for about 16 hours a day, I don't relish that which comes after surgery. Will I need help changing dressings? Will I need help getting to the bathroom? This is not the baggage that a "hot young wife" is supposed to come with.

I have been exercising very vigorously for the past 10 days or so. It has been helping immensely. I think I may add yoga to the mix. I haven't done it in a while, but it always made me feel good.

I've decided that, right now, I will focus on getting my body as strong and as healthy as I possibly can before the surgery. I will keep exercising daily. Phone ringing? Tough shit. Lots of work to do? It can wait. Internet connection down? Time for a soothing cup of tea. Someone ringing my doorbell instead of waiting patiently while the tenant he really wants to reach comes and signs for her package? Kiss my increasingly-firm ass, buddy.

My husband and I are going to California next week for a much-needed vacation. We haven't crammed it full of activities so that we'll have time to walk on the beach and get leisurely lunches and sleep in--basically, all the things that one most looks forward to doing on vacation. I have already scheduled one deep-tissue massage and may book another one.

If I can't take on as much work during this time, and therefore can't make as much money, I'll just have to live with that. My health comes first right now. My husband is extremely supportive and understanding. But, so help me, I will make the time to rub my feet with rich cream each night, and head off to California with beautifully manicured nails. I will smell good. I will dress well. I will eat well--fresh fruits, whole grains, fresh fish--good, nourishing food. Lots of tea.

I will also rekindle my funny/sarcastic writing starting with tomorrow's post. TWO serious posts in a row doesn't do all that much for my psyche.

A Public Service Announcement

During the course of my fertility diagnosis, I have undergone many, many blood tests. I am fortunate to have a very good doctor who sat with my husband and me for over an hour, not only explaining the results of each test, but also providing us with a great deal of background information about the various genetic and other disorders that were tested for.

One such disorder is called Factor V Leiden. It is a hereditary disorder that increases one's risk of venous thrombosis (blood clots). It can be detected through a simple blood test.
Women with Factor V Leiden are generally advised to avoid birth control pills, given their predisposition to blood clots. Yet, testing for Factor V Leiden is hardly routine. I am not a doctor or medical professional, but I do consider myself to be a fairly well-informed individual who tries to stay up-to-date with medical news and information. Until I went for a battery of fertility tests, I had never heard of Factor V Leiden. I assume most other women haven't, either.

If you take hormonal birth control, please consider talking to your doctor about Factor V Leiden and whether you should be tested for it. I once told a doctor that I "wanted to talk to her about birth control" and she promptly wrote me a prescription for birth control pills (which I decided not to take because they had been prescribed so quickly); I suspect other women may be prescribed these pills in a similarly cavalier manner. While many women are able to use birth control pills safely, the consequences can be quite serious for women with Factor V Leiden and other circumstances or conditions.

Most women I know agree that we must be our own health care advocates and look out for our own best interests; this is just yet another reason to do so.

Saturday Bonus

The doorbell rang at 11:30 this morning.

Was it the new (larger) Levis I had ordered and have been waiting for all week?

NOOOOOOO. It was The Sexy Exterminator.

I was wearing my Nice Flower Pajamas, and my hair was pulled back, but that was because I had just finished thirty minutes on the Denise Austin bike and was all sweaty and smelly.

Oh, and I was watching yet another Brady Bunch retrospective, this one hosted by Jenny McCarthy and her breasts.

Oh, and I was drinking a glass of Konsyl. Imagine the scene. Honestly, I couldn't have written it better.

Not long before that, I had gotten off the phone with my mother, who told me that my sweet, beloved Mr. Lashes got some disappointing news recently. On the other hand, the excruciating pain of her recent bout of shingles is subsiding, so I guess we did get some good news this week, after all!!!

Last night, Ty and I went out with his friends to a bar in New Jersey to hear live funk music, and I spent the evening acting relatively socially appropriate. I wore a push-up bra and a low-cut top to plump up my ego; unfortunately, I don't think anybody really noticed the girls in light of the fact that I had a zit with a big white head right in the middle of my neck.

I like live music as much as the next person, but I never understood why live music wouldn't be just as enjoyable about 5-10 decibel levels lower and from the vantage point of being seated on a comfortable couch with my feet up, instead of standing for two hours in a crowd of sweaty, pasty men who kept brushing past me on their way to the bar.

