With so much to be thankful for...

we cannot forget that we have so much farther to go to improve ourselves, our society and our country. And you know what, Internet? I am finally starting to feel strong enough to fight again. That whole John Kerry mess threw me for a big long squirrley bender, but thank goodness that's over. At least, I think its over. Or nearing its end, which is still worth celebrating.

One of my New Year's Resolutions is to volunteer. Regularly. As in once a week. So I'm looking at causes and organizations that might need a volunteer, and who knows, the org I choose might be one that works towards empowering women and children, or it may be one that fights for civil rights and equality. Or... it may be one that does both. Because really, is there a difference? I don't think so. I haven't decided yet what org I'll go with, but I have to say that I'm excited about it. For the first time in years, I'm excited about volunteering again. It feels good to feel a little idealistic and optimistic. I've missed that.

I found this on a message board for SMCs. Passionate, eloquent, intense. If you disagree with me on equality, then please, feel free to comment. But also, please listen to the video, preferably with an open mind.

So. It's Friday. Again.

That about sums up how I feel. It's Friday. BFD. Internet, do you ever feel that your life has become one long, neverending, pathetic slog? Like on Monday it's a 5-day countdown, only when Friday rolls around you think, "What's the difference?"

Well then, you must be undergoing fertility treatments! HA!

This two week wait, though, isn't going to be so bad as the last one, though. In fact, it has already started out better than last month. Last month, my work load was manageable and I had no vacation days coming up. This month I have been in Tennessee since Wednesday, ate way too much turkey yesterday, will be home on Saturday, and on Sunday I'm getting my hair done and my eyebrows threaded. Because right now my eyebrows cause strangers to back away in horror. And I might throw in a little hand henna while I'm at it. $15 was never spent so well as on mehndi.

December 8. I just have to make it to December 8. And you know what? I think I can!

Coolness, indeed

Some people freak out when I tell them my mommyhood plans, especially those who are very religious and/or conservative. So I guess you'd think I wouldn't bring it up around my very Mormon 80 year-old aunt from Indiana (currently living in Tennessee), right? Wrong.

We have talked about it a lot, and in fact we just spent close to an hour over-analyzing his online profile. She agrees: Balding, but no psycho vibes.

How could I not love this woman? Especially when she feeds me turkey?

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving Internet!

YAY for turkey and mashed potatoes and green bean casserole (the only edible casserole that I know of) and cranberries and pumpkin pie and reruns of black and white movies! I love Thanksgiving.

And in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I give you a few things I'm thankful for:

1. My readership. All 12 of you. You guys ROCK!

2. AJ. Ok, yes, I know that AJ was produced by someone, and since I don't know his name (but I do know he likes poker!), I'll just refer to him as Sperm Boy. Sperm Boy, I'm so very grateful to you, that you were willing and able to, um, well... you know. Thanks!

3. Booze. Hopefully it will be a while before I drink any, but if not, well, let's just say that the silver lining of fertility failure is flavored with vodka. And lots of it. YAY!

4. Really good yarn. In purple. And pink. And sometimes blue, but only if it is variegated and has some green in it.

5. My job. I may not always like it, but man, when I think about the alternative...

And the biggest one:

My Aunt Dee. She's 80 years old, a hoot, and has selflessly made this a fantastic Thanksgiving. Being with Dee is always something I treasure. I feel warm and cozy and loved and cared for - doted on, even - and totally and completely accepted. Dee loves me and all my faults and foibles, and I can't even put into words how much that means to me. How safe that feels. I just hope that I can make her Thanksgiving as great as she is making mine.

On the road again

While you are reading this, I'll be either en route or in Tennessee. Also known as Christendom: The land of bad dental hygiene, rocking chairs, cheese and pimento sammiches (YUM), and my favorite Aunt Dee. I'll be spending the next four days sleeping in a king size bed, eating home cooked meals, having my laundry done for me, and not even considering the possibility of the existence of snow. Or work.

Ahhhhh.....

See you on Sunday, Civilization! By then I'll be begging for a break from twangs, but for now, I'm glad to be hopping a plane.

Today's wierdnesses

Have you ever noticed that strange things happen in threes? So far I've experienced two. When the third pops up (and I just know it will), I'll be sure to share. Here are mine for the day:

- A college-aged woman with a point-and-shoot asked me if she could take a picture of my shoes.

- The Wellness Committee at work just sent an email with the subject line "Happy Thanksgiving." It was an article on what to do if you have a heart attack.

- ???

And by the way, I told Camera Girl no. I like my shoes; I think they are professional yet sexy. However, I have no idea about the shoe preference of the average teeny bopper, so I thought it best to avoid becoming YouTube fodder. I mean, what if the angle of the photo gave me kankles? I don't have kankles. I'd die a thousand deaths if someone posted a picture of me online and it looked like I had kankles.

All about Paul, The Sperm Guy

This morning, I arrived at the fertility clinic at 7:30 for an 8:00AM appointment, which meant that I was sitting in the Vortex until 930AM. Naturally. I've heard it said that catastrophes - such as war, famine and natural disasters - are all about hurrying up and waiting. Apparently, this is also true of fertility treatments. You rush to make sure you get to the appointment in time, even deciding that hairbrushing can wait until you are on the El, only to find that Paul, The Sperm Guy is running late because he had a flat tire.

