Jen Has A Pen

Photo Gratitude

2011-06-08T07:41:00.002-04:00

.............................................................................................

I am grateful I'm able to talk about. I'm more grateful that I was able to use my new and improved voice to Skype with my dad in Iraq.

I'm grateful The OBC ('ol ball & chain for you newbies) gets to keep his annual "Playoff Beard" for at least another week. FSU won their Regional this weekend, and will play next weekend in the Super Regionals. George's blood pumps faster during baseball season... which obviously makes his facial hair grow faster too. Honestly, what IS it with guys and facial hair???

I'm grateful that despite her increasingly gray face, my nearly nine year old Millie still runs and plays and smiles like a puppy. I'm also grateful when she snores.

I'm grateful for the smelly cheese and cheap wine that makes me feel fancy, even when I am wearing sweatpants.

I'm grateful for this sweet bunny George spotted in our yard. I slapped on my lens with the quickness and ran outside like I was about to snap a picture of Tupac. I can't say for sure, but I think he wanted to come inside our house and live forever. Not Tupac - the bunny.

Are You My Mother?

2011-06-07T07:44:00.000-04:00

.............................................................................................

This week's memoir prompt from The Red Dress Club is to write about something from childhood you know by heart. I know, "Are You My Mother?" by P.D. Eastman. The word limit is 500. I'm over a bit, but I shaved EVERYWHERE I thought I could. Sticking to a word limit is HARD. I've never paid attention before, and now I know why. :-)

Me, my babies, and my books.

A mother bird sat on her egg.

She unraveled my braids and gently scratched my head, tender from a day of tight, manicured pigtails.

The egg jumped. It jumped and jumped and jumped.

She let me choose my nightgown. Care Bears or Rainbow Bright. I loved them both.

Out came the baby bird.

I brushed my teeth, even though I hated it.

"Where is my mother?" he said. He looked up. He did not see her. He looked down. He did not see her.

I got my final drink of water.

"I will go and look for her," he said. And he went away.

My mother pulled back my gingham comforter that rested underneath the gingham canopy that helped me pretend every night was like camping

He came to a kitten. The kitten just looked and looked. It did not say a thing.

I tucked light pink painted toes into light pink Strawberry Shortcake sheets and snuggled down into my soft bed.

He came to a hen. "Are you my mother?"

My father appeared in the door way to say goodnight.

The kitten was not his mother. The hen was not his mother, so the baby bird went on.

He would always tickle me a bit, then kiss me, leaving my face itchy from his growing 7:30 shadow.

He came to a dog. "Are you my mother?" "No I am not your mother. I am a dog," said the dog.

My father would leave my bedroom and my mother would slide in beside me to read my favorite book.

He came to a cow. "Are you my mother?" "How could I be your mother? I am a cow!"

She would open Are You My Mother, always reading the title first.

Did he have a mother?

I began to lace my hair around my fingers and play with the strands that felt the silkiest.

I did have a mother. I know I did. I have to find her. I will. I will!

My eyes felt heaviest when I played with my hair - when I lulled myself to sleep.

Just then the baby bird saw a big thing. This must be his mother.

My mother's voice showed such concern.

"Mother! Mother! Here I am Mother!" he said to the big thing.

I continued to pull my hair through my fingers.

But the big thing just said "SNORT!"

Her voice was abrupt and matter of fact.

"Oh you are not my mother", said the baby bird. "I have to get out of here!"

She let the suspense build. She was good at that.

But the baby bird could not get away. The snort went up.

I shuffled my feet on the soft, cool sheets.

It went way, way up, and up and up and up went the baby bird.

My mother would pause to let me read some of the words allowed.

"Where am I going?" said the baby bird. "I want to go home. I want my mother!"

I didn't know how to read. But I knew all the words.

Then something happened. The snort put that baby bird right back in the tree.

My mother had read this story to me over a million times.

The baby bird was home.

I would never be tired of it.

Just then the mother bird came back to the tree. "Do you know who I am?" she said to her baby.

I sifted another strand of hair through my fingers.

"Yes, I know who you are," said the baby bird.

I yawned.

"You are not a kitten. You are not a hen. You are not a dog. You are not a cow."

My eyelids grew heavier and heavier.

"You are not a boat, or a plane, or a snort."

My bed was warm and safe and pefect.

"You are a bird."

My mother's voice softened.

"And you are my mother!"

I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

Games

2011-06-05T16:54:00.001-04:00

*** Disclaimer: My blog is still broken. I'm sorry (for me, really) that you can't leave a comment or click on individual posts. I've brought in professionals to fix this problem, so by the end of next week, I'll be good as new! Until then, feel free to stop by my Facebook or Twitter pages to let me know you haven't given up on me. I'm crippled. And throwing a temper tantrum over these technical handicaps. Give a girl a break.
.............................................................................

This week's You Capture Challenge is Games. I've got A LOT of opportunity to shoot at sporting events. Did I sound excited?

Dear Future FSU Fan:

I know you have not yet been born. You have not yet inhaled the humid Tallahassee air. You have not put your toes in the sandy Tallahassee soil. Most likely you have yet to be conceived in our Tallahassee bedroom (thanks a lot Clomid), so it's a long shot to assume you will be able to read this. So, today I'm going to write to the idea of you.

I don't know anything about you. I don't know your gender. I don't care. I don't know what you will look like. I don't care. I don't know your race, your sound, your smell, your preference in vegetables, or your aptitude for sports or school or the arts. I don't care about any of those things. I want you to be who you want to be. I want you to love who you want to love. I want you to study what interests you. I want you to be an extrovert. Or not. I want you to be you.

I'm unconditional. I promise.

You got that, right?

But in the spirit of the idea of you, I'd like to make two, teensy, tiny, baby requests. That's not too much to ask, right? I know I said I want you to be you, but you've got to know the struggle we went through to have you.... I mean, you owe us SOMETHING. Selfish. And honestly, before you go being all defensive, just hear me out. My requests are small. Stop being so dramatic! Jesus. You really are my child.