Fortunately, my husband and I both maxed out at around the same time, and came home in time for me to realize that I hadn't prepared and put out the recyclables. I was not about to engage in this roughly 45-minute project at 1 am on a freezing New York morning, so we'll just be storing them for another week in our apartment, that's all.

Oh, and, as I'm writing this, there is a little yellow triangle at the bottom of my window with an exclamation point inside it, and the caption, "Could not connect to Blogger.com. Saving and publishing may fail."

A second pair of shoes it is.

UPDATE: I forgot to tell you about how I met C.S. for tea and cookies and sympathy yesterday at a local hangout. You know, to "cheer me up." I was about to snag some coveted seats for us, but decided against them, as they were in very close proximity to a happy dad and his two adorable toddlers, and I didn't need to see anything cute and life-affirming given my state of mind. I then went to sit right in the entryway, where the freezing air was blowing right in (figuring the kids would stay away from the cold), and the father and the adorable children followed me, and the father picked up the little girl and began swinging her around and around and laughing about two feet in front of me as I sat, attempting to focus on the Onion, and waiting waiting waiting for C.S. to show up as quickly as possible.

Best Laid Plans of Mice and Women

So, while I've been ovulating fairly regularly and still not getting pregnant, I've also been doing a lot of sit-ups and crunches.

I've consoled myself with this one thought: "My stomach is great. It is so lean and flat and flawless. So smooth and beautiful. I may have three pelvic exams in ten days, I may have an angry red zit on my cheek, I may have trouble stuffing my calves into tall boots, I may have The Ass That Ate Manhattan, but, oh, my stomach!"

Each month, when my period comes, I say to myself, "At least I have a great stomach."

Whenever I hear news about my friends' or relatives' adorable children, I think, "My abs are perfect."

The doctor has recommended laparoscopic surgery.

Guess where they make the incisions???

Now, I understand that abs are not forever, that these are the best years of my abs and that their appearance will probably suffer anyway when I have a baby and all that, but, here's the thing:

I DON'T HAVE A BABY.

I could just keep spinning my wheels or start getting injections and see if they help. I could keep my flawless abs and make myself crazy. Or, I can suck it up, bear the scars like a woman, and move forward.

Oh, incidentally, why am I going through all this shit? What am I striving for???

This.

I'm 28, in good health, have normal menstrual cycles, and my husband's 40 and I'm not getting pregnant. I suspected the problem might not be me.

I was wrong. Dead wrong.

So our meeting was basically, "We did this test. Everything was normal. You're young; your eggs are fine. We did this test. Everything was normal. Your hormone levels are fine. We did this other test for this really serious thing that sucks. You don't have it."

Repeat for 40 minutes.

Then, "Here's the results of this other test."

(Second doctor looks at test.)

"I recommend laparoscopic surgery."

Then I had conversations with both parents about parts of my body that they haven't seen in 27 years, and about parts of my body that no human should ever see while I am still living.

On the bright side, my apartment will be serviced next week by the Einstein of exterminators. I have hopefully seen my last piece of mouse poop for quite a while. Those little fuckers manage to reproduce just fine.

About an hour before the doctor appointment, I admired a pair of shoes, but didn't buy them because they were a little bit expensive.

Guess what I'm going to do when I finish posting and eating my French toast.

Tonight

Motherfucking shit kicking ass licking fucking sonofabitch bullshit. Fuck.

And how was YOUR night?

P.S. This is my 100th post. Happy fucking birthday to me.

LIOCBPOTFOSDASATR

One of my favorite indoor sports (and one of my favorite sports, in general), after Dueling Telephone Martyrs, is Listening in on Conversations Between People on their First or Second Date and Speculating about their Relationship.

Last night, C.S. and I treated ourselves to a nice dinner out at a tiny local restaurant. The tables there are very close together and provide the ideal environment in which to indulge in LIOCBPOTFOSDASATR.

A man and a woman were seated within inches of us. I could only observe the man's face; C.S. could only observe the woman's face.

"Third date," I whispered to C.S., clandestinely. "I bet it's third."

"Second," she replied.

"Do you think they're going to have sex tonight?" I wondered.