Paul, The Sperm Guy is a tall, lanky, unassuming man. His hair is brown and wispy, he speaks in a soft voice, and he does all sorts of fun stuff with my sperm. (Wierd to think that me with all my X chromosomes has sperm. In storage, even.) He washes it, and warms it up by soaking it in water and then he rolls it around in his hands to wake up the little swimmers and get them ready for their big day. Last time, I even gave him permission to seranade the little fellows (but I don't think he did). Me, I wouldn't object if he broke into an inspiring little ditty. Anyway, I'm digressing. Paul, The Sperm Guy works with sperm. That's why he's called Paul, The Sperm Guy.

[I often wonder how he got that job. Did he have to get specialized training? As a child, did he sit on the roof of his house and stare at the stars, hoping and dreaming that one day, ONE DAY, he was going to thaw sperm for a living? When did he discover that determining motility and swimmer count was his life's calling? Stay tuned: Paul, The Sperm Guy may just be my first interview.]

And just so you know: I didn't come up with that name for him. I'm not that clever. When I went to the fertility clinic for my first IUI, I waited and waited and waited. That is when I learned that Paul, The Sperm Guy has punctuality issues. I asked - ever so nicely, because I know it is vitally important to suck up to the nurses, as they could make my life hell - what the hold up was, and the nurse/receptionist informed me that Paul, The Sperm Guy had arrived late but that never fear, he was now working with my sperm. She said his name just like that: Paul, The Sperm Guy. Not PaulTheSpermGuy or Paul The Sperm Guy. It was Paul, The Sperm Guy. I said, "Oh. OK."

Later, when the nurse came to do the IUI, she laughed and said she almost forgot to get my sperm from Paul, The Sperm Guy. Just like that. She didn't say Paul. And she didn't say The Sperm Guy. No. It was Paul, The Sperm Guy. With a little pause between Paul and The. I realized then that this was his name, regardless of what his mama wrote on his birth certificate.

So the name stuck with me, too, and this morning, after I'd hurried up and while I was waiting waiting waiting, I asked the nurse/receptionist if Paul, The Sperm Guy was here yet. And she told me about his tire and didn't seem even a little surprised that I, too, was calling him Paul, The Sperm Guy. Interesting how quickly strange becomes normal, you know?

And I wonder: Does Paul, The Sperm Guy know about his title? Is he OK with it? Yes, now that I think about it, an interview is most definitely in order.

Oh, and Internet? Just like that, I'm back to being possibly maybe could be you never know I very well might be pregnant, please? At least for another two weeks. Ugh.

The best food

Hey Internet, do you know what the best chicken pot pie is? It's the one that is made, by scratch, by a friend. That is eaten with good wine, while the most adorable dog in the world tears apart her toys. And is followed by a victorious - throttling, even - game of Scrabble.

I love Sundays.

Done cheating for the month

One nice thing about Blogger is that it allows you to lie. You can back-date a post and then it will look like you posted every day of the month, for the NaBloPoMo. But alas, I will be honest: I didn't post yesterday. I was having problems with my bones and wasn't around a computer all day. Sorry!

And I promise to be a better blogger for the rest of the month.

I want my coffee

About three or four times a month, I drag myself out of bed before the crack of dawn and smell the CTA all the way to the south side. Then I sit in a waiting room filled with anxious women, some of whom are obviously considering cutting as a stress reliever. In the wee morning hours of the morning, a fertility clinic waiting room becomes a sucking vortex of misery. Why? Because there are two kinds of women who are waiting:

Women like me, who are getting ultrasounds. We really don't contribute to the negative vibes, other than to resent a clinic that doesn't provide complimentary coffee.

Women who are waiting for their Retrieval Appointment.

Do you know what that means, Retrieval Appointment? It sounds inviting, doesn't it, like there is a prize or something? BAH! It means that women like me are waiting for a date with the Dildo Cam, while the other women, the women biting their nails and staring straight ahead of them, are waiting TO HAVE A NEEDLE STUCK INTO THE BACK WALL OF THEIR VAGINA SO THAT IT CAN SUCK THE EGGS OUT OF THE AREA AROUND THEIR OVARIES. Yes, I know, that can't be spoken or written or even thought about in anything but all caps.

I try to be encouraging. Ok, I used to try to be encouraging. I would smile. I would give sympathetic little head nods. I'd even make eye contact. Before. Not now, mind you, but before. Before I met this woman.

I forget her name, but my goodness, she really made me aware of the differences between married and single women. Sitting next to her bored-looking husband, Blondie looked sad, so I asked her if she was ok. She responded that, dear heavens, everyone should pity her because her husband just didn't understand what she was going through, how hard this whole IVF thing was. She just had no support whatsoever, well, other than the fact that he got his ass out of bed and got to the clinic by 7AM to sit next to her and hold her hand WHILE A NEEDLE WAS INJECTED INTO HER VAGINA. But jeebz, isn't it obvious that, ok, he's reliable, but not emotionally available?

Internet, I know it was wrong, I know it was mean and unsympathetic and even a little cruel, and my only defense is that I hadn't drinken (drunk?) my morning coffee. I didn't slap her, although I can't say the thought didn't cross my mind. Instead, I said to her, "Well, of course he doesn't understand, he doesn't have a vagina, does he? Maybe instead of having an orgasm, they could remove his sperm with a needle. They do that here for guys who have had vysectomies? You know, to show solidarity? So then he'd understand a little better."