Okay, request number one: Please, please, PLEASE experiment with food. Be open minded. Try everything at least once. Teach your tongue to appreciate new and unfamiliar foods. Don't just order the chicken strips. I would never marry a chicken strips guy. I judge chicken strips people. Don't make me judge you. I'm not above it.

See? That wasn't so bad!

Request number two: Please, please, PLEASE love baseball. And more specifically, please love Florida State baseball. Your dad needs it. I'm a failure in this department, and your dad is too good to us to have to love it alone. I've spent four seasons watching the children of other season ticket holders grow up. Some of those kids (myself included) go to the games for the Dippin' Dots and the frozen lemonade. Some of those kids go for the actual game. As long as you go to the games with him, I'm satisfied, but it would be extra special if you went because you loved it - just like him.

That's it. Those are my requests. I hope you are listening. If you are like your father, you heard every word I just said. If you are like me, you were thinking about The Real Housewives.

Please be like your dad.

I already love you,

The Woman Who Will Change Most Of Your Diapers

Music To His Ears

2011-06-04T20:08:00.001-04:00

......................................................................

I'm not sure if you've heard.

I'm vocal again.

They didn't sever anything. (What? It could have happened.)

I'm back with a vengeance. Ready to take on any subject, song, or debate.

I can TALK!!!!

I have two weeks worth of things to say.

It doesn't sound like the old me. But it sounds a TON better than the dude voice.

George is loving it already.

Truly, he can't get enough.

I have to go back in and have the other cord shaved soon. Not sure when I'm going to schedule it. But soon.

For now, I've got a lot of pent up stuff to say.

Gotta go.

I have to go talk to George about the elephant in Kenya I'd like to adopt, Buffy's new boyfriend, the new season of "So You Think You Can Dance", my birthday wishlist, my lack of ovulation pains, my Skype sesh with my pops in Iraq, the drama from work, and THE NEW WILSON PHILLIPS REALITY SHOW!!!

Problems

2011-06-03T08:43:00.000-04:00

I'm aware of some issues on my site. Trust me, I'm panicked. I'm trying to resolve them, but for now, readers are having trouble selecting individual posts and are also unable to comment. I don't know if these problems are blogger.com related... or if they have something to do with my recent installation of Intense Debate. Either way, it's giving me heart palpi's. Anybody have any suggestions??? I may be doing a WP switch sooner than I anticipated. Suggestions on someone for the migration? You won't be able to comment here, so e-mail jenhasapen@gmail.com.

Gracias!

I'm Tense.

2011-06-01T22:47:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow I take my shiny new vocal cord and my still skanky vocal cord to the ENT for a follow up. What I believe he is going to do is stick the torture rope up my schnoz and down my throat to take a polite little peep at the whatsa-goin'-ons inside. This makes me want to curl up like a petrified roly poly and die. My cords don't really hurt, but on occasion, depending on the way I yawn or sneeze or stretch my neck, I feel the sensation of two metal plates rubbing together in my throat. The thought of the nasty torture rope sliding down my pipes makes me want to hurt something. And then cry about it.

The only positive is that the doctor might be able to give me an "early release date". His original prescription was three weeks worth of voice rest. I'm almost two weeks in. It's been completely miserable. In case you were wondering.

I'll let you know. Don't lose sleep about it or anything. I'll be fine. Eeeep.

My Senior Moment

2011-05-30T21:49:00.000-04:00

I was pretty checked out my Senior year of high school. I was in a MAJOR funk about changing schools and had minimal desire to participate. BUT, for Liz at A Belle, A Bean & A Chicago Dog I decided to dig deep within some dusty boxes to find a few photos. She's been collecting Senior photos from 'round the blogosphere and making quite a yearbook. Now, for the record, I can only be sure that two of these photos were actually from my Senior year. I *may* have cheated a bit and posted a few Junior year shots. After all, those were when I truly thought I was coolest. Whadya gonna do???

Get it Jen! Nice choker, girl.

Awww, it's the Libster. And knock off Doc Marten sandals for that ass. :-)

Junior Prom (with my very sweetest Rayden). Baby's Breath in my hair. So natural. So timeless.

One of my very Bests. We rocked braces together. And rum raisin lipstick, obviously

My other Best. At cheer camp. Getting jiggy. I'm pretty sure there were braces involved here too.

So, there you have it. Had I been only an ounce as cool as I thought I was in these pictures, I'd rule the world by now.

I Am 2 Years Old!

2011-05-30T08:36:00.000-04:00

Most of the bloggers I know started their blogs with the intention of documenting a journey. A weight loss journey, the parenting journey, a conception journey, a travel journey, or, as in my case, a wedding planning journey. My engagement to George was an unbelievably happy time, but was slightly bittersweet because my closest friends and all of my family lived states away. I wanted to experience all the stuff that you are supposed share with your mom and your grandmothers and your besties, but I wouldn't be able to. This blog was my solution. And, if I'm being completely honest, this blog was also a sneaky little way for me to finally share my greatest passion... writing.

So obviously, I'm now married. I'm no longer documenting wedding dresses (thank GAWD) and bachelorette parties (but, oh how I wish I was able to document another bachelorette party!). I have grown and changed, and my blog, being ever so faithful, has grown and changed with me.

I've grown more confident. A years ago, I shared my blog link with my family and friends. I wrote for them. I considered myself a "girl with a little blog". Now, I share my blog with anyone who is willing to visit. I now write for me and YOU. And now, I call myself a "blogger". Don't get me wrong. I'm no big shot. But I dream of being one.

I've developed friendships with amazing men and women who are "blog successful" beyond my scope of comprehension. I've spent hours upon hours upon hours reading them, researching them, and trying to develop a blog that helps me express my creativity, helps me navigate my highs and my lows, helps me document the journey of my life, and gives you something you like and want to read.