"I think they already have."

She reasoned that there was a guarded familiarity about them. They were still asking and answering getting-to-know-you questions, but with something of a comfortable knowingness.

Neither of us had imbibed enough wine from our half-bottle to ask them, so I guess we'll never know for sure.

I haven't been in that situation, but I think it would be really difficult to have dinner in public with someone you don't know all that well but who has seen your orgasm face (hopefully your real one) and heard your moans. Why not just get take-in and eat it in bed, forevermore thereafter? How do you play coy after that? Am I a prude? I don't understand. Does it make it better--the anticipation of what will almost certainly follow afterwards, again? Who has the upper hand? What if the sex is good and the relationship isn't? Will it affect your judgment in pursuing things? So many questions.

100 Things, Part III

61. I have tried repeatedly to upload a profile photo, to no avail. I have seven years of postsecondary education and still can't figure out how to do it.

62. I came to Nilla Wafers late in life, but now I am hooked.

63. I have a certain order in which I like to place the pots and pans on my stove burners.

64. There's a certain spot on each of my legs that I can't stand to have touched.

65. I'm crazy about Dove dark chocolate.

66. I wore braces for five years.

67. I had a headgear, too. I never wore it outside the house, but, oh, how I hated it.

68. My teeth are very small.

69. I once tried to play a record by dragging a sewing needle around in the grooves.

70. I desperately want children, but I can't stand it when babies cry in public.

71. I have a knack for finding good cashmere sweaters at thrift stores.

72. I knit every once in a while.

73. I wish I were more proficient with a sewing machine.

74. At times, I am a bit of a workaholic.

75. Other times, I find it difficult to get motivated.

76. I procrastinate horribly.

77. I have a drawerful of Valentine's Day cards that I have bought for my family members for several years in a row and have always forgotten to mail.

78. People used to ask me if I was a dancer. I took ballet in college; I sucked at it.

79. People don't ask me this anymore. I wish they did.

80. I used to play the piano and the flute.

81. I sucked at both.

82. I would like to learn to speak Portuguese. I don't imagine that I ever will, though.

83. I like some reeaaalllly cheesy music.

84. I'm a lightweight with alcohol.

85. In college, my roommate once ordered a sandwich with red sauce, mozzarella cheese, and lettuce. Thinking about it still grosses me out.

86. I think food appreciation should be taught in school along with nutrition.

87. I studied a year of art history. I absolutely loved it.

88. I was premed for a semester. I loved the coursework, but not the courseload.

89. Really furry boots with pompoms make me cringe.

90. I get upset when I see dogs riding in the open backs of trucks.

91. I love peppermint. Especially with dark chocolate.

92. I'm fussy about socks. I'll only wear certain kinds.

93. I don't know how anyone can walk in high-heeled mules.

94. I like to drink my tea out of big mugs.

95. I'm sick of the way my site looks, and I really want to redesign it myself as a project, but I fear it will be too daunting.

96. I wash my hands a lot.

97. I wish coffee shops and diners provided the option of paying a little bit extra for real maple syrup (or, better yet, serving it for free instead of that corn-syrupy goo).

98. I look silly in many pastels.

99. I have good instincts.

100. Scented hand creams make me happy.

UPDATE: I just read The Gradual Gardener's list. It's significantly better and more serious and more disclosive than mine. Ditto Tink's and Mrs. Harridan's and TB's (and I'm sure I'm leaving someone else's out). I love reading other peoples' lists, but I'm having mixed feelings about mine. I feel like I've had a bit of a charmed life, which makes me both happy and guilty. I try to walk the fine line of disclosing interesting tidbits about myself, while also safeguarding family members' privacy. Plus, there are things that I'm not ready to talk about, and may never be ready to talk about. But, scented hand creams? Pastels? WTF??? I shot my wad on the first list with my nose job, didn't I?

California in my Living Room

Currently wedged between two easy chairs in my living room is this Denise Austin recumbent exercise bike. I ordered it last week and it arrived on Friday, just in time for me to spend the evening putting it together, and thereby getting the best workout I'd had in several months before I even straddled the thing. (As an aside, Denise Austin has a book called Sculpt Your Body With Balls and Bands. Isn't that the most erotic thing you've read all morning?)