I know it was wrong, but I just couldn't help myself. If I have to do IVF, I do it alone. And I don't feel sorry for myself; this is the choice I've made. I just don't want to listen to some whiney suburbanite who doesn't realize how good she's got it and thinks that her pain is soooo much worse and more important than every other woman in that waiting room waiting for Retrieval Appointments. And since that poor woman fell off her chair and fainted at my rudeness, I've also made the choice to always bring my crocheting with me to the clinic. And I give off "talk to me and die" vibes. Because really, that's my way of being kind, of protecting people. That floor is marble and I don't want anyone else to get a concussion.

Sometimes I'm allowed to avoid the vortex altogether and wait in the "sample" room - the room where the men go with magazines and shut the door. Only when I go in there noone else is "occupying" it, and I don't sit down. Because I would rather not sit down on upholstered chairs in the "sample" room.

So many euphemisms.

Behold: The Dildo Cam

This is the Dildo Cam, the most action I've had in a loooong looooong time:



It's called the Dildo Cam for a reason, and while I'm not above saying it gets rammed up mah VJJ, I prefer to think that this little doodah knows me. Biblically. And no, unfortunately it doesn't vibrate.

And the ultrasound tech is this 50-ish year-old woman who likes to ask me about Indian food. I'm actually compiling a list of all the bizarre and slightly inappropriate comments she's made to me and once I have 5 or 6 really good zingers, I promise to post them to this blog. (Right now I have about 10 comments, but they aren't all quite up to snuff; maybe 3 can be called zingers and 2 more can be called quasi-zingers.)

And you know what? I'm going to steal me some of that ultrasound goo. Because I bought a doppler on eBay, and apparently I needed ultrasound goo to make it work. (Who knew?)

Eat my rose

I'm not a secretive person (but you may have already figured that out). I am all about sharing (perhaps a bit too much so), and since I'm trying to get into the holiday spirit of giving, I thought I'd offer up my baklava recipe.

It is a pretty good recipe, and I hope you like it. Don't be alarmed that there are no amounts - I eyeball everything, including the spices (I'm a fan of spicy). I figure that baklava is pretty time-intensive, and I'm making it to be nice, so if people think I added too much nutmeg... well, they can just suck it. And did you know that nutmeg can cause hallucinations? You have to eat alot, though.

Things you will need

Clean, damp rags
2 trays half the size of the filo sheets
Brush (don't use a silicon one - it puts too much butter on the filo)
A knife

For the baklava

Melted butter - lots and lots and lots, and then some more
Filo sheets
Chopped nuts (I use walnuts and/or almonds)
Dried fruit (I like apricots the best)
Sugar
Cinnamon
Cardamom
Nutmeg
Cloves

For the sauce

Water
Honey (I prefer organic, raw, unheated wildflower honey)
Sugar (I hardly ever add any, but I have found that the sweeter the baklava, the more people like it. I'm serious - it could taste like sweetened mud and people would be lining up for thirds.)
Lemon or orange slices with the peel on (make sure they are organic)
Optional: Apricot perserves
Black cardamom pods
Cloves
Cinnamon sticks
Freshly grated nutmeg
Freshly grated black pepper (if you'd like to give it a kick - I don't always add this)
Rose water or Orange blossom water

1. Preheat the oven per the directions on the package of filo dough. Usually it says 350 degrees. Butter one tray. Unroll the filo dough and cover it with the damp cloths. Always keep it covered, because the more it dries out, the more you'll be saying things like, "FUCKING FILO!" And that would be a shame, because don't you want to be a domestic goddess? In order to be elevated to that status, you have to know how to bake filo dough withouth cursing at it. Effortless. You are going for effortless here.

2. Add one sheet of filo. Butter the up-side of the dough and then fold the dough in half and continue buttering. This is why you should buy trays half as big as the dough - so that you don't have to lift the dough so much, and therefore have fewer chances of screwing up. Repeat with more sheets of filo, until you have a layer of 8-10 half-sheets (or until it looks thick enough). It's important to butter with abandon, but don't overdo it and throw your back out. If you butter too little, then the dough won't get all brown and crunchy and flaky. It will just dry out. If you butter too much, your entire family will have clogged arteries and it will be ALL YOUR FAULT. That would suck. Once I have the whole layer done, I like to cut any edges that aren't perfectly aligned.

3. In a food processor: Chop the nuts to almost something resembling a powder. Add the sugar (if you want it) and spices. Stir around, then sprinkle on the filo dough. If the powder looks too dry, you can always add butter to it. Apricot preserves also works will, but only in small amounts. And the chunks can get a little gross, at least I think so. I'm just saying.

4. Do the filo-layering thing again, until you have about 6-10 layers of half-sheets. You want this layer to be thinner than the first.

At this point, you can call it quits if you only want two layers of filo. Me, I like three, and I can be a bit of an overachiever at times, so I sprinkle more of the nut mix, then add one more layer of 6-10 filo sheets.

5. Cut diamonds through all but the bottom layer. You'll cut the bottom layer after it bakes. If you forget this step, then when you try to cut it later, it will look like you dropped the baklava and that would violate the Effortless rule. So don't forget to cut it before you bake it.

6. Bake.

7. Make the sauce: Add everything but the rose or orange blossom water and simmer. Taste it carefully - those lemons will really make it sour. You might have to remove those before the sauce is ready. And again: ONLY USE ORGANIC LEMONS OR ORANGES. I say this not because I own stock in Whole Foods, but because you know all those pesticides? They don't always wash off and that is just nasty, serving people pesticide-flavored desserts. And there are a lot of reasons why you want the peel to boil in the sauce. Like, it tastes better and there are some vitamins and antioxidants that make their way into your tasty treat. /soapbox

Once it is syrupy and sticky and smelling like angels have invaded your personal space, add the rose or orange blossom water and lower the heat to a "keep it warm" level. You want the syrup hot but not simmering. Oh, and I hope you read this thing through before you make it, because I forgot to mention that you want a lot of sauce, like way more than you could imagine. For a tray for a 9X14 filo sheet, I usually make around 4 cups worth of sauce. The sauce is really what makes or breaks the yum factor, so keep that in mind when you are evaluating the sugar level.