The hours that go into blogging are intense (and worth every stinking second). Writing posts is "relatively" simple. But the behind the scenes stuff, makes Jen Has A Pen sort of like a second job - a second job THAT I LOVE. And I'm ever so thankful to my George for understanding that; for understanding the late hours and early mornings and middle of the night key tapping in our bed (you think this could be effecting our baby making time???) I'm also thankful for his editing, and his complete support of writing about whatever I want - regardless of how private most people think it may be.

I write for me. I write because it's my favorite thing next to vacation. I'd choose writing over massage, over chips and salsa, over concerts, over sleep... over just about anything. But I'm lying if I don't admit I also write for you. I get such a high from your interaction and comments and sharing. I get such a thrill from following the every day experiences of my new friends in the blog community. Jen Has A Pen has helped me develop so many friendships with new people. It has sparked conversations and has rekindled relationships with so many people from my past. I've been able to document my struggles to conceive, and people have come out of the word work by the dozens to discuss their like struggles and give their support. That kind of stuff makes this blog one of the things I'm most proud of.

One of my favorite things is when we are at a tailgate (for something FSU, duh!) and one of George's friends will razz him about something I posted. Who knew they were even reading? Not me. But seriously, I love it. LOVE IT.

In the last year, I've had a name change (R.I.P. www.thebrulliotts.blogspot.com), a face lift (shout out to Carolynn), and a Facebook page created. By the way, have you "liked" my Facebook page??? It's my newest thing to nag you about. ;-)

And even cooler than all those things, my readership has grown by 489%. That is a completely made up number and if you knew me in real life, you would know I have no idea how to calculate percentages.

So this party isn't just for me. Or this blog. It's for you too. I'd still write if you weren't here. It just wouldn't be nearly as fun.

So thank you. Thank you for supporting the thing I love. My Bleaders are legit. Fa real.

It's Gonna Be A Party!

2011-05-29T19:59:00.001-04:00

When your blog has a blogiversary, it is customary to celebrate. What? It is.

I'm not kidding.

Luckily, I have cupcake decorators at my disposal. Tomorrow is a big day. I could not have pulled off all this baking and decorating alone.

And... as an early anniversary present, your commenting on my posts should be much easier. I installed Intense Debate today. I know, I know.... FINALLY.

Silence, Sunsets, Sand, Salvation.

2011-05-29T17:29:00.000-04:00

It's been a difficult week.

As much as I'd like to say I'm handling my three weeks of voice rest with grace and patience, I'm not. Last time I did this, it was difficult, but I made it through. I really, truly felt this time would be easier because it's for three weeks, versus the 30 days of "silence" I had last time. I am using quotes because my experience since my surgery has quickly made me realize that although I thought I'd been unbelievably silent last time, I wasn't. Don't get me wrong, I felt I might burst because I only said about 5% of the things I really wanted to say. But 5%.... is a HUGE amount of talking compared to what I'm doing now. Now, I'm... mute.

I am so frustrated- so on the brink of losing my marbles. My hands are cramped from all the writing I've been doing to communicate. My typing has increased exponentially, as that's proven to be my quickest, and most effective form of communication at work. To have conversations with my employees, they stand behind me and read the Word document pulled up on my computer screen. They talk. I type my responses. It is complete bullshit.

I mouth words the best I can, but without letting any air escape, it's pretty challenging to understand what the hell I'm trying to say. In the beginning of all of this, I thought George might be the worst lip reader on the planet. Now I realize, NOBODY can read lips if you can't use sounds to emphasize the beginning and end of the words. "T" sounds don't have a "look". When you don't let any sound out, a "t" looks like an "s", or a "d". Don't even get me started on "h" words, or words that end in "y". It's SOOOO FRUSTRATING.

To boot, my primary fertility struggle, as far as I can tell, has been my lack of ovulation. I've been waiting, waiting, waiting... putting in the time required by my doctor of doing things the old fashioned way just to prove to the medical world that it would not be irresponsible to put me on fertility drugs. (That time was necessary, by the way. And for the record, I'm glad the world of gynecology has these sorts of unwritten requirements.)

But, here I am. At the starting line. Clomid in hand. I KNEW that this pill would be the absolute ticket. It would make me ovulate. We'd time sex. Two weeks later, I'd pee on a stick. We'd anxiously await the results. We'd hug. We'd cry. We'd debate whether or not to tell the world. We'd be expecting. No doubt in my mind.

Fat chance. Instead, Clomid has made me cranky, and shaky, and dizzy. All of which would be absolutely fine - welcomed even - if the stuff would just make me ovulate!!! I'm four days into testing for my LH surge (which is the clearest way there is to detect possible ovulation). Nada.

Now, it is true I could ovulate late. I'm not completely losing hope; I guess I just expected more of a miracle, more of a quick result. As with everything dealing with infertility, each time your expectations aren't met, your mind explodes with all the possible negative scenarios imaginable. It is stupid. I know better, but that doesn't change anything.

So, with a double wammy of frustrations and irritations, my George and I decided to fix things by picnicking at the beach. A little sand, a sunset, some wine, absurdly expensive and absurdly smelly cheese, and some really gracious wiener dogs - nature's antidepressant. I read a post this week from one of my favorites. She reminded me how lucky I am, and how silly it would be to not appreciate and take advantage the life I have today.

Here are a few photos from the beach. The dogs ran and played and made a FLIPPING mess of themselves. And in turn, they fixed me. So.Much.Fun. :-)

She's A Wanderer! {Guest Post}

2011-05-29T11:43:00.000-04:00

I've been invaded... in a good way. Remember Kim? I guest posted at her crib last week, and in awesome form, she's returning the gesture with fabulous enthusiasm. As you will soon see, her writing is oooozing with the same enthusiasm, and I can tell you from my real life experiences with her, she's as enthusiastic and thirsty for life in person. :-) Love that about her.