I basically ordered it to thin my thighs in anticipation of this trip that Ty and I are taking to California. In California, I've only ever been to San Francisco, which is a little like New York in the '70's on downers and with mountains, but this time we'll be going to L.A.

L.A. intimidates me a little bit. I've been brainwashed by enough repeat viewings of Annie Hall to expect that I'll be totally out of my element. I have dark curly hair--is that even allowed in L.A., or will I have to get highlights and a blowout before I'm permitted off the plane? Will my breasts automatically inflate upon descent from cruising altitude? How will I survive on this vacation without decent, authentic pizza? Am I being a bitch--a sullen, New York bitch? Should I just put on a black T-shirt and some Chucks and sit in a corner and pout?

My friend C.S. is one of the most New Yorky New Yorkers that I know, and she likes L.A. and will even be moving there in the spring. I'm hoping some of her newfound L.A. fondness will rub off on me. Some of it. But I rather like being a sullen, neurotic New Yorker and don't think I'd cope well with too much sunshine and fresh air, not to mention designer pink low-rise sweatpants.

100 Things, Part II, and Other Stuff

51. I have been in love twice.

52. I pull out my gray hairs as I find them.

53. I prefer bagged tea to loose tea.

54. I have made business calls while wearing nothing but socks.

55. I feel guilty about eventually throwing away those little portraits of themselves that people put in wedding thank-yous.

56. When I'm upset, I often think about how it felt to hold my late dog or my late cat on my lap, and that makes me feel better.

57. Reading the posts about the dietary guidelines at suzannesomers.com makes me crave sugar-sweetened chocolate.

58. When people cut me in line, I generally fume in silence.

59. I have a hard time with change. As in, change of circumstances--not the change that you carry in your wallet.

60. Porn stars fascinate me--not necessarily their movies, but their lives.

These just aren't flowing out of me this morning, and I think my writing is typically better when it does flow naturally, so I'm going to stop at 10 for today and do more later in the week.

Ty and I went to the 2nd Avenue Deli on Saturday. Well, we tried to, anyway. It turns out that it closed in January.

For the uninitiated, the 2nd Avenue Deli, much like Katz's, was one of New York's famous Kosher delis, famous for enormous pastrami sandwiches and matzoh ball soup. My personal favorite was the Hush Puppy (a hot dog wrapped in a potato knish).

I'm sad to see it go (though not as sad as I was to see McHale's go, because I really like cheese and bacon). As I stated in my list above, I am resistant to change. On the other hand, I am also a capitalist, and think that building owners should be able to raise rents commensurate with the market.

More importantly, though, change is part of the nature of an American city. It gives us something to look back on--"I remember when there were no restaurants here at all!"--and something to explore and rediscover. Just as people come in and out of our lives, places do, too.

100 Things, Part I

Yeah, I'm doing this, too.

1. I write all day in my head. Mostly just random phrases.

2. I am nervous about what pregnancy will do to my body.

3. I am scared that having a baby will somehow make me less special in the eyes of my parents.

4. I went to law school, in part, because I am competitive, and my then-boyfriend was going.

5. I didn't think law school was so terrible. I had fun during those years.

6. I worked harder in high school than I did in law school.

7. I think the institution of high school, in its current form, is absurd.

8. I constantly get paper cuts.

9. I am a little bit superstitious.

10. I feel that I have more in common with men who are older than me than men who are my own age.

11. I only use half the suggested amount of laundry detergent in the wash.

12. I don't think there are nearly enough penises in mainstream theatrical releases, given the number of breasts.

13. I'm pretty good at giving manicures, but only to myself.

14. I hate walking into empty stores, because I feel obligated to talk to the salesperson, and, if I don't buy anything, I feel bad.

15. I'm fussy about what kinds of pens I like to use.

16. Math interests me a lot more now than it did when I was studying it in school.

17. To me, living in New York City feels a little bit like being on vacation every day.

18. I absolutely love small dogs, and I hate that they're a fashion statement for starlets these days.

19. I typically root for the underdog.

20. Before tackling a stressful project, clearing off my desk makes me feel better.

21. I had a nose job. It was one of the best decisions I ever made.

22. I have never lived with a boyfriend. Not for moral reasons, but because I loved briefly living alone, and I was unwilling to rearrange my life to be with anyone who was making anything less than a total commitment to me.