8. When the baklava is done, take it out of the oven and pour about 2/3 of the sauce over it. Refrigerate the tray and remaining sauce overnight. In the morning: Cut the baklava all the way to the bottom, then place the tray in the second (empty) tray. I do this because I usually use aluminum pans (because I'm a fan of strip mining in developing countries) and tend to cut through the first pan. This causes a mess. A very big mess.

Pour the rest of the sauce on your tasty treat. Serve to your friends and bask in the glory of your impressive dessert, you Goddess.

I don't get it

Every year, my firm has a Thanksgiving luncheon. The gist is that the firm buys the turkey and a few other items, and we all potluck the rest. This is a Happy Day at the firm, and, I'm pretty sure it is also the day when noone ever catches the flu. Or works from home.

My first Thanksgiving luncheon happened to fall during my Filo Phase. A few years ago, I was absolutely hell bent on learning how to bake with filo dough. I made filo-wrapped salmon (and I pronounce the "L"), chocolate and fruit filled filo cups, filo effigies of rock stars, filo floor tiles and, in what came to be my signature Thanksgiving treat, baklava.

Now, I have no clue why people dig my baklava. I really don't. To me, it is just baklava. Yummy, but definitely not worth a brief forray into insanity. Alas, that is what happened last year: I'd forgotten my tasties at home, so I brought them to Leftover Friday. When the email went around stating the baklava had arrived, people actually ran to the kitchen to nab some flaky deliciousness. I heard people cursing at eachother when it was gone. Cursing. Angrily. As though someone had stolen their last piece of chewing gum. Over baklava.

So this year I made sure not to forget. And honestly, forgetting would have required a full frontal lobotomy, as at least 10 people inquired. Seriously.

And since I'm in the holiday spirit, I will share my recipe with my readers. Tomorrow. Because I forgot it at home.

Time I grubbed me some money

Websites, and especially blogs, irk me when they have more space devoted to ads than actual content. I feel it is degrading, like the universe (or our society) is saying everything you do has to be profitable, and Spaghetti help you if five minutes of your life goes by without an advertisement telling you it is your patriotic duty to spend spend spend your way into credit card bankruptcy. This is why I haven't had ads on my blog: They make me uncomfortable.

That doesn't mean that I'm standing on some kind of moral high ground, though. I'm just as money grubbing as the next person, I just have a job that pays well enough that I don't have to look for additional income. This single girl is and was doing just fine. Only...

I'm not going to be a single girl much longer, you know? I am going to be a single mother. And this scares me, scares me all the way to finding a financial planner who can help me sort out this whole paying for college thing. (Do kids really need to go to college? I mean, is it really necessary, in the sense that water is necessary?)

So I've decided to accept ads for my blog. I've gotten tons of offers, and up until recently I've ignored them. I mean, seriously, penis enlargers? Viagra? Weight Watchers, you have got to be kidding me. But lately I've been getting ad requests from companies making and selling nifty stuff, and who am I to deny my readers' patriotic duty? Especially if it means I'll make a GazillionBillionTrillion dollars. All in one month, and from the comfort of my home.

And when/if I ever get that damn website up and running, and move my blog over to it, that site will have ads, too.

So there you have it. Ads for the Fat Chick site. And if you don't like it, kindly direct your complaints to the nearest brick wall. I'm sure someone can help you.

Because sometimes cheezburgers aren't enough

As you have probably guessed, I'm something of a lolcat addict. Thank my Little Bird for that (and for getting me into this whole blogging thing, too). Personally, I think lolcats are popular because people really don't want to euthanize their pets, so anything that can help one to forget that cats pee on things when they are ticked or annoyed or it's Thursday at 3PM will always draw a crowd. That, my friends, is the power of the public internets.

Found this on YouTube. I especially like how I can totally relate to the cat at 2:21. I mean, the only option in his situation, really, is to give up, admit defeat. And you can see the moment when the cat concedes, when he thinks, "Ahhh well. That didn't work." We should name him McCain.

And definitely make sure you get to 1:52.

Break out the bubbly!

I just got an email from blogged.com, letting me know that their editors rated my blog a 7.6 out of a possible 10.

Who is blogged.com, you ask? I have no clue. Not. A. Clue.

And what is so special about 7.6? Why does this require celebration?

Well, grasshopper, if a rating of 10 is like SuperBlogger of the Year, and a 5 is "yesterday I had a tuna fish sandwich, and then I went to the store to buy sodapop..." then that means I am better than mediocre! YAY! I've always wanted to leave mediocrity in the dust, and, according to the editors of blogged.com, I have, indeed, accomplished this goal.

Really, though, this is just another reason to drink. Because I can. Because I'm not maybe possibly could be pregnant. YAY BOOZE!

Just dodging a bullet

People are curious about this whole single motherhood thing. Single mothers by choice are not very understood; people just can't fathom a woman purposely getting knocked up. Especially when she chose donor sperm, rather than JimBob at the local dive bar. As a group, we aren't even considered a demographic, let alone given our own statistics - we are grouped together with divorcees and teenagers. As a relatively new phenomena, society just doesn't get us. I've been asked a little too frequently, "What the HELL are you doing?"