...........................................

¡Hola fabulous peeps! Kim here from wanderlustee.com! Jen, my fabulous IRL friend, asked me if I wanted to do a guest post for her blog. After getting over my fear of not being as hilarious as Jen – I realized it was futile to try -- I obsessed over what to write about … a true-life story? dreams of future travel? A rundown on what my blog is about? So many options …TOO many options. I decided to start by trying to find a pic of Jen and me from back in the day. Waaay back in the day. So far back in the day I needed to look through my myspace albums. Unfortunately I couldn’t remember my “my[___]” password so I had to go back to my very first facebook albums ever posted. I couldn’t find a pic of us together (she has one!! Check out her post on MY blog) but I did find one of her alone from five years ago, with this caption:

Yes, five years ago (ohmygaaawwwd! Has it been that long?). I still maintain she is the best boss evahhh!

So, what’s the next natural step after looking at facebook albums from five years ago?

Keep looking through old pics, remembering how skinny you once were, duh!

So I started looking through pics of me at this bar I used to hang out in waaay back when I FIRST moved to NYC. It was called Yogi's. I was in love. Reasons to love Yogi's:

#1. It was on the UWS. (upper west side for all you non-nyc'ers out there!)

#2. It was a DIVE bar.

#3. It had an ALL COUNTRY juke box (otherwise known as mission impossible in NYC. They don’t even have ONE country radio station here!)

#4. It had chalkboard walls you could write on.

Of course, my life is a joke and it closed down less than half a year after I discovered it.

But I digress (I also <3 the golden girls), today, while reminiscing about how much I loved that bar, I ran across a pic of me, with my boyfriend in the background.

(I promise I don’t look as ridiculous in pictures these days!...well, mostly)

Oh, totally normally right, EXCEPT. I met my boyfriend in Jan 2010. When was that picture taken? NOVEMBER 2007!

Does anyone else find this totally insane/weird/freaky? Obviously when I told the bf he thinks it’s totally normal that we were photographed together 3 years before we met. I might concede that there's nothing that extraordinary about it, except …we live in NYC. Where there are over ONE THOUSAND bars (and for once I’m not exaggerating!) Out of 1,000 bars we were at the same one. We never spoke. Three years later we met at a different bar (read about that romantic story here).

I’m thinking my blog name should change to mylifeisthetrumanshow [dot] com!!

So, when I’m not creepin’ on old facebook pics, or sleeping, I write about trying to motivate myself to exercise, where I want to travel to next (Europe this summer! Hollaa!!), how my students (oh yeah, did I mention I teach HS Spanish in the S. Bronx? Fml.) are driving me nuts and how I hate living in NYC (it’s not all glamorous!) If any or all of the above seem groovy to you (yea! I said it!) stop on by! I’d love to have you!

& mil gracias a Jen for letting me take over her hiiilarious blog for a day!

...........................................

You love her, right? You are feeling more pumped about life already, I can tell. She has that effect. And Kim... because I love you and your Spanish flava, check this out, yo:

Fue un placer tener que visita. Usted es la bomba, niña! Volver en cualquier momento. En serio. (Does that make sense???) ;-)

Pretty

2011-05-26T23:18:00.000-04:00

"Wanna see my princess dress???"

Sophia scurried into her bedroom and appeared within seconds on her tippy toes, careful not to let the plastic bag-sheathed ensemble drag the floor. She could barely catch her breath.

"Look at my tutu! See it? Look at my barrett!"

She wrested the hanger out of the plastic protector and proudly thrust her leotard in our direction.

"See the barrett? It matches!"

Her dark eyes were extra shiny in the dim light as she showed off the tiny, baby blue ballet recital costume.

Her thin four year old frame was unexpectedly graceful as she fed us small samples from the recital routine she was scheduled to perform the following weekend.

"Can you come to my recital?!?!?!"

George and I didn't need to exchange glances. We would absolutely be there.

The recital was the day after my vocal cord surgery, and I was grateful to wake up that morning feeling healthy and alert. I put on my button that explained I couldn't talk, and headed for the auditorium for the performance of a lifetime.

When we arrived, Sophia was in the lobby with her mother. Bright lipstick was spread across her pursed and serious lips. She was wearing her much anticipated costume and her game face. Her unruly curls were obediently pinned in a bun, with just a few kinky ringlets tickling the back of her neck. She was a ballerina. A most pretty ballerina. And the best part? She most certainly knew it.

She fidgeted with her costume. She ran her tiny fingers over the crushed velvet that hugged her belly. She moved her lips with caution, careful not to muss her makeup. She looked up at me, knowing that my surgery left me unable to speak to her, but not knowing whether or not she should speak to me. When I caught her gaze, she looked away and whispered, "Do you see this? Do you see my lipstick?"

I could have stared at her for hours. She was confident and excited. She was proud of herself, and had there been a mirror in that lobby, I guarantee she wouldn't have been able to walk away from it.

How amazing to be a four year old. How amazing to stand in the midst of a crowded lobby with your butt cheeks peeking out of little white tights and feel your most beautiful. I wish her confidence from that day could be bottled. I hope for her that she always feels that good about herself. I hope that when she gets braces, or glasses, or gains weight, or get pimples that she will be as self assured and poised then as she was on that day.

This week's You Capture challenge is Pretty. And Sophia was the most pretty ballerina I've ever seen. :-)

El Grande Guest Post

2011-05-25T07:10:00.000-04:00

Today, I'm virtually jet setting. I'm flying to New York, holing up in an overpriced and cramped apartment, eating at The Shake Shack, and blogging for The Wanderlustee for the day. I love a virtual vacation. Especially to New York.

I also love guest posting. Because, as you might realize, this is my first time! My guest posting cherry? Popped!

