Excuse Me? Could You Repeat That?!

What a week. Soooo much has happened in the past 7 days. Some good, some irritating, much of it stressful. But damn if there haven't been some CLASSIC lines uttered! So many, in fact, that I feel compelled to record them. Thus, in no particular order . . . .

• JAY: "Break out the phucking Taylor!"
• MS. J/FC: "Why are fat people always munching on funnel cake? How come you never see them snacking on some fruit?"
• ADRIAN/MH: "Who is Ron Jeremy?'
• JESSE: "Do not google 'Ron Jeremy' from work."
• MS. J/FC: "Oh, I'm taking it to DEFCOM 2."
• KIRSTEN/CHRISSIE/2.0: "Speak Engrish!"
• HOT MARY: "He brought the Pancakes? What a jerk."
• ERIN (wtf? We don't even know her!): "You need to come hit this every two weeks or so, Asshole!"
• DR. J: "If she wants you to hit it every two weeks then who is hitting it during the off week?"
• FC: "Gawd knows if she is this horny and will let you roll around in there sans latex, she got the WHOLE TOWN in there."
• CHRISSIE: "It probably smells like skank down there."
• FC: "Dude, you got laid 2x's in under 18 hours AND ate the tasty free samples at Sam's -- WTF more do you want? Man up, already!"
• MS. J: "So we moved the bag of tricks & nudie photos to his office, and she never even looked in a single drawer?!"
• GREG: "They're PAVING Carson Street?!?!"
• LORI: "He's fat."
• MS. J: "I hate or resent everybody, with the exception of Nate. And possibly Maya, but the jury's still out on her."
• SPC SHANNON: "Grapes REFUSED to sign the card."
• HAMSTER: "Tell Da Weeter about our many nights spent on surveillance, Jen!"
• YMCA SHANNON: "Eric, did you try one of Ms. J's fried Oreo's? I hear it's all soft and yummy in the middle."
• ERIC: "When I try one of her Oreo's it's Double Stuft."
• FATHER MIKE: "Elsie is the bane of my existence. She's a pain in my ass."
• DR. J: "Don't worry Padre, what you say to me is confidential, like doctor-patient."
• ADRIAN: "A pretty face doesn't make a pretty cunt."
• GREG: "Phucking PennDOT!"
• HOT MARY: "But Doug says it's a very nice trailer."
• LOU-BEE: "Michael McDonald ruined the Doobie Brothers."
• BIG BILL: "Your brother announced he's not taking the LSAT. He's decided to become a Navy fighter pilot instead."
• DR. J: "Yeah, my in-laws worked security for the Parish Festival on Thursday Night. What did they do? I have no idea. They could entertain themselves with phucking toothpicks."
• HAMSTER: "I love church festival food!"
• DEREK: "Choco Taco? Sounds dirty! I'll be there."
• MS. J: "Just what Lou needs, a funnel cake."

I Know Work is Stressing Me Out When . . .

• I text Lori repeatedly at lunchtime about how I am NOT gonna give in to the overwhelming urge to ingest all sorts of unhealthy food choices


• I spontaneously begin making my "grrr!" sound at the slightest provocation (and sometimes when there's none at all)


• I come back from lunch and sit in my car, A/C on full blast, close my eyes, and turn Hall & Oates up way loud on the radio (guilty pleasure -- yes, I am a fan)
• I begin to fret that I won't make it to the gym that night, because I have too much shit to do
• I am mentally whining about needing to see Brenda
• I start making lists of which Legislators need an ass whuppin'
• I wish in earnest that I could end every day by climbing into a hot tub
  

Part 2, Ugh

So I am about 12 hours away from this hideous procedure. You know it's bad when the RE tells you ahead of time. His phrase of "excruciating hell" keeps bouncing around in my already overtaxed brain.

I was emotionally spent from the home study this afternoon, and did not really feel like hauling ass to the Y afterwards. But watching Oprah interview formerly fat people motivated me. So did the knowledge that after tomorrow I will have to take a few days off from working out, since my whole va-jay-jay region (yes, taking this word straight from the vocabulary of the t.v. show "Grey's Anatomy") is going to be in "some pain." I hate that. I resent not being able to engage in something that helps me relieve stress, improves my mood, and lets me have some measure of control over my body.

Tonight, once again, sleeping in the Marines t-shirt. More channeling of tough guys: Dad, Noah, Col. Hunt, Mitch Rapp (don't care if he's fictional), and my hairstylist Shannen (who's been three, done that, and never flinches when I admit being scared or start to cry).

Dig deep, chickie poo.

So THIS is Feminism?

In the interest of full disclosure, back in college I was a self-proclaimed Feminist. But around the time I started grad school, I began to see the light. The light shown even brighter while living out in The Land of Fruits & Nuts & Flakes, and now I am a happily sassy, good-looking, red, white & true Conservative! My pendulum has even swung far in the other direction on matters of Pro-Life v. Pro-Abortion (sorry, "choice"? Use that word and you are stupidly letting the opposition frame the argument, suckers).