I just shrug, because if I were to answer, it would be, "What the fuck business is it of yours?" That would be hostile, and I don't like being overtly hostile when a less aggressive option is available to me. The truth is, though, that the decision to start a family was not easy, and that I thought long and hard for many years. Am I doing the right thing? I don't know. But I do know that I'm wearing clean panties and my favorite shoes, even though they have holes in them (Chuck Taylors ROCK). And this makes me happy, so at this moment I tell myself: Everything will work out just fine. Not perfect, maybe, and I'm sure there is a lot of spilled milk in my future, but we - my family - will be just fine.

And you know those other days? The ones where I wake up at 3AM, sit bolt upright in bed and go "HOLY CRAP! WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?" When my day starts out like that, I have a remedy.

There is a woman I have known for, oh, about three years. This woman is my That Woman. Roughly a decade older than me, she has many wonderful qualities that I admire and even envy sometimes. However, That Woman is also single and childless and bitter. She makes self-loathing look like a lifestyle choice, one that I could, quite possibly choose. And I consider it, every time my alarm impersonates an air horn at 5AM for a 7AM ultrasound.

When I listen to That Woman tell me how unhappy she is, I feel for her, but I also recognize that she and I are making different choices. And I thank His Holy Carbohydrate for my courage to make a different choice. Yes, I am afraid. I know that I'll be sleep deprived and my jewelry budget will be going towards child care and I'll have babies and kids puking all over me for years to come. (Oh dear lord I hate puke.) And I might never have enough patience or understanding or compassion to be a good mother. I might never have a partner. And what if I get sick?

And when all that scares me, overwhelms me, nearly paralyzes me, I go talk to That Woman. And I decide, all over again, that I wouldn't have it any other way. The fears are OK, the uncertainy is OK, I'm wearing clean panties and The Holy Chucks and everything is going to be just fine. Just fine.

My loot

A while back I posted about my friend's very cool fundraising raffle. Kristy raised over $2,000! YAY KRISTY! Kristy - how much was the final total?

I entered her raffle because I wanted to support her and her walk for AIDS. I viewed my contribution as a donation, the lazy chick's way of supporting a cause. A donation. Not an entry into a raffle, as that would raise my hopes and let's face it: I've won a total of NOTHING my entire life. It's not that my luck is predominantly bad, per se, it is more akin to the luck of your average, run of the trailer park lottery player. Which is to say that I totally, most certainly, did not hold my breath.

And then... I won. First place, too! Can you believe that?! Which meant that I had my pick of all those fabulous prizes. In what can only be called a Shocker, I did not go for the Wollmeise, yarn coveted by so many would-be winners ("would-be winners" is another way of saying "losers"). Instead, I got these:


(Thanks for the pic, Kristy!)

The bag is a Piddleloop bag, which, like the Wollmeise, is a coveted Etsy item. Made by the lovely hands of Jen. I use it to hold my Friday Knit Night project, Kristy's Hellish Kitty Scarf. Oh that Hello Kitty Scarf started out all fine and dandy, oh yeah. But then the directions got all wierd on me. Have I mentioned that I can't count to five or crochet in an oval? In order to make a Hello Kitty scarf, you have to be able to do both. Simultaneously.

The yarn is Lime & Violet Intention yarn. Which is explained here. I'm going to make a couple of pairs of fingerless gloves. I am loving this yarn. It's the first time I've ever crocheted with fingering weight yarn, and the drape and softness is enough to make me lapse into baby talk.

And now for something completely different

This whole NaBloPoMo thing is tough, you know? I'm just not that interesting. Seriously. I'm pretty boring, so I don't always have much to blog about. Especially today. I mean, it isn't even Ugly Betty day. See? This is why His Holy Carbohydrate gave us memes.

L, remember how my mom used to say, "Shannon, you aren't strange. You are different." Only she'd pause before saying different, and when she spoke, it was in a tone that provided ample room for interpretation. Remember how we'd crack up in the backseat of that Chevette?

Which is my way of introducing today's meme, the first ever on this blog: Wednesday's Wierdness. Because I would like to honor my mother. With a meme. I think she'd like it.

The point is that you answer the questions and then go back and comment that you asnwered the questions. That way, future bloggers doing the exact same thing will click on the link to your blog and WAAA LAAA you'll get more readers.

So here's my attempt at honoring my mother through shameless self-promotion, meme-style:

WW #29

1.) When was your last visit to an emergency room? What happened?

October of 2007. I burst an eardrum on a flight from Miami to Chicago, and spent a good half hour cursing like a sailor at the intern trying to shove the Hubbel telescope in my swollen ear. I still curse her name.

2.) Who do you look more like: Mom, dad or another relative?

Postman. Definitely. Got me pappy's squat legs and my ma's jugs. At least Gerry the Genome gave me something to brag about.

3.) What sounds annoy you?

Slurping. And hacking. Can't stand the hacking.

4.) What are three movies could you(or have you) watch(ed) over and over and still love?

Casablanca (I still cry)
Its a Wonderful Life (Yep, I cry some more)
The Goonies (I was a geek... might still be one)

5.) Do you ever wish you were someone else?

Nope, but I do wish I was rich and had my own private military to do my bidding.

6.) What do you think of when you think of Paris?

Hilton, or the one with the Tower? Please be more specific in your questionings. Thanks.

7.) What'​ s the last sport​ing event​ you watch​ed?​

Does the verbal interplay between my former boss (Bing), HR, and Bing's boss count? If not, then a Cubs game.