23. I love sitting on the floor.

24. I don't wash my hair every day. It looks better on the days that I don't.

25. I no longer own a hairbrush. I detangle my long, curly hair in the shower each morning with a comb, and massage my scalp with my fingertips. This has virtually eliminated my split ends.

26. I'm a little bit bossy.

27. I would rather have a $500 restaurant meal than a $500 pair of shoes.

28. I have a very non-addictive personality and don't really understand the addictive process. I consider myself very lucky.

29. I was very, very bad at breaking up with boyfriends.

30. I'm a city person.

31. I have never owned the perfect handbag.

32. I think fashion's going through a really bad phase right now.

33. I find it virtually impossible to get a really good cup of tea away from home, unless I'm in England.

34. I think that b.o. smells like a bad version of frying hamburgers.

35. Houseplants scare me a little bit, because I'm worried that I will kill them.

36. I'm scrupulous about wearing sunblock.

37. I'm considering the purchase of a reusable pair of earplugs to carry around with me and wear on the subway.

38. I resent that greeting cards have gotten so expensive.

39. I still buy VHS tapes.

40. In general, I try to support local businesses. A few of them have been nasty to me, so I go to their big chain-store competitors for spite.

41. I hate being offered the credit card, frequent buyer program, membership card, etc. when I'm paying for my purchases at checkout.

42. I sometimes make charitable contributions by mail and do not provide my phone number to eliminate the possibility that I will be called at home.

43. I need a lot of sleep.

44. I love old sitcoms.

45. I'm hard-core into kitsch. I will watch entire movies, and spend hours on websites, just for the kitsch value.

46. I like flying on airplanes.

47. I spend most of my time at home wearing pajamas.

48. I have bought more gimmicky exercise equipment than I care to admit.

49. People are shocked when I curse out loud, because they think it seems very out of character for me.

50. I love baking when it's snowy out.

50 more to follow next week. Have a good weekend, everybody!

Rules to be Implemented When I am Queen of the World

Prepare yourselves.

1. One must have a permit to own a cellphone. To get this permit, one must first attend a short course regarding cellphone etiquette, and then must score at least 75% on a quiz covering the material taught in the course.

I will set the syllabus. It will include topics such as Not Talking Loudly on Your Cellphone for the Whole 45 Minutes You Ride the Train, Not Interrupting an Important Business Meeting to Answer an Unimportant Cellphone Call and Thereby Leaving Me to Sit There Like a Schmuck and Wait and Wait and Wait for 15 Minutes While I Have a Workload the Size of a Supermodel's Ego and You Are Merely Discussing Potential New Carpeting Colors With Your Wife Not That This Has Happened or Anything, and Never Ever, Ever TAKING A CALL AND CARRYING ON A CELLPHONE CONVERSATION DURING SUNDAY MASS.

Ringtones must never be set to a decibel level higher than half the average decibel level of the New York City subway system. Only musical ringtones from a pre-approved list will be tolerated. (Guess who sets the list!) Failure to follow these rules will result in revocation of one's cellphone privileges.

2. Doctors will be subject to the patient equivalent of mystery shopping--undercover individuals will pose as patients and then evaluate the doctor's bedside manner, politeness, willingness to answer questions clearly, respect for the patient, and minimally unpleasant speculum usage. The penalty for low marks will be a pelvic exam--even for the men--to be performed by some kid in first-semester premed who's still mastering usage of the Bunsen burner.

3. Dogs that bark outdoors, in cities where people live piled up on top of each other like sardines, for longer than 20 minutes at a clip, or before 8 am or after 8 pm, will be banished to Paris Hilton's bedroom.

4. Celebrities must register with the media before getting plastic surgery so that their postoperative appearances can be appropriately scrutinized.

Every Woman Has a Fantasy

...and mine involves English toffee and hazelnut gelato. Nevertheless, I'll play along.

Our building is serviced by a man we have come to refer to as The Sexy Exterminator. SE is probably in his early twenties and has a slight New York accent.