Anyhoo . . .

Came across this article this morning:

Infanticide, Abortion Responsible for 60 Million Girls Missing in Asia

Granted, I am inclined to take this DAMN personally right about now. Try being me and not being offended by this?! But actually, everyone should be outraged!

It has me so pissed off, so angry, so hurt. It's not news to me, as I have been well-aware of it for a good decade. Still, it astounds me that people still cling to the ridiculous notion that abortion is somehow good for women? Which women? The 60 million is Asia who have been MURDERED?

How about the 45 million babies who have been murdered since abortion was legalized in the United States? Let's see, if one-half of those were female . . . 22.5 million little girls (some of whom might have grown up to be liberal Feminists) have had their lives extinguished.

And please, spare me the whole "what about rape and incest" argument. Yes, those are terrible, and RARE occurrences. While I have been sexually assaulted, I can not imagine that overwhelming horror. I know that it is STILL an abortion, still a Human Life that is being taken. I am willing to allow for these rare circumstances, so long as these women receive extreme counseling, and are introduced to a loving American couple or social service agency who stand ready and willing to bend over backwards to support them through their recovery, and ADOPT their baby when born (and make sure they are taken care of financially).

Yes, "saving the life of the mother" is a valid and legitimate argument. But again, rare. And even the most restrictive laws on the books allow for all three of these exceptions.

The flaws in the Abortion argument are so huge and gaping. And yet people get sucked into them every day. Lucky for them they didn't get sucked into a sink before they had a chance to voice that opinion.

When Part 1 of 2 Turns Out to Have a 3

I thought I'd only have to be brave for 2 more tests, then get to wave "buh-bye" to all of the medical and emotional bullshit Dr. J and I have been coping with. Turns out Part 1 is necessitating there to be a Part 3 (i.e. surgery). I'd shake my head and say "unbelievable," but then again this is my completely phucked up reality, so it's just par for the course (and I don't mean Oakmont).

So I had the SonoHSG test yesterday morning. They first take measurements of your uterus (with the transvaginal ultrasound wand -- like inserting a big curling iron in your tutu, hee hee), then doctor inserts speculum, then threads catheter through cervix and into uterus. Then saline is injected through catheter into uterus. Speculum pulled out, transvaginal wand reinserted, and ultrasound photos taken and displayed on monitor. Mmmm, yummy, eh?! LOL!

Wasn't as bad as I thought it would be (yes, I am still worked up over last year's full-fledged HSG test) . Granted, I popped a percocet about 90 minutes prior. Thank you, Dr. J.

However . . . they did find a 6 mm polyp in my uterus. RE does not think it's cancer -- his exact words, but it needs to come out. He is much more concerned about it causing or contributing to m/c's. RE says I can wait until August to have out, if I want to (I do -- I need a break in July, and some peace). And that my regular OB/Gyn will do surgery, under anethesia, at a hospital.

I think that I have gotten so freakin' used to bad news that my reactions to things are so flat and inappropriate it borders on insane. For example, when the doctor showed my the polyp on the screen and said I needed surgery, the following 3 things were the FIRST that I thought of:

1. Huh . . . I wonder how much a polyp weighs? Will I be lighter after it's out?
2. Phuck, I am gonna have to skip a few gym workouts due to phucking surgical recovery time. Dammit.
3. Hmmm, if it's cancer, I need to hide it from our adoption caseworker.

I still am having to have the endometrial biopsy next Tuesday. THAT is the hellish painful one (in RE's words). Two percocet that morning, for sure.

I am SO not looking forward to sharing all of this with Big Bill when he comes over for brunch on Sunday. He will not hear a thing after "cancer" (though it's unlikely, and I truly don't think it is). He'll turn green, then start rocking back and forth in his chair -- his drill, when he gets nervous about medical stuff with one of his kids, his sister, or niece. I like that he worries, though?! Makes me feel better, somehow, like someone is caring for me.

Good gawd, I am sooooo sick of all of this. I'd throw in the towel and flip off all of these people who insist on being up my wazoo if I could erase all doubts about cancer (and that's for Big Bill's sake, not my own).

I NEED A CALGON MOMENT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Being Brave

Okay, so I can admit I am getting more and more nervous . . . but I know that I have to keep going, in order to hopefully get some answers.

Maybe nervous is not the word . . . yep, I think fear has fully crept into my mental house, and is plunking her suitcase down. She is expecting to move in. I may have to let her.

Tired of being Ms. Tough Cookie all the time, and with the vivid memory of the last time I had something even close to this done to my body . . . I am trying my best to cope with the fact that, um, tomorrow is going to probably hurt. And what I have to undergo the following week will be, in the doctor's words, feel like "excruciating hell." Well, I appreciate that he isn't bullshitting me! There's nothing I hate more than being surprised, so I value that he played it straight with me.