8.) What do you think about sexual Role Playing?

You betcha.

A list of happities

Um, who replaced my ovaries with bowling balls? And why bowling balls? Why not balloons? Why must it be something so heavy and large and uncomfortable?

But enough of that complaining. Hey, Internet, do you know what? Now that I am most definitely not pregnant, I can do all sorts of things that I couldn't do just a few days ago. It is aMAzing all the things that become luxuries when you think you might maybe just possibly could be pregnant. Here are a few:

1. Coffee. Or, more precisely, a medium iced latte with a shot of hazelnut (and sometimes an extra shot of espresso). I've been trying to limit the flavor shots recently, because of all those chemicals, so even before sperm took up residence in my U, I didn't really imbibe that much hazelnut-like liquid. But still, the point is that I can drink it if I want to and I don't even have to hate myself for it. Yeah, yeah, I know you are thinking: There's always decaf. To which I respond: Decaf can suck it. I mean, what's the point? It's just the caffeine-fiend's version of methadone, and I'm not that addicted to need placebos. Give me the real stuff or give me orange juice.

2. Hootch. Or, more specifically: Gin and Tonics, that really good plum-sake in my fridge, choco-tinis, bloody maries for brunch. Dear lord, bloody maries...

3. Scuba diving. Not that I will be diving anytime soon, but it is enough to know that I could. For the past 2 weeks, I've found myself paging through my dive log longingly. It's going to be a while...

4. Cigarettes. Ok, wipe that horrified look off your mug, and cool it with the gasping. I admit, I had a teensy moment (ok, 4 days) of weakness, but I promise you: My bum is firmly planted on that pushcart to hell, AKA The Wagon. Man oh man, it was so nice to smoke again. Which I'm not doing now. So if you have my phone number, please refrain from calling me and telling me every reason why I am off your Christmas card list. I'm just being honest here: Those cancer sticks were better than the best sex I could imagine. And I've got an overactive imagination.

5. A sammich with luncheon meat on it. And bacon. That's what my lunch is today: Turkey and bacon. On WHITE bread. With homemade mayonnaise, made with raw eggs. HA! Nitrites and miscarriage-inducing bacteria are mighty tasty, OMG.

All about my Sunday

Well, my uterus has, indeed, explained herself. Oh lord, she has sooo explained herself. It wasn't a peanut playing pranks, or even stress or the progesterone that made my monthly into a yearly (ok, I'm being melodramatic - but that extra day did seem like a long time). Oh no. It was my beloved uterus gearing up, mustering forces, and preparing to give me twelve hours of pure hell. Internet, if you heard agonized screaming at about noon yesterday, that was me. Writhing on my bed. As my girly parts tied themselves in knots. Over and over and over again. And over again, just for good measure.

It took 600mg of ibuprofen to function in society. Thank Spaghetti that it was Sunday. On Sunday, people don't really have all that high of expectations, you know? Like, you know you are ambitious when it's 35 degrees on a grey November Sunday and you make it to the neighborhood coffee shop for Mexican hot cocoa (is there anything better?). And bonus points - when you leave the house your socks match. I'm always uber-pleased with myself when my socks match on cold, dreary Sundays. It's that little extra effort that proves I, too, am civilized.

I thought, considering the tangled mess my fallopian tubes had become, that I wouldn't want to face the world on Sunday. I mean, if Friday I was bummed, and Saturday I was all WTF?, and I couldn't/wouldn't drink until Tuesday, then I thought Sunday just had to be created for moping and writhing in menstrual agony.

And on the one hand, going to the pharmacy did really really suck. I felt like such a failure, sitting in that uncomfortable maroon pleather chair, waiting for some white coat to tell me, "Here's your second round of fertility drugs. So in this, your second round, you'll be taking two pills, not one pill like in your first round. Because now in your second round, you'll be taking more because the first round didn't work. Because your ovaries suck ass and your sperm don't seem to know the difference between swimming and laying by the pool with a frooty cocktail."

But that conversation didn't happen. White Coat Guy just told me where to sign and gave me my drugs and seemed pleased that the whole transaction didn't take too much time away from the game. And once I was on an ibuprofen high, feeling almost human, I was actually pretty contented to go thrift storing for baby stuff and do a little cleaning. Which is the long way of saying the rollercoaster has pulled into the station. Until next month.

My evil twin

Whoever is the slave to these two cats has the same taste in feline overlords as me. Hooghley looks exactly like the grey one and Howrah looks exactly like the black one. You know, just in case I hadn't given you a complete mental image of my pussies.


more animals

In the land of raspberry jelly

Well I got the answer to one question: I'm not pregnant.

UPDATE

So I wrote that in a fit of sadness and disappointment. Because it appeared that I'd sprouted a rose garden in my drawers, so to speak, on Friday. I even put it in writing, and got my next round of crazy meds set up with the fertility clinic, and called a friend and emailed my sister. I shared, for Spaghetti's sake.

And then I didn't go to Knit Night and instead squirreled myself away in my little burrow in the sky and felt too sorry for myself to answer the phone or watch TV. I grabbed a book and went to bed, fully expecting the usual red tide to hit with force around 3AM, like usual.

So imagine my surprise this morning when there was nothing. And imagine my continued surprise this afternoon when there continued to be nothing. And imagine my relief that I didn't drink that 55 gallon drum of hootch calling my name last night. I promised myself that I'd wait until Tuesday to get all sloppy with the sake.