The first time he arrived, we'd scheduled the visit for an hour I deemed unreasonably early on a Saturday given my childless existence--7:30 am. Like any happily married woman with no interest in playing around, I set my alarm for 7:27 and figured I'd smooth my hair sufficiently on my way to the door that he hopefully wouldn't consider me one of the vermin.

In a neighborhood chock-full of frazzled gray ponytails, holey wool sweaters, and lanky, bookish types (i.e., decidedly lacking in eye candy), the sight of this bright-eyed young man in his crisp blue uniform, American flag emblem stretched over his rounded right bicep, stirred something deep within my yuppie brain. But for my stained pj's and sleep-crusted eyes, it was the stuff of porn-movie opening sequences.

Just to clarify: I can appreciate a thing of beauty (I'm not dead, for heaven's sake), but I harbor no fantasies about getting it on with the exterminator. All I wanted was a glimmer of recognition in his eye that I was a relatively young, attractive woman--perhaps a look that said, "I'd like to head into your law office and see you take off your reading glasses and let down your hair." Then, I could subtly convey that I was flattered but uninterested. I wanted the upper hand in the power-play between the sexes. I wanted a scene from my own personal Lina Wertmuller film, complete with witty dialogue. Naturally, that glimmer was less than forthcoming, given my attire, so I gave up and stepped aside as he sought to chase away the silverfish.

The next time, SE showed up unannounced (meaning I forgot he was coming that day) at about 11:45 on a Saturday. What was I wearing, you ask?

Stained pj's and messy hair.

The THIRD time, SE showed up around 1:30. I'd forgotten he was coming, again, but, nevertheless, THIS TIME I was prepared. I was wearing clean jeans, a soft blue sweater, and makeup. The timing actually couldn't have been better, because at that precise moment I had been experimenting with the new red lipstick that I bought the day before.

I ran down to get the door and saw that my (adorable) downstairs neighbor was already in the hallway, wearing sweatpants (she's a happily married woman, too). I could even exploit the outfit contrast!

I smiled and greeted SE, scanning his face, examining his expression.....

NOTHING. All business, and a bit rushed. (He was probably eager to get home to his 19-year-old cheerleader girlfriend or something.)

A few days later, a geezerish type handing out fliers on the street aimed a compliment in my direction.

It's all relative, I guess.

Happy St. Valentine's Day!

But for the sweetness of my parents and now my husband, V-Day isn't really one of my favorites.

I've been dumped twice right before Valentine's Day. TWICE. Therefore, any Valentine's Day that I'm not subjected to cruel heartbreak is a good Valentine's Day.

While engaged in some of The Snarkiest Googling You Ever Did See, I came across this.

For those of you not interested in clicking on the link (although you really should), it is a fansite for the relationship between Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey. A recently-added nod to their breakup indicates that the site will not go away just because their marriage did.

In contrast...

Last night, Ty and I watched Wingspan, the documentary about Paul and Linda McCartney and Wings. Much of it focused on their marriage. Linda addressed criticism of her music, and basically her presence in the band, by saying, "I'm not here because I'm the greatest keyboard player. I'm here because we love each other."

I was struck by her confidence and their feelings for each other. Can you imagine joining a band with a former Beatle when you yourself are not a professional musician? Can you imagine devoting so much of your life to something that your husband is really, really famous for, and you are not? Perhaps I'm a tad more competitive than the norm, but this would be very difficult for me. Yet, they did it. Together. Quite successfully, I might add. GOOD FOR THEM.

Ty and I have been married just over two and a half years. In that time, we've coped with job changes, the death of a beloved pet, health issues, family issues, and difficulty conceiving, just to name a few items. And I've never been more in love with him than I am right now. We don't have a reality show (thankfully); we don't have a band. We have lots of olives and fresh pasta and a comfortable couch, and a really, really good marriage, and for that I am very grateful.

Happy St. Valentine's Day, Everyone! It's not just for lovers--enjoy it with your kids and your pets and your parents and your friends!

(Or, if you'd rather not, check out that Nick and Jessica link!)

Useful Information for Those Who Were Improperly Socialized as Children

1. When New York is blanketed in several feet of snow, and most streets have only been shoveled sufficiently to allow one person to walk down them at a time, wearing ENTIRELY INAPPROPRIATE HIGH-HEELED BOOTS and walking at the corresponding slow pace makes people want to push you face-first into the yellow snow. Some of us have PLACES TO GO.