So tonight I am taking my frequent advice to others, and doing some "channeling" of others, in the hopes that I can steal a bit of their strength to get me through Part I, tomorrow. With this in mind, I am sleeping in my favorite old Marines t-shirt that my Dad brought me home from one of his reunions. I am going to think about people who are REALLY tough, like Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, Marines, and Cops, and try to put myself into some "zone" if you will -- with the hopes of pulling myself through to the other side of Part I tomorrow.

But who knows, it may just boil down to remembering the time, only a few months ago, when my Dad said that the thing that marked his children, three very, very different children . . . was that each was strong. Maybe that's enough.

I Am Running Away

This thought has been very tempting lately. Like when you hear a little kid whine that life is unfair, and they are going to run away? And so you indulge them, being sympathetic but amused, and inquire "What would you take with you? And where would you go?"


If only it were that easy.


Oh hell, I wouldn't enjoy myself anyway if I did. Gawd, do I ever relax? Hell no. It's only the stress and tension holding my decrepit body together, anyway.


So maybe a compromise is to run away . . . virtually. Yeah, that's right, online. I can map out my big escape plan -- dream as big as I want, no limits (especially self-imposed), with complete freedom to be as wild as I choose. Now that tempting, isn't it?!


Okay, so where to go . . . well this is MY daydream, so it can be for an extended period of time and to multiple places, right? So here's where I am going (flying first class, obviously):

• Australia -- I want to visit ALL of it, like Bill Bryson did in his terrific book. All the cities, even the strange, quirky ones. And of course, the terrific vineyards.
• Hyatt at Gainey Ranch -- Location of probably my happiest childhood memories with my Dad, and the place I truly had one gorgeously tranquil moment of peace as an adult.
• Balboa Park -- Located in sunny San Diego, it is one of my favorite places in CA. And of course, Nicole is just minutes away . . . if anyone can inject a whopping dose of escapism, it's her!
• Sonoma & Napa Counties, CA -- Specifically, my beloved Chateau St. Jean, with a quick sidetrip to Cakebread, too (both finds that must be credited to Adrian/ManHands).

I should dash home and pack. Really.

I wonder if Kirsten would fit in a suitcase? Probably only if it were a Louis Vuitton.

Acronym School

I don't even know where to begin . . . I'm no angel, but sometimes even I stumble across these moments in which I feel like an Amish schoolgirl, sweet and innocent, and unknowing.

So as Dr. J and I were falling asleep last night, we watched one of those classic VH1 offerings, called "40 Most Softsational Soft Rock Songs" -- you know, one of those it's so bad it's good episodes?! We LOVE those shows, especially since we can entertain each other for hours with our own non-stop smart ass remarks about what we see and observe on t.v. and in public (gawd, do we love to peoplewatch!)

Anyhoo, as they are reviewing these awesomely bad songs, mainly from the 70's and 80's, they have comedians offer smart ass remarks throughout. So during the recap of one song, some female comedian makes a crack about "JBF Hair".

"JBF Hair"??? Dr. J and I look at each other -- WTF is that?!

JBF Hair . . . JBF Hair . . . awesomely bad soft rock songs . . . JBF Hair . . . what does this mean?!?!?!

OHMIGAWD -- then it hits us!

JUST BEEN FUCKED HAIR!!!

LOL! Yeah, you know it, girl! Half your hair is still styled/curled, the other sweaty, or straight, or has some jism substance dried in it . . . ROTFLMAO! Ohmigawd, we were wide awake, laughing like two higher-than-kite frat boys!

I consider myself "hip" to the lingo the kids use nowadays, but "JBF Hair" is new to me, and Dr. J! I will be checking with my 20 year old brother, "Mr. Bill," to see if this term is making the rounds on college campuses.

How psyched am I to have LEARNED SOMETHING OF VALUE last night?!

Of course, we immediately thought of Jesse, and what tales of JBF Hair he may have to tell -- now and in the future!!!

Can't wait to hear Jesse work this phrase into his latest tale of debauchery!!!

Alum Rock vs. Cory Heights

(I can't go to sleep without commenting on this one . . . every time I move I get a physical reminder).

So now that summer is here, I am anxious to resume my favorite warm weather hobby of hiking. I always was a fan of walking outdoors (surprising, consider my awful childhood allergies). But I kinda fell into hiking when we lived in Kal-ee-forn-yah. It was partly because of the amazing scenery that is so prevalent in the Bay Area, partly because it was a way to "sneak" in some exercise, and partly because it's a free and fun thing to do.

The best hikes were probably those in Yosemite (gosh, we have thee funniest photos from that outing), and Big Basin (redwoods, need I say more?). We frequented Rancho San Antonio quite a bit, as well as Stevens Creek, Almaden Quicksilver, Coyote Creek, and the Los Gatos Creek trails.

But the one that KICKED OUR ASS was Alum Rock. Oi Vey. The M-F'er was soooo steep! Even the horses that passed us on the trail seemed to have a desperate look in their eyes, lol.