Dude, I don't like rollercoasters. I get pukey and headachy, and emotional ones are no different. What the hell is going on down there? Maybe it's the progesterone? Maybe that is causing all kinds of wierdness with my ebb and flow? Maybe it's stress? Or false hope? Or maybe, just maybe, there is a little peanut somewhere in my womanly yelling, "PSYCH!"?

Uterus, you have got some explaining to do. Right. Now. I want answers.

Sometimes I love my job

Today is a beautiful day! Why, you ask? Well, yesterday was the day that my megalomaniacal hag of a supervisor quit. YAY LIFE! And I'd like to take this opportunity to say to the world and that jerkhead who does, in fact, read this blog: Bingster, you can suck it!

Ahhh... Anger released.

As part of her final farewell to me, she felt that I needed further training on our telephone systems. Apparently the Bingmeister mistook my disgusted silence for an inability to operate our firm's telephonic devices. So, my former slavemaster demanded I have a learning session with our tech guy, B, yesterday. This is how it went:

B: So, you can't use the phone?

FC: Phone? I thought that was a teleportation device.

B: No, that is the reciever. You speak into it and JUST LIKE MAGIC someone on the other end can hear you.

FC: You mean like when I was a kid, with the cups on string?

B: Yes, but this involves plugs and wires.

FC: Oh... What about all these square pushy things?

B: Those are buttons. This one here is called MUTE. If you don't want the other person to hear what you are saying, you press MUTE.

FC: Fascinating! What if I don't want to hear what they are saying? Is there a DEAF button?

B: No. But there is a CONF button. Whenever you are confused, press the CONF button.

FC: What if I'm confounded? Can I push it then?

B: I guess so, although that would be bending the rules a little. See this button? It's called SPEAKER. The next time you have a speaking engagement, it will light up.

FC: Will it play pretty music? I like it when there is pretty music.

B: No, that's the HOLD button. The HOLD button plays pretty music, but you don't have to actually hold anything to hear it. And if you press the TEST button after the HOLD button, you can play Name That Tune.

FC: This is so great! I loved that game show.

B: The last feature is - see this? Its the TRANSFER button. Press that and POOF! No more bothersome Bing.

FC: So that's what happened.

Still on an Obama high, but I'm done with happy-shmappy posts. This is what I think.

There's always Canada.

For the past eight years, this has uttered by the resigned and defeated time and time again. I admit, I've even thought it, and I can certainly empathize with a fantastic blogger who has decided it is time to emigrate. That is one of the reasons why Obama's win provides so much hope: I have no intention of fleeing conservative bigots who would deny me my civil liberties, my birthrights. We have a good president taking office in January, so I have nothing to worry about, right?

Wrong.

It would seem that I should fear not the politicians who stump on platforms of division and bigotry, but the American citizens who vote to oppress. Internet, Obama's win is a mixed blessing, because the same people who voted for him also voted for this crap:

Banned same-sex marrige
Arizona
California
Florida

Banned same-sex couples (and I think singles, too) from adopting
Arkansas

Banned afirmative action
Colorado
Nebraska

Back in August, Alaskans - those bastions of the environment - voted down measures to improve their water and protect their wildlife, you betcha.

But, on the other side of the coin, Massachusetts decriminalized mary jane, so at least I could live there and wear my favorite shoes all day. ;-) And South Dakota didn't ban abortions, and Washington now allows terminally ill people to die when they are ready. And its not binding, but here in the 48th ward, we voted against the Lake Landfill.

You may be thinking that this stuff doesn't really affect me. I mean, I'm trying to get knocked up, so I have definitely taken "Get an abortion" off my To Do Before I Die list. Aside from the occasional dalliance, I am mostly heterosexual, so the chances are slim that I'll be adopting with my same sex partner anytime soon. And anyway, I live in Illinois. None of this applies to me, right?

Wrong.

When people vote to oppress, when civil liberties are taken away, when someone is told "Hey there, you don't get the same rights as me because you are the Other," then it does affect me. We are all human - whether our passport is blue or not - and if one group or another is marginalized, I truly believe that the collective is weaker and less than what it could be. When someone is bigoted or hateful to one group, how can I say that I am not next in line to be hurt? How can I relate to those who claim one way, one color, one sexual orientation, one size, one view, one religion, one anything is not only superior but the only acceptable option? And how should I feel when they vote that bigotry into law?

It disturbs me on a very, very deep level. For whatever reason, it seems to be the darker side of human nature to need an enemy. We identify as what we are (Chicagoan) and what we are not (suburban). That is fine and good on its face. But when we make value judgements that are based on hate and fear and ignorance (and Internet, you all know how I feel about those suburbs!), and then use our democracy to discriminate and oppress that which we are not, we are, in effect, limiting the very thing that makes the US wonderful: Our diversity. In creating an internal enemy - whether it be demonizing Wall Street traders or the GLBT community or fat people or Latinos - we are acting on our basest, ugliest need to scapegoat. We are following in the footsteps of Hitler.

That frightens me.

Correction: This is the best day in 8 years

Last night I went to the rally for Obama in Grant Park. I expected it to be amazing and energizing and overall one big hoot. What I didn't expect was to feel so proud.

Internet, there hasn't been a whole heck of a lot to be proud of in the last 8 years. I'm ashamed to say that after Kerry walked away, the betrayal I felt turned to cynicism. That cynicism grew over the past 4 years to the point that it just kinda became a part of my personality, my identity.