Do you REALLY think that some rich investment banker just heading uptown after his latest multimillion-dollar deal will see you in your sexy boots, exclaim, "Now, THERE's a woman who doesn't succumb to the elements!" and promptly make you his trophy wife, and forevermore (well, at least for the five years that your marriage lasts before you catch him schtupping the secretary) have you chauffeured around town in a limousine so that you never have to soil your little tootsies again?

Simply owning a vagina gets one enough unnecessary attention in this town, let alone dressing like you're going dancing in the middle of a blizzard. Sex and the City has been over for quite some time. Oh, and it was a TELEVISION SHOW. And, incidentally, you're no Kim Cattrall! Suck it up and purchase a pair of Sportos to wear while you buy your vegetables and get your prescriptions filled.

2. When an obviously school-aged kid wearing sneakers that cost more than my car payment delivers a speech about how he needs money to stay out of trouble as he panhandles on the subway, for heaven's sake, don't give it to him. Is it not obvious to you that he is skipping school to do this? Do you really want to encourage this behavior?

3. Also on the subway--If you are unable to control the rumbling sounds that come out of your throat, please, PLEASE don't stand so close to me. It freaks me out.

4. If I'm sitting on one of those little mirrored stools to try on a pair of boots, and there's another mirrored stool less than 20 feet away, completely vacant, it is not necessary for you to sit on the same stool as me and rub your buttcheeks up against mine, chilly though it may be.

Babies Babies Everywhere

Since I can't buy a quart of milk in my family-friendly neighborhood without tripping over dozens of happy mothers and their children, and every junky celebrity magazine includes pictures of famous pregnant women and celebrity spawn, it was only a matter of time before the inanimate objects in my apartment started to betray me, too:






True to my roots, the Italian coffeemakers are my favorite.

Ladies, We've Come a Long Way

Thank you all for your kind words and wishes yesterday.

I have now completed my endometrial biopsy. It wasn't as bad as I expected; the doctor was very gentle. It certainly wasn't fun, and I'm tired and crampy and sore now, but I did get a good laugh out of the 1950's-era maxipad that they gave me afterwards; it's thicker than my TempurPedic mattress and stretches virtually from my bellybutton to my butt. Good thing I didn't wear tight jeans to the appointment!

Ty made me special lambburgers last night and served them with red leaf lettuce and garlic and scallion hummus on warm ciabatta bread, with a side of sugar snap peas, and now I'm eating the remains of some Granny Smith apples that I sauteed for dessert in a little cinnamon, butter, and maple syrup. I'm going this afternoon for additional bloodwork ("probably only about 10 or 12 vials"). After that, the next step is our "discussion appointment" to see where we go from here.

I think I'll greet the doctor by introducing myself and saying, "May I have my baby now?"

Let's Get This Party Started

We did it again! Mrs. Harridan and I got together on Saturday for fertility tea and dim sum. She brought me these beautiful little piggie soaps:

While we were eating our dim sum, we were treated to the sight of some Chinese New Year dragons running through the dining room:So, now Mrs. Harridan has seen me shove a pork bun in my mouth with both hands, as well as her remains of that oniony vegetable dumpling thing that I raved about and nobody else really liked. She's witnessed firsthand my inability to process simple directions and my total reliance on C.S. in this arena, and she's repeatedly experienced my awful habit of interrupting other people when they're talking. She's seen my bathroom (I cleaned it before she came, of course, but I spent much of Saturday wondering if there were any obvious, errant pee stains that I'd missed).

The mask of the Internet has been removed; the awkward politeness of not knowing someone that well is starting to subside. I worry a little that Mrs. Harridan won't like me as I really am, and that the promise of our early friendship will fade. On the other hand, if she DOES like me as I really am, then we're well on our way to a very fine friendship. That prospect is truly exciting.

A few of you have expressed jealousy that she and I have met in person. We've got to fix that. If you are interested in attending a B-List Blog Chicks '06 meetup during a weekend in June, please email me, Arabella (but with a small a), AT the name of this blog dot com, and let me know. Tell me all your issues and any dates that won't work.