So anyhoo, near our house there is this road we sometimes drive as a shortcut to Dr. J's office. It is VERY steep, and at the top of the hill is a very peaceful-looking and beautifully maintained cemetary. (I am strangely comfortable in a cemetary, probably since my grandparents dragged me to tons of them when I was a little girl, pulling up weeds around our ancestors graves, placing flags on the patriotic holidays, and so on).

But back to hiking. I have measured with my car's odometer, and this steep hill is a half-mile, and all incline, baby. Each time we drive it I comment to Dr. J, "gawd, remember when Alum Rock kicked our ass?" and he nods in complete agreement.

So yesterday, still not ready to resume attending church, I decided I was gonna finally tackle the hill.

It was not easy. But I am giving Dr. Dre lots of credit for getting me to the top (shitty video, but GREAT song IF you listen to it in it entirety -- gotta love how he mixed in an old school rhythm). It was so friggin' humid, and I was sweating my ass off, literally. But I always feel like I have accomplished something when I get to a summit. And this time was no exception.

I still think that Alum Rock wins, in a head-to-head battle. But then again, Alum Rock wasn't paved, and I am in much better shape now.

So 24 hours later, I am feeling the effects of the steep climb . . . my glutes are sore! But I am definitely inspired to repeat this suburban climb, and begin planning real hikes for each weekend from now on.

Deep Breath . . . Don't Stop on a Thought for Too Long

With so many things on my mind tonight, it's hard to settle on just one topic to write (vent) about. This is typical for me, whenever I have a long car ride all by my lonesome, and then have to sit through meetings at a conference -- it's like a constant monologue in my head, jumping from one topic to another, never settling on one for long -- but thinking that there is plenty of writing material for each topic that pops into my head.


So rather than try to figure out which possible blog topic would be most worthy or interesting of my time, I think I'll just post the possible titles of what the blog entries would have been. Who knows, maybe someday I will actually want expound upon one of them in the future (eh, so-so). Nonetheless, here they are:

• Blue Sky Moments, I Forget
• Why Exertion is Better than Exercise
• If Money Were Not A Factor
• The List of People I'd Like to Strangle
• The Perfect Two-Week Vacation (which really would take four)
• Regrets, Part I
• Adrian's Boring Hobbies
• Can You Buy a Time Machine on E-Bay?
• Great Bay Area Hikes
• Fear or Pain -- What's Worse?
• If Jesse Had His Own Realty Show . . .
• In Search Of Just ONE Good Night of Sleep
• Noah Speaks (Not)
• The Slowest Clock

Hopefully my brain will clear and my literary mojo will come back soon.

I really could go for Indian food right now (wait, that sounds like another entry). Sigh.

This Time, It Was My Glasses. Unbefuckingly believable.

It's happened again! YET AGAIN. I am an excellent packer, when it comes to trips. I do it fairly quickly, semi-efficiently, and am especially good at rolling my clothes to maximize space. I have enough travel-sized toiletries to mark me as a frequent traveler (though not "road warrior" status). And yet, each time, no matter how careful I am, I seem to ALWAYS forget something.

This time it was my glasses. Of course, I noticed AFTER I had washed my makeup off, and had taken off my contacts, and was fumbling around in my one bag searching for them. Which lead to a frantic call to Dr. J who confirmed they were at home, and gallantly offered to overnight mail them to me. Of course, I declined, citing the ol' "we need the money for other things" excuse.

Sigh. Gawd, I could smack myself sometimes.

Wishing I was at home, curling up on my massive bed, in my glasses right now. Dammit.

You Don't Really Wanna Mess With Me Tonight

(Okay, so it's a song by Pink, who I am currently loathing, but that line is empowering).

I had SUCH a shitty day on Thursday. In addition to getting two more announcements about people being pregnant and having to fake joy for others (please people, STOP telling us), I had to have the post-D&C check-up appointment -- which was emotional for me and Dr. J for a whole host of obvious reasons. Then I had to inquire with the office manager at my doctor's office about what I can only refer to as "the insurance issue" having to do with the Explanation of Benefits (EOB) received in the mail from my insurance company. While it was comforting to learn that the doctor's office was appalled, and assured me that the hospital would NEVER permit such a classification on my EOB, and thus my beef was with the insurance company . . . I know I have a huge phucking fight with UPMC looming on the horizon. One for which I doubt I have the strength, let alone time, and yet I know MUST be done. I have never been one to pursue a path of least resistance, and always stand up for both myself and principles, yet as worn out emotionally, mentally, psychological, and physically as I am . . . I know that I will have to deal with this in a timely matter.

I have long been diagnosed with low blood pressure. Seriously. In fact, after the D & C at the hospital we were about to get in the elevator to leave when I began to black out because it was only 65/43, and I had to be rushed back into the surgical recovery room so anesthesiologist could give me something to "perk me up." It took an hour to get me up to 73/55. So, anyhoo, at the Ob/Gyn office on Thursday & after discussing "the insurance issue," they checked my blood pressure and it was up, WAY up. Gee, I wonder why?

Back to matters at hand.