But last night, as I stood in a crowd that felt exponentially larger than the 200,000 estimated by the media, and added my voice to the crowd cheering and singing the national anthem and Sweet Home Chicago, I felt a part of something much greater than just a rally. I felt a part of a nation that did the right thing, of a country that, in Obama's words, had the audacity to hope. I was, and continue to be, so proud.

And I am, and always have been, and always will be, proud of my beloved city and fellow Chicagoans. To see so many of us gathered to cheer a Chicagoan - a Chicagoan! - make it to the White House.... Words just can't describe that feeling. And then to have Chicago's Grant Park, which has seen so much political history, be the center of the world's attention.... again, there are just no words. It was both humbling and magnificence incarnate to see the ecstatic crowds framed by the skyline on CNN.

Here in the bluest city in the country, elections are pretty much decided in the primaries. During the primaries, it was the first time in my life when I had a choice between good and good. I liked both Clinton and Obama, and it was a tough choice for me. I voted for Obama for two reasons. First, I met him when he was running for US Senate. I told him that if he remained a progressive candidate, then he'd always have my vote. He gave me a hug! As his voting record attests, Obama has never compromised his principles (and I'm one of these civic-duty-geeks that follows voting records). Second, Obama has always been the darling of the international press, and we so desperately need real diplomacy now. So you can imagine that in Obama's eloquent victory speech, this was my favorite quote:

And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces, to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of the world, our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand.

This really is a historic election, on so many levels. It is one that I will discuss, teary-eyed, with my grandchildren. I am so grateful that I was able to be a part of this moment. So very grateful. And so very, very proud.

The best day in 8 years

Happy Election Day!

In elections past, I've heard it said that not voting was unpatriotic, lazy and apathetic. This year, it seemed unpatriotic, lazy and apathetic to not vote early. But this Fat Chick waited. I wasn't being lazy or apathetic or unpatriotic, and you had better believe that I was excited to vote. My first thought upon waking was, "YAY FOR ELECTION DAY!" and I jumped out of bed and got my shit together and ran across the street. So you see, laziness and apathy had nothing to do with voting on Election Day.

And I could have voted early. I have in prior elections, once when I was an election judge and once when I was scheduled to be out of town. Its actually really convenient - just a hop skip and a jump down Washington.

But you see, Internet, had I voted early then I would have used up my sticker. You know that sticker? The one that says I VOTED? The sticky glue stuff doesn't last very long, and I wanted to wear that sticker at the Obama rally tonight (not that I scored tickets to the rally, but I don't need no stinkin tickets). This is the real reason why I voted today: I wanted that sticker to be perfectly functional tonight. Because I haven't matured much beyond that third grader who will walk barefoot across hot coals for a gold star next to her name, you betcha.

And you can imagine my disappointment when, as I was voting "no" on the Lakefront Landfill referendum (which was actually a "yes" vote because of the way the referendum was written), an election judge began yelling "WE AIN'T GOT NO MO STICKERS." She continued the sticker status chant while I voted on about 17,000 judges.

Once my ballot was safely fed to the ballot-eating monster, I turned towards the door and saw an elderly woman smiling the kind of smile that comes when you get the lucky part of the wishbone. Internet, I felt myself channeling Seinfeld - I actually considered mugging that woman as she wheeled herself out of the polling place. Oh I was on to her, all smug and satisfied with her sticker. All proud that she got the last one, raising it up so that us stickerless losers could see that HA! she won. That sticker. It was supposed to be my sticker. Mine. Just because she happened to get it did not mean that she deserved it. Oh no. In a word, I was pissed.

You will be proud of me, though. I didn't do violence and I didn't even make a snarky comment. I did, however, ask the frazzled election judge (the one with the apalling communication skills) if I could have an I VOTED sticker. Just so that I could see the Are you a dumbass? look on her face. It was almost as good as getting my sticker. My sticker.

A post about nothing

One of the things my therapist says to me (entirely too often) is, "You've got a lot going on." I never know how to respond to that, you know? Because this has always been how my life has been, seventeen balls in the air, and quite frankly I don't really think I have a lot going on. Its the status quo. What would be not a lot going on? I imagine a person with questionable hygenic standards staring at a wall, drooling.

But today has been nice. I have pretty much nothing to say; it has been an uneventful Monday. Here's how my day has gone: I woke up early, drank green tea, went to work (clean and clothed), worked in a fashion somewhat resembling productive, ate a Tootsie Roll that my coworker gave me, and later I'll go meet a friend at a cafe. Boring.

And thank goodness for that. Waiting waiting waiting is killing me! I think that if it weren't for floating and tasty grilled cheddar sammiches, my head really would have exploded by now. Wouldn't that be a mess. But thanks to hippie inventors, I'm feeling happy and content and relaxed. Much better than last week. And excited, because tomorrow we'll elect Obama! YAY!

Mood swing complete

In light of recent stress levels, I chose to start my day at Space Time Tanks. I figured one hour devoid of civilization might improve matters, so I got up early and headed over to Lincoln Park. Somewhere along the way, I got the idea of trying out their light and sound machines. The end result is that if I were any more relaxed I'd be in a coma.

I would blog some more, and I kinda feel like this short of a post is cheating. I can always gaze at my navel, you know? But have you been outside yet? Holy schmoley, it is G O R G E O U S outside. So I'm not going to continue with the decrapping today, no way Jose. And since I finished my post-float grilled cheese (Savor the Flavor takes a humble sammich and makes it a thing of beauty), I'm going to take a walk, and then I'm going to sit at the lake and crochet.

Have a great Sunday, Internet! I am!

In looking through my email

Who is this Nick H., and why does he want me to enlarge my penis?