And it couldn't have been a more fun assignment. The Wanderlustee, or Kim, if you knew her "back when" like I did, is an "in real life" friend. I've not seen her in quite sometime, but thanks to the wonders of the world wide web, we are able to stay connected.

She blogs about teaching Spanish to the kids of the South Bronx, her annoyance with New York City (WHAT?!?!?!?), her fitness goals, her love life, and her most importantly, her obsession with travel. So go. Check her out. Become her friend. Just be careful, she says "like" A LOT. :-)

You Can Help

2011-05-24T08:20:00.001-04:00

Think about this...

1. Infertility affects 7.3 million people in the United States.

2. With a normal functioning reproductive system, couples between the ages of 29 and 33 have a 20-25% chance of conceiving in any given month. That percentage is greatly decreased with age and when reproductive deficiencies are introduced.

3. 65% of the couples who seek out medical intervention for their infertility issues end up giving birth.

That's a pretty fascinating testament to the marvels of reproductive science.

It provides George and me with such hope that while my body may not be able to fascilitate the miracle of conception, gestation, and birth alone, there is a doctor, a nurse, and an embryologist prepared to help make my dreams come true.

Unfortunately, this chance celebration comes with a very hefty price tag.

Did you know the average cost for an In Vitro Fertilization (IVF) is $13,000? Average. Insane, right? That is a wallet shriveling price tag that knocks the option of IVF out of reach for millions of couples - for millions of people who only want help growing their families. And bittersweetly, IVF is the mack daddy, come hell or high water, last train to Memphis procedure required for many childless couples to reproduce.

I know many couples who have signed over their life's savings without hesitation for the roughly 30% increased chance of becoming pregnant and having their own child. And, if worse came to worse, I can't say for sure that we wouldn't do the same.

While there are a few progressive states that assist with infertility costs, they are a rare exception. Most infertility treatments are paid for out of pocket, creating a burden in the nest egg before you've even got a baby in the nest. It is my hope, that with the introduction of a new bill designed to create tax credits for out-of-pocket infertility expenses, many couples, like us, will have help.

This new bill was introduced to the United States Senate by Senator Kirsten Gillibrand (NY). This bill, appropriately called the Family Act of 2011, S 965, could be the answer to so many reproductive financial decision making contributors for infertile men and women in the United States.

How can you help?

Please write to your state Senators asking them to co-sponsor the Family Act of 2011, S 965. Resolve, The National Infertility Association has made this super duper simple. Click HERE and you will be directed to a form e-mail that takes less than two minutes to complete. You will be provided the option to personalize your letter too. Maybe you have struggled to get pregnant? Maybe your cousin has? Maybe your neighbor's grandson? It doesn't matter. Your story - your letter will help make a difference, no matter how closely affected you've been.

We ask for these letters to flood the offices of our United States Senators. I ask for me. For my husband. For my friends. I ask for every infertile couple who currently struggles and will struggle to build a family.

Maybe this round of Clomid will work for us? Maybe we'll get pregnant on a spontaneous trip to the beach? Maybe we'll adopt? Or maybe we'll explore IVF? But no matter, your letter will help someone. And that's cool, right?

*statistics obtained from Resolve.

My Oprah, My Friend.

2011-05-23T07:07:00.000-04:00

I've really been dreading this. I've been counting down the days with angst and hesitation. I don't want you to go. I don't want to be without you through the week. Sure, I know we'll see each other around, but it won't be the same.

I understand, though. Ya gotta go out on top. You've conquered more than I'm sure you ever thought possible. You've been a dream maker, a problem solver, a friend, and an educator. You will forever be the answer to the party question, "If you could have dinner with anyone, who would it be?" No pausing. It's you. But that doesn't make me unique. I'm sure I'm one of a ba-jillion people with that answer.

It wasn't until I got a DVR that you and I really became friends. When that happened, we "sort of" had dinner together every night. I was single then, of course. Now that George is in the picture, I typically watch your show while I'm getting ready for work.

Thank you for teaching me about The Girl Effect, the garbage patch, the glorious maternity leave policies in Denmark, the grooming processes of child molesters, the rape epidemic in the Congo, the woman who fathered her own child, the couple who survived a plane crash, the tyranny of Kim Jong Il, men living on the Down Low, the relationships inside polygamist communities, and children living with mental illness. I could go on, and on, and on, and on....

And the best part??? You taught me that once I know better, I do better. And you were right. Well, you and Maya Angelou, of course.

I joke a lot about you being my God. (Would it matter to you to know that I have a specific tag for you on my blog, and I've mentioned you in a lame post about 95 (give or take) times?) I'm not really joking. I've not always agreed with you. I've not always felt we were on the same page, but I've always admired you. I've always learned from you. And I've always hoped my light will shine as bright as yours.

Thank you for entertaining me, for making me think, for raising my awareness, and for helping build my dreams.

Now, go! Take a vacation... and live your best life!

Source

Voice Rest... and Ramona.

2011-05-22T08:25:00.000-04:00

Pain killers tend to make me antsy, so I was up at 4:30 yesterday morning.

Ramona can't handle those kind of hours.

She talked me in to an afternoon nap.

She takes the best care of me.

Make Me A Mother

2011-05-20T21:09:00.002-04:00

With everything that's been going on with my voice, I failed to squeeze in a post about how I FINALLY started Clomid. Go Jen, Go Jen!!! (I am performing the cabbage patch in silence.)

I'll wait for you to quit cheering.

Go ahead, take your time. I enjoy your enthusiasm.

So, we are really excited. I feel like these pills are tiny little beacons of support reaching down from the clouds and saying, "You gave 'er your best shot. Now, let us help." I love when my pills talk to me. Especially if they feel like lending a hand.

So far, I've not experienced any of the side effects that I've been hearing about. Well, except the moody part. Have you seen the movie "Dumb and Dumber"? Remember the most annoying sound in the world? Sometimes my PMS makes me feel like everyone I pass is making that sound. But, I am not going to blame that on Clomid. I blame that on... Jen.