Look out UPMC, "I am about to go to war." And UPMC, I assure you that you do NOT want to take me on. If I have to get every Pro-Life organization in the USA, the Pittsburgh Catholic Newspaper, and the Vatican (which I have learned has OVERSIGHT on the pending merger of Mercy Hospital into the UPMC system) . . . I will do just that. Because I don't give a shit if it's what the "medical billing code" UPMC went with, I will NOT allow the billing code of "Missed Abortion, Comp Surgical" to be on my insurance history.

I did NOT have an abortion. I would NOT have an abortion. Mercy Hospital does NOT perform abortions. My Ob/Gyn practice will NOT perform abortions.

It was a baby. She stopped growing. She died in my body. I had to have a D & C. Women often have D & C's even when they have NOT been pregnant. Does this mean THEY had an abortion? Hell no! Then why the phuck does it say it on mine?!

It's bad enough dealing with the INCREDIBLY STUPID AND INSENSITIVE BULLSHIT THINGS people have said to myself and Dr. J over the past couple of years. And trust me when I say it continual happens. NOW, we get the "insult to injury" from UPMC! WTF?!

The only thing that wound up saving me on Thursday night was my dear (and aforementioned) "Hamster." We've been good friends since 8th grade, ever since what she and I refer to as "The Gumby and Pokey Incident." But it's amazing how our friendship has deepened over the past few years. Even more amazing . . . she is due with her first baby in July. It hardly makes sense that the friend who it would seem it would be most difficult to talk with about how much pain and struggle I am going through, would actually be the friend who comforts me the most . . . who validates my feelings, who makes me feel not quite-so-insane, who assures me that INDEED, I am not being overly sensitive -- rather I am truly running into assholes and idiots every time I turn around!

I sometimes wonder what the heck she is getting out of useless me, but I think I caught a glimpse of it as we talked late into the night on Thursday, as my Hamster has been unable to sleep normally due to her growing body (she is teeny-tiny, and feels like she has swallowed a beach ball). As she we talked about how nervous sonograms make her (she's had to have more than the usual number, due to some medical issues she has), strategies for her to avoid the breast-feeding nazis, her anxiety about the scheduled Caesarean, how scared she is about the pain afterwards . . . I found myself easily and genuinely comforting her, supporting her, cheering her on, helping her brainstorm and role-play, assuring HER that she is NOT crazy, and that she is entitled to be scared, anxious, apprehensive, and so on.

And I meant every single word.

Here we were, supporting and comforting each other, despite our very different situations. Confessing our deepest fears, our head-shaking frustrations, our most secret pain -- the kind that only comes out late in the night, between two people who can truly connect.

Hamster is a mathematician. And we were talking about how some of the percentiles the doctors tell her at each sonogram make her nervous. I pointed out it's an occupational hazard for her, since she deals in numbers to make her living. Then I gave her, and me, an equation to ponder . . . . She is due in July. . . . We will be adopting a little girl who will be approximately 15-20 months old, when we get her in about 14-18 months from now. So our kids will be . . . about the same age . . . um, playdate, anyone?!

The mommies will be having champagne as we recline in our lawn chairs, we assure you.

Dad, Meet Jesse. . . . Jesse, Meet My Dad!

Okay, so there are 5 of us all dialed into this crazy exchange of dating stories, which are both outrageous and highly entertaining: Me (code name: FireCracker), Adrian (ManHands), Kirsten (Chrissie/2.0), Dr. J (Doc), and Jesse (um, just Jesse?!).

Mainly, we live vicariously through Jesse's INSANE, often downright heinous, yet highly successful stories of bedding chicks. Usually these stories involve a mix of the serious consumption of booze, twisted logic, and a high degree of mental karate.

Dr. J and I believe Jesse has GOT to be my father's long lost son -- his antics just remind me of my Dad, back in his heyday. Only Jesse is even more brazen.

So my Dad came over this weekend to help Dr. J move a heavy piece of furniture from the basement to the kitchen. Dr. J had cooked a delicious assortment of brunch foods, and we three sat around chatting while chowing down.

We began relating some of the Jesse stories to Dad (a.k.a. "Big Bill"), and how Jesse had expressed his delight in some of my Dad's great lines and attitudes. Big Bill LOVED the stuff about Jesse defiling young Darci at a party with her boyfriend and family present, which caught Big Bill's attention and had him remarking "Whoa! I've never been THAT bold!" He loved it, though.

And THEN, Big Bill gave the following delicious anecdote (a monologue) . . . .

"I remember in my bachelor days, that would be in-between marriages when I was not quite so fat, I was driving that great black Lincoln, remember that car, honey (me)? And I would make sure I'd pull it up real slow in front of this one bar, so that everyone would see it out front, and the women would see me getting out of it. I'd walk in, and spot some woman sitting at the bar, all dolled up, alone. I'd get a drink, then try to strike up a conversation with her. They always would say they were just grabbing a drink after work, and try to make it sound accidental that I would happen upon them there, by themself. Yeah, right! I'd look them straight in the eye and say . . . 'Honey, c'mon, who you kidding? You're sitting here alone, drinking a $4 glass of wine -- who are you kidding? You tell your old man you were going to a tupperware party? Why don't we cut to the chase, and you just tell me what time you have to be home tonight?!' Man, those were the days."