Lashing Out Together

I have a younger brother. Readers that follow this blog with Trekkie-quality fervor may know him as Mr. Lashes. I won't tell you why--given that you know the intimate details of what's been happening in my reproductive tract for the past few weeks, I'd like to retain some semblance of mystery.

Mr. Lashes is 5 1/2 years younger than me and now is many, many inches taller than me. We had our first real argument (i.e., one not concerning allocation of toys, distribution of cookies, or control of the remote) in 2005, when we were both in our twenties. As a sister, I have a lot to answer for, but Mr. Lashes has one of the most purely good hearts of anyone I've ever known.

We've certainly had our differences. I was more a city kid and he was more a suburban kid, due to the places where we spent our formative years. I was shy and quiet; he was a brave social butterfly. I sucked at sports and was an obnoxious, hardworking teacher's pet; he was athletic and did well academically, but wasn't a bookworm. In spite of these differences, we pretty much share the same sense of humor. Getting to know him better as an adult, and even getting a little closer to him through this blog, has been one of the greatest joys of my life.

When he was very young, I once poured garlic powder in a little Dixie cup and told him that it was Pixie Dust and that he should eat it. I still feel guilty about that. I'm so sorry, Mr. Lashes. I hope this public apology helps.

One fairly recent Christmas, he asked me what I wanted. I was particularly stressed out that year. I told him I wanted a stuffed Kermit the Frog. When he couldn't find one in stores, he gave me the one he'd had since he was a baby, and told me I needed it more than he did. I cry when I think about it.

Mr. Lashes has had a really shitty time for the past few months--a shitty time that may reach its peak tomorrow. I have some understanding of what he's going through and wish I could make it all better for him.

Good luck, Mr. Lashes, but don't worry: Kermit and I love you always, no matter what.

Special Emergency Bitching Post

My post this morning was falsely optimistic. I know that the kind of people who revel in lemony freshness would argue that I should just smile and then I'll start to feel happy, but, in my experience, there is nothing better than simply wallowing in it when you feel like shit.

My life of late consists of exactly sixteen activities, rotated randomly throughout the day:

1.) fielding angry phone calls;
2.) making polite phone calls when I feel like screaming;
3.) cleaning food debris out of the kitchen sink drain;
4.) having strangers draw my blood;
5.) having strangers insert balloons into my uterus and then fill them with irritating liquids;
6.) crying;
7.) running out of fat-free half-n-half mid-pour for the fourteenth time since '05 no matter how many gallons I buy and sprinting to the store to get more, because TEA WITH SUGAR AND FAT-FREE HALF-N-HALF IS ON THE SHORT LIST OF THINGS THAT KEEP ME SANE, SO HELP ME;
8.) reassuring my father that, no, of course I'd never walk around alone after dark;
9.) reassuring my mother that all the barbaric procedures I'm undergoing are normal, and that there is nothing at all questionable about filling a healthy 28-year-old woman's Fallopian tubes with a liquid that causes her pulse to drop and sweat to roll down her forehead, oh no;
10.) unloading the dishwasher;
11.) reloading the dishwasher;
12.) mentally (and sometimes literally) telling the obnoxious barking dog upstairs to SHUT THE FUCK UP and wondering how dogmeat would taste when scrambled with free-range eggs in some extra virgin olive oil with a little sea salt and cracked black pepper and just a drop or two of Trappey's Red Devil;
13.) doing laundry;
14.) cleaning up mouse poop;
15.) writing blog entries;
16.) reading blogs.

Guess which activities are my favorite.

Notice that sleeping, shaving my legs, spending quality time with my husband not associated with any tedious chores, and enjoying my life are conspicuously absent.

If we dropped everything and went to Amsterdam, I wonder how long we'd have before the money ran out. I'm a lawyer, so I don't know that having to rent a window in the Red Light District to earn my living would be all that different.

Trendy the Trendsetter

Did you read my post yesterday? Did you look at Dooce today? No, not her text--her ads. The one on the upper left. There's a new season of a show on BBC America, called Footballers' Wive$. That's right--no pop-culture movement escapes my notice, baby!

So, I say that tea is the new coffee, infertility is the new fertility, enough with the berry-scented household products, reality television is fading, gimmicky body-wash marketing is over, Krispy Kreme will rise again, and we will never find a sugar substitute as glorious as the real thing.