But the other side effects (the bloating, the tenderness, the hot flashes) haven't been an issue. Hey experts, when should I be experiencing those? Later on in my cycle?

I don't care. Side effects, schmide effects. Just please, please trick my brain into making all the goods I need to impregnate and deliver a healthy baby. Even my wieners need a baby in their life. See how excited they were on my first day of Clomid?

My Dearest Wieners,
You guys rock.
Love,
Yo Mama

And Then There Was Silence...

2011-05-20T18:44:00.000-04:00

Thank you Alisha & PCOS Chick for bringing my buttons to life. :-)

Disclaimer: I'm on pain meds. This could be kind of a cluster.

I'm home from the hospital. My left, and most offending, vocal cord has been scraped and shaved, and I am at the beginning of a two to three week voice rest. I had such nerves about the surgery yesterday. It's not in my nature to be negative from the start, but for several looong hours yesterday, I was pretty sure this was going to be a expectational flop.

I won't know what kind of sound improvement I am going to experience for several weeks. First, I'll need to wait out all the voice rest, and then it will most likely take a couple more weeks for the healing to complete to hear the full and true results.

Buuuut...

Surgery has created some drainage that has caused me to cough a few times. My cough already sounds different! Still strained and whispery, but with tiny little hints of femininity!!!!! My voice has been so low and so masculine and so monotone for such a long time that the moment I heard my cough, I nearly cried.

My negativity from yesterday has been replaced with juvenile and enthusiastic optimism, and It.Feels.Amazing.

I'm very rarely grossed out, so my squeamish meter is probably not as fine tuned as it is for some. I have a before and after shot of my left cord, but didn't want to place it right smack dab on this post. If you are at all interested in seeing the improvements, CLICK HERE. I am fascinated by, and grateful for modern medicine.

And finally, thank you to everyone who has texted, e-mailed, tweeted, and Facebooked wishing me well. I most likely didn't respond to everyone as I was riding the anesthesia train, but thank you, thank you, and thank you again. I really, REALLY appreciate it.

The Voice That Isn't Mine

2011-05-19T22:31:00.000-04:00

I go in for surgery tomorrow. I'm having my vocal cords shaved. I'm a ball of nerves tonight. I'm not nervous about the surgery or the anesthesia. That should be a piece of cake. I've been counting down the days, even before I knew surgery was an option. I've been counting down the days until I could sound like... me. The surgery has been the moment. It's been the answer. And now, the night before, I'm not so sure it will live up to my expectations.

It hadn't really hit me until today. The doctor was clear with me from the start. He said it might not work, or if it did work, it could be temporary. He said it could repair the problem for 6 days or 6 weeks or 6 years. He couldn't predict. But I don't think I was listening. All I could hear was that surgery was the answer. Because it has to be the answer.

I've been patient, and cooperative, and even positive for the most part. This has to work. I have lived with this for 9 months, and I am unprepared to live with this stranger's voice for one more day. I want to sing to George and talk sweetly to babies. I want to cheer at sporting events and holler at concerts. I want to squeal with my friends when they announce their engagements, their pregnancies, their promotions. I am sick of this.

Tomorrow has to work. It has to.

A stranger lives inside me.

with a voice that is not my own.

The voice is unpredictable.

The emotions are not shown.

I cannot be expressive.

The way I'd like to be.

I've lived muted by this stranger.

That lives inside of me.

The sounds I make surprise me

and catch me unaware.

and sometimes when I try to speak,

my voice just isn't there.

The voice is without color.

The voice is without soul.

It's stolen away my confidence.

and robbed me of control.

I'd like to tell you I love you,

and whisper in your ear.

But I've been left without the sound,

and have become consumed by all this fear.

I want so much to sing to you,

to squeal when you succeed.

I'd like to coo and call your name,

and tell you what I need.

I'm ready to be normal.

to talk without these bars.

I'm sick of being winded.

I hate these vocal scars.

I don't know why this stranger

chose to live inside my throat.

Why he's held me hostage,

and filled my vocal cords with bloat.

I want to go back to normal.

I want my cords to be just fine.

I want to stop living,

with this voice that isn't mine.

Alias

2011-05-18T08:12:00.000-04:00

Jayden says, "Sophia, my other name is Freddie. My mommy says, "Ready Freddie?" to me."

This is true.

Sophia says, "Well my other name is Sophia African Jenay Envia."

This is not true.

Smoke

2011-05-17T05:43:00.001-04:00

This week's post is inspired by The Red Dress Club's Memoir Series. The prompt is to write about your first or second memory that comes to mind when you see this photo:

Source

"How many cigarettes do you smoke a week?"

"None."

"You don't smoke?"

"No."

"When did you quit?"

"I have never smoked."

"You have never smoked?"

"No."

"How many cigarettes would you say you've smoked in your lifetime?"

"A half of one at a party in high school. Like 15 years ago."

"And your SURE?"

"Yes."

I could tell he didn't believe me. He thought I was covering my ass.

But I wasn't. I didn't smoke, don't smoke, and won't smoke. The good doctor was going to have to find an alternative reason for why I'd been rendered unintelligibly hoarse.

Cigarettes make me ill. But that wasn't always the case.

My parents are smokers, and always have been as far as I know.

I spent many childhood car rides inhaling the burning, swirling smoke with a loving disdain. I'd been told in school what nicotine would do to your lungs, how it could cause emphysema, cancers, premature aging, blah, blah, blah. I hated their Marlboro's. I wanted to flush each one down the toilet, stomp them into the dirt. I wanted to save my parents from the morbid consequences of their addiction. But at the same time, the smell of that addiction had sort of an apple pie quality to it - something that made me feel at home.

I learned to read sitting on my father's lap. He waited patiently for me to sound out the words of Margaret Hillert's "The Baby Bunny" as I inhaled his comfortable fragrance of Zest and Marlboro's.