WE WERE LAUGHING SO HARD IT HURT!!!!!!!!!!!

I was so proud -- yep, that's how MY DAD ROLLED!

Reaching for My Bootstraps

I don't really want to "move on," as they say. I mean WTF does that mean, anyway?! I will never get over what has happened, and part of me will always be broken. So I try to go through the motions, to make it through the day, I suppose. Maybe some part of my old routine will help me learn to keep living, and be open to joy again. But I know that I need to do different and new things right now, and am going to seek out those paths and experiences, too.

But first, back to matters of routine.

I sorta did and sorta didn't want to go back to the gym and start putting my wracked body together again. I have missed my hardcore workouts terribly (not to mention feeling proud of the results). But at the same time, resuming these workouts means acknowledging that something has changed inside of me -- confronting it, if you will, and trying to work through some of those feelings.

This was so painfully clear to me when I went to Dr. J's office yesterday, to have him adjust me. While he had me hooked up to the stim machine, I asked him to rub my shoulders (where I always carry my tension), and my legs too. He obliged, and a few minutes into it, I found myself crying . . . the realization that my body was in desperate need of receiving positive touch, and the endorphins that make you feel positive accordingly . . . I have been so thoroughly poked and prodded for the past couple of years, and then add the excruciating physical pain of recent, and it hit me that I need to get back to doing things that feel good.

Anyhoo, this brings me to the gym. I tried to go yesterday, but my heart wasn't in it, and my body felt sore (yes, "down there"). So I flaked out on going. But today I knew I just needed to go again -- to sweat, to exert, to push, to lose myself through a combination of some frenetic workout and pulsating music in my ears.

So I did.

And I was so glad I did. It felt wonderful. I was surprised that I still had the endurance to have a quality cardio workout. I was pleased that my muscle tone hadn't completely left me, as I was able to resume weightlifting (albeit at a lower level since I am still semi-medically restricted). It felt so good to have this part of myself back, something I remembered enjoying before.

Now while I have little doubt that will I be complaining of aches and pains tomorrow, it was good to be able to have the release today. And I was proud of myself for taking this step, at least in my mind, to put myself back together, even if just a tiny bit.

Lost

This is the hardest thing I have ever had to write. I know that I don't have to write about it, but to not do so feels like I am not honoring what has happened. So here goes . . . .

I will remember how resigned we were. Then I remember how surprised we were less than24 hours later.

I will remember how we cried, and thanked God, and asked him to watch over us.

I will remember how excited Lori was, and how Jay took the credit. And how we credited Dozen cupcakes as being the secret ingredient.

I will remember how nervous we were about waiting for the numbers. And how euphoric we were at how good, how high, how positive they were, both times.

I will remember Sandi being speechless when I told her, how she cried tears of happpiness for us.

I will remember plotting to tell my Mom, and how she hugged me so tightly when when finally did.

I will remember feeling that maybe, just maybe, our luck had changed, and that this would finally be our year.

I remember thinking that Christmas would be so much more special, and not hurt this year, like it did last year.

I remember Kirsten's constant reassurance, and laughing about how "everything will be punctuated by a nervous swipe." I remember thinking it I was insane, but being glad I could share the experience with her, 3000 miles away.

I remember how good it felt to have the anger, the frustration, and the sadness finally begin to fade away, and maybe this time for good.

I remember realizing that it only takes one.

I remember the excitement and joy on the face of the guy I thought I'd wind up marrying, when I told him the news. How happy he was for me, and how happy I was for him, and how much I liked meeting his wife. And how happy I was to be married to my husband instead.

Then I remember trying to quell my fears about the ultrasound. And I remember trying to shrug off those nerves, and trying to draw upon my long-advocated advice of "just fake confidence" when I climbed up on that table.

Then I only sorta remember getting the bad news that she was too tiny. And I barely remember my husband helping me to the car, whimpering "this can't be happening again" along the way. But I remember waiting, the whole car ride home, to wake up from this nightmare.

And I remember our doctor trying to be supportive, but getting us prepared mentally, at the same time. And my husband taking these phone calls because I just couldn't.

And I remember trying to be positive, through the fear. And going to work the next day, in order to keep myself busy.

And I remember how scared I was, when the cramping started. And how I knew. I knew. I knew. I didn't want to know. But I knew.

I remember the doctor's office immediately springing into action, taking me seriously, putting a doctor on right away, helping me to come up with a plan, should the worst happen.

And I sorta remember driving to the office to do more bloodwork, and telling myself I had to keep the tears out of my eyes, so I didn't crash and kill us both, just in case there still was a chance.