My mother washed my virgin hair by laying me on the kitchen counter and sudsing up my head under the faucet of our sink. The front of her shirt would often drape in my face, and wafts of Juicy Fruit gum and Marlboro's would mingle in my nose.

My baby dolls would smell faintly of their cigarettes. My puffy winter coat absorbed the odor and followed me to school. Every goodnight kiss and every morning hug was met with the sweet and bitter smell of the vice of the two people I loved most.

I hate the smell for what it could be doing to them. I love the smell for how it makes me feel, for how it reminds me of being five years old, and how it will always be a small olfactory reminder of the people who built me.

*** My vocal cord issues are in no way related to cigarette smoke, by the way.

Fashionably Late for Fertility Drugs

2011-05-16T05:52:00.006-04:00

Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap.

Tap.

Hear that?

It's my Clomid.

They are suffocating in there. They want out. (Don't worry, though. I poked a few ventilation holes in the side of the bottle.)

I'm going through this really fun head game that I like to call "Where in the world is Carmen San Di-Menstrual???"

I'm late. Not so strange for PCOS-ers, I know. Especially not so strange for PCOS-ers with pituitary tumors. Buuuut, it is a little strange for a girl who has been hoping, praying, and shooing away her period for the last twelve months, only to be smacked in the face with it four hours after taking negative pregnancy tests.

Good times.

I need my period to start here, people. I need to start in order to begin my first cycle of Clomid. If there was a shot in hell that I could be pregnant, I'd not be so annoyed. But there isn't. I'm absolutely empty wombed. Therefore, I'm waiting on my period like it's Christmas Eve.

What's a girl gotta go, do ya think? I'm open to suggestions.

Beyond My Vocabulary

2011-05-15T05:37:00.000-04:00

You knew this weekend was going to be hard on me. It's the last one before my surgery, and I am temporarily left unable to speak. I am stressed. My hormones aren't playing nice, and my dad left for Iraq. So, you took me to breakfast, held my hand through the mall, you patiently waited while I blogged... for hours, you organized the guest room, you tolerated sushi for dinner, and you have told me that I look pretty about seven times. Do you realize you do that? I keep track sometimes.

I love you beyond my vocabulary. Beyond everything that makes sense. I love that you wake up every morning in a good mood, ready to take on the day. I love that you try as hard as I do - at everything. I love that you are brilliant and funny and affectionate and adventurous and wise beyond your years. I love you.

And last night, when I stumbled upon this moment between you and Ramona, I fell in love with you even more. Impossible. George Bruno, you make me melt.

Iraq Is Wack

2011-05-14T21:12:00.000-04:00

My dad's original departure date for Iraq was delayed. I'd hoped that meant his trip would be cancelled. But it wasn't, and he flew out today. I only see him a few times a year, but I talk to him on the phone nearly every day. This is going to suck. I'm sure by the time he gets back, I'll be speaking with a whole new set of vocal cords, and maybe, just maybe he'll have his first grandkid en route. That would be awesome.

This day is gloomy. Thank god for the Paperwhite Potpourri from Pottery Barn that is keeping me sane. Buying potpourri seems so "old lady" doesn't it? Whatever.

Mail Order Groom

2011-05-14T17:28:00.002-04:00

This post is inspired by Mama Kat's Writing Workshop. The assignment is to write about something that attracted you to your mate that now drives you crazy.

George Bruno takes action. He's a "get shit done" sort of dude. He dots his "I's", crosses his "T's", and then creates a spreadsheet to record the dotting and the crossing. I, on the other hand, am made from a "slightly" different fabric. I'm more flannel. He's more wool. I'm more "tackle it tomorrow". He's more "the world will end if it's not done TODAY".

When I met him, I LOVED that. Loved it. Loved him. Such compliments, him and I. I am lazy. And he is.... well, not so lazy.

And one thing he does with zeal, and one thing he NEVER puts off is checking the mail.

He checks our mail EVERY SINGLE DAY. Who does that?!?!? (Oh wait... you do???) I like to wait until the mailman leaves me a ~~nasty~~ suggestive note letting me know my mailbox is subject to explode if one more slip of paper is jammed inside (something I'm most certain I inherited from my father). Not George. He ADORES the mail. Seriously, he almost skips to the box. He pulls in the driveway, jolts his car into Park, and performs a jolly sprint/skip to extract our daily delivery. How's that for on the ball?

He brings his precious bundle into the house and sorts it in to piles. There's a Jen pile. And then there is a George pile. George's pile is then sophisticatedly broken down in to specific sub-piles. Bills. Magazines. Bank statements. Credit card offers. Booster Club stuff. Fun mail. Coupon mail. HR newsletters. Magazines and Booster Club stuff is left on the coffee table. Credit card offers and bank statements are placed in the office on his meticulous desk. HR newsletters are brought into the kitchen table, while bills, coupons, and fun mail are all opened at the kitchen counter, where they will later be strewn about the bedroom.

Adorable, right? (I warn you this is gonna go south very soon.) His sweet little OCD brain works it's magic to ensure no bill ever goes unpaid, no booster club due is ever late, no HR policy is ever left unstudied, and no coupon is ever left unclipped. He is the key to reversing my years of late fees and finance charges. (Hey, I was busy!)

But now, after four glorious years together, his "on the ball" makes me want to kick him in the balls. His cute piles of mail make me want to bash the mailbox. His "I" dotting makes me want to dot him in the eye.

Perhaps he should treat his mail like I do? You know, organize it in some sort of in box.

This makes George want to file for divorce.

But then again, if he did, we'd be without internet. Which would mean I'd be without blogging, because honestly, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't be able to find the bill in my in box. Dammit.

The Only Child Is A Lonely Child

2011-05-11T20:36:00.000-04:00

George took Millie to the vet this morning for her routine check up, and left Mona with me while I ~~slept in~~ got ready for work. She was devastated to be left behind. Broke my heart. And snotted up my windows.