I remember us going home, and how the cramping got worse. And how when we looked at each other, I saw the tears in my husband's eyes.

And I remember him kissing my tummy, as we tried to say goodbye to her, but knowing it might be the last moment we were a family, together. And I know I will always rememebr it as the most beautiful, and most tragic, moment of my life. Ever.

I remember the three of us laying in bed, holding on to each other, caressing her through my body, whispering to her, and to each other, as the sun went down.

I remember all of the endless praying, reminiscent of last time this happened, in which I made all sorts of deals with God, if he would just spare her, if he would just come through for us, for her. I remember our wonderful priest telling me it wasn't my fault, that I didn't cause it through any action or inaction, and that sometimes God steps in when they are too sick or too tiny to make it on their own.

I remember the test results the following morning, confirming the worst. I don't remember all that much from that day, just that the physical pain got worse, wracking my body. I know that I took one of my husband's leftover percocets to get through the night. I remember wanting the pain to subside, but yet knowing that when it would be over, she would be gone from me, forever.

I remember my father, never prone to emotion, jumping up to embrace me when I walked into the room, and holding me as these awful sobs escaped from my mouth. And how he stroked me head.

I remember that the people at the hospital were so kind, so sympathetic, so supportive. The OB's from our practice, the nurses, the anesthesiologist, all were so amazing. How we were glad to hear that they would be able to do some tests on her, and maybe, just maybe, give us some answers as the the painful "Why, again?" that hangs out there. I remember how the process seemed almost cathartic, and brought me some peace.

I remember thinking that I can't go on, and that I don't want to. I remember telling my husband this, and how it scares him to hear those words from me, but knowing I would have to go on, for him. Just as he needs to go on, for me.

I remember being shocked, even distrubed, by the sounds the I make when I start to sob, and thinking that they must be unique to grief so deep.

I remember being cognizant, repeatedly, just how strong my husband is, and how that would surprise most people. And how I hate that he is my soft landing from the highest of falls, but am constantly aware of how much I need him to be that for me. He helps me to remember that she is not in pain, that she is with God, and that she is happy.

I remember it all. I am not trying to forget. I couldn't. I won't. It's just so gutwrenchingly hard to remember it all at once. And I just wish it wouldn't hurt, forever.

Ode to Me

So Adrian wrote me an "Ode" the other night. Kirsten accused her of being drunk and bored. Adrian claims she was sober and laying in bed with her blackberry (guess SilentNoah was out protecting people who don't deserve or appreciate him).

Anyhoo, here is Adrian's "Ode to _ _ _ " [note: Adrian is one of 2 people allowed to call me by the shortened form of my name . . . the other one being the Hamster].

Without further ado:

" _ _ _ XXXXXXX (insert my name -- leaving it out for privacy reasons)
She's not foolin
Major politicians
They be wishin'
What she's dishen
(Toss red hair)
She's got flair. "


Kirsten, is Adrian just a frustrated cowgirl poet? I guess so long as she doesn't go all Brokeback on us, we can tolerate her new hobby. It sure beats her collection of quarters, or taking blurry photos of birds through rainy windows.

Of course, her true skill remains building bars, and copping to her "vonage" moments.

Time For Presents!

Okay, so the past week or so has been a ROUGH one for me, for several reasons, and my girlfriends know it. And I wish with all of my heart I could shower them back with affection -- cause there aren't enough words or money for me to properly express my gratefulness for all that they have done to prop me up.

SO INSTEAD . . . I have decided to use this blog entry to send them virtual gifts, as a sign of my endless love.

Girls, here you go:

* ADRIAN -- a.k.a. ManHands -- For being the quirky, strange, yet glamorous, beautiful, cowgirl, I salute you with (quote inserted as to what I thought you would utter when opening the gift):

• "Oooh, ooh, Chrissie, I think I just saw another bird!"
• "Angels, I told him it was you two sluts who convinced me in the first place!"

* KIRSTEN -- a.k.a Chrissie, a.k.a. 2.0 -- For cheering me up, and cheering me on, and yet still being the materialistic b*tch I adore, you are receiving:

• "When I heard the fire alarm, I grabbed one of my twins, and LV, and dashed for the stairs. I think my husband grabbed the other twin."
• "I am 2.0, and have fans all over the world to satisfy. Now leave Mommy alone and go hassle Aunt Adrian - but watch out she doesn't crush you in the palm of her ManHand, and don't knock over Aunt Adrian's martini, whatever you do!"

* LORI -- a.k.a Coach -- For continually being the greatest treasure I have ever found, my closest friend, and the one woman I completely trust with all of my shit:

• "Oooh, Red Velvet . . . the South rises again!"
• "Sure, I'll help you shop -- and you deserve it!"
• "So long as we wind up in San Diego!"

* LISA -- a.k.a. Hamster -- For being supportive about me needing to cut ties with the past, and move on with life, and being an amazingly sensitive friend, who never fails to elicit a giggle out of me:

• "I know it's odd, but I just have this really strong urge to go there!"
• "Wait, ClooMan, what does YOURS say?!"
• "Let's Get This Slumber Party Started!"
• "ClooNNan, would you see to it that JOY gets one of these? Bob, too!"
• "Oh I'm UP for another round of surveillance! Now do we wanna get pizza or tacos to drop off? And remember, no meat on Mitul's delivery!"

* SANDI -- a.k.a. Pooper-Scooper, a.k.a. Inch High Private Eye -- For having the best ear and most comforting shoulder, for being witness to the wacky people who raised us, and always reassuring me that I am not crazy after all:

• "Just so long as your Dad or my Mom aren't driving us there!"
• "Wait, when are you going next? Can you hold Maya while I try on something?!"
• "I'm just gonna lie and say I had a kid not long ago and forgot to wear 'em."

Luckily for all of you, I will NOT hold you to writing me a thank-you note (though you all know you are dealing with "Queen of The Notes")! Just send me a lil' virutal token in return!

MWAH!!!!!!!!

Work Hard . . . Play Harder

Exercise, for many years now, has been of great importance to me. Sure, sometimes my commitment is stronger some months than others, but it never completely wanes. Probably because I don't let it. I know how important it is to my health and my self-esteem, and how it carries over to all other aspects of my life, both personal and professional. And since I am not one for excuses, I know the buck stops here, and I take responsibility for my body.

There are few things better than the sense of accomplishment after a good workout at the gym. Except maybe for the rush your body feels just at the end, which lingers on afterwards, making you feel calm, satisfied, relaxed, proud, and so on.

I love the feeling of when I am really pushing my body hard, at what I think has got to be it's limit, breathing hard, sweaty as all get out, and certain I am gonna pass out from exhaustion at any moment . . . when suddenly, that little extra burst of endurance or strength kicks in, and I find myself going further than I thought possible. And the feeling after such a workout? Amazing. It's somewhere between a craving or intoxication, and it keeps me coming back for more.

Sure, not every workout achieves such maximum levels of fitness, and sometimes you either feel like going slow or you need to. But on Friday, having the day off from work, I was inspired to really kick it up a few notches. So I did.

Of course, the saying goes "No Pain, No Gain" . . . and I can't deny my body had a few aches on Saturday when I woke up. But I think that just goes to prove that the workout was in earnest.

I can be soft and make excuses when I am old. For now, I am more interested in being the best I can be.

Random Thoughts From A Scheduled Weekend

During a very "busy" weekend, my mind managed to wander significantly. All sorts of unconnected thoughts ran through my head, especially when I was taking one of much-needed long walks, with my Ipod turned up as loud as it would go. So much has occurred since Friday, and at times it kind of ran together . . . so what better way to honor these events and thoughts by recording them?

• I told Kirsten I feared I was developing a callus, and she in turn me her charming yogurt story. What a riot! The moral of the story? Air it out.
• Lori's boyfriend Jay was in the same fraternity as Dr. J . . . oi vey, was the bonding in earnest when they discovered that about each other?! Oh yeah, "Men of Excellence - since 1852."
• I would forgo sex for a plate of Pamela's home fries. Unless the sex was with Pippy.
• Thank gawd Dozen is as many miles away as it is. Or I'd lose all self-control.
• I want to go see Nicole, Adrian, and Kirsten almost as badly as I want a reason to not be able to go see them.
• Theme Songs are important, and telling.
• WHCG is really coming together!
• Despite an Ipod full of choices, there are probably only 5 songs I truly rely on to kick my ass into high gear at the gym. And 1 song I need to avoid, because it still makes me cry.
• I am desperate need of a sign. Or resolution.
• Dr. J is probably thee best person to people-watch with, because he's downright brutal.
• A used up tube of toothpaste makes for a great comedic device.
• I feel like I've won the lottery when Father Mike is at Mass. And like I'm being punished when it's Father Bernie. And it's obvious the rest of the congregation feels the same.
• Lori enjoyed my theory that "When people stop having sex, they go to Lowe's."
• Dime-sized hail makes a damn funny sound on our fire escape. Oh shit, I hope our future house is okay? And an even BIGGER "oh shit" thought -- if I am thinking something like that, maybe I am turning into a homeowner after all?!?!
• My husband's chicken cacciatore still rocks.

In Vino Veritas

Last night I had a splendid time with my most adorable friend. I don't get to see her as often as I'd like (though that seems to be changing, since her job is now closer to mine, and we can meet in the middle), but we are in such regular contact that when we are together it's like we never skipped a beat.

She is unlike anybody I have ever met . . . and she is in love! I have never seen her so happy in the, gosh, 4+ years I have been blessed to know her. But as blissful and excited as she is, I think I am even MORE thrilled and jubilant than she -- not because she found someone . . . but because some guy was lucky enough to capture her heart.

That's right, HE is truly one lucky man, to have the love of such a special person. I can't wait to meet him this weekend, too.

She is my treasure, a light in my life that never dims, no matter what I am going through.

And I love her to the moon and back again.