To Infertility... And Beyond!

2011-05-10T20:40:00.000-04:00

I'm having fantasies of smooching another man. No, not Marshall this time. This time??? MY GYNECOLOGIST!!! That's weird, isn't it? But if you met him - it wouldn't be weird. The fella is UH-DORBS!

George and I met with him today to discuss all of my fertility testing. As it appears, my tubes are clear and my uterus (although a bit misshapen) is ready for action. No big surprise, but my hormones and lack of ovulation seem to be my largest obstacle.

To combat my fouled up endocrine system, Doctor Adorable prescribed Clomid. Clomid is one of the most common ovulation stimulants on the market (and the performance enhancing drug of choice for a one, Mr. Manny Ramirez). (I just got brownie points from George for that little tidbit.) (And yes, I realize I just linked to to Wikipedia. It knows e'rything.) In my case, it will be taken on my 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, and 7th cycle days. You've most likely never heard me utter these words before (at least not since high school), but "Come on, period!!!"

The good doctor sat with us for a really long time explaining and detailing things that (thanks to the help of my online community) I sort of already knew. But still, the formality of this man that I trust, and who seems genuinely interested in helping us take home a baby, made me feel all the more prepared. Plus, my future baby daddy was there too, saving me the struggle of having to remember all the details to relay to him later. My doctor didn't blow smoke up my ass. He detailed alarmingly low success rates and, at one point, even uttered, ".... and you may never have a baby." But I feel good with him. And that feels good.

George and I aren't sure if we will ever go the route of a reproductive endocrinologist. From the start we vowed to give this our best shot without toying with too much medical intervention, and if it was in the cards for us, great. If not, our child would come to us in an alternative and equally perfect way. Either way, our baby is going to show up sooner than later.

My Dearest Clomid,
Help a sister out. I will be forever grateful.
Warmest Regards,
Jen

Our infertility library is growing. Now if only I could teach my ovaries to read...

Oh, You Shouldn't Have!!!

2011-05-10T05:25:00.001-04:00

Being a mom is hard work.

I bet you are wondering how on earth I know that.

Ummmm hel-LO?!?!?!? Have you not met the wieners?

Jesus. Keep up.

Anyway, the wieners are exhausting. And they are quite fortunate I even tolerate them. To show their appreciation, they saved their allowance (yes, I'm that crazy lady personifying her dogs) and asked George to buy my Mother's Day gift. He's kind of a sucker, so he obliged.

First, I got my version of The Bible. Not For Tourists - New York. (Do you hear angels singing???) I love New York. I NEED New York. I could suck it up with one of those spoon/straw thingys. What are those called anyway? A spraw? A stroon? I dunno. I have yet to bust out my highlighter, but I can assure you it's tiny pages will soon be decorated with glorious shades of fluorescent pink and yellow in preparation for our next journey to my Mecca in July. Could their BE a better place to celebrate your birthday?!?!?!? No. (See also: #2 on my 2011 goal list.)

Next, I opened two Lightscoops! Jealous??? I'd been eyeing them for a while after Jenn (with two "n's") suggested them. They are as amazing as she promised. (I should never doubt her.) So far, they've seemed to really solve my indoor, low-lighting issues. AND, they eliminate all the ugly DSLR built-in flash effect. Even if you aren't a photog as ~~clueless~~ advanced as I am, you can appreciate the absence of red eye, crappy shadows, and shiny glares, right? I'm even turning off the lights before taking some shots and the images still turn out bright and clear. Fabulous! Both of the following shots were taken in our fairly dim bedroom this morning.

Ramona is notoriously difficult to photograph due to an eternally dialated pupil. The Lightscoop prevents the harsh flash in her eyes... and makes her breathtakingly beautiful. Come on! Just agree with me.

The Lightscoop redirected the light, so Millie could continue to doze. Dozing is really important to her. :-)

I want a two legged HUMAN child with all my might. But, the truth is, the four legged ones I have fill up my heart in ways I cannot vocalize. I love them without the Mother's Day gifts. I do. I just love them more when they buy me stuff. ;-)

Goodbye-O Ohio

2011-05-09T05:41:00.002-04:00

Hiya! I'm back from Ohio!!! Casey and I drove hundreds of miles in and around the vicinity of Columbus. We were women on a mission, navigating the unfamiliar Ohio terrain with the assistance of three smart phones, two GPS systems, and two sleeves of Sprees. Why do they even make green and yellow Sprees??? I usually feed those colors to George, but I quickly learned that Casey is as big a candy color discriminator as me.

Our cup holder full of green and yellow casualties.

We toured about 400 homes hoping to find the perfect nesting place for Casey and her brood. Unfortunately, 398 of those "homes" could quite possibly be slated for demolition. It was.... interesting. We left empty handed, but at least she's got a better grasp on the area, the schools, the traffic, etc. And, although we struck out, I really liked the Columbus area; bright green grass, minimal traffic, friendly folks, and Canadian geese out the wazoo.

Casey and I barely slept. There is A LOT of girl talk to be had when you leave your husbands and children at home. I was in dirty-mouthed, inappropriate HEAVEN.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch....

George Bruno was turning me on. Big time.

Skillz, right?

He opted to take Jayden to an FSU baseball game on Saturday. No girls allowed. There is something about a man who loves kids...... Mmmmmm.....

Anyway, although I'd LOVE to take credit for these photos, George snapped them with our basic point and shoot. He is sweet. Jayden is even sweeter. Go Noles?

First, you gotta dress the part.

Then, you gotta make sure you have your tickets.

Next on the list? Snacks!

His mother better watch out..... I want to keep him as my very own.

Oh Mutha.

2011-05-08T07:05:00.001-04:00

Oh mutha.

This stings.

I'm in Ohio. And not with you. Well, actually I'm in an airport right now, but I will be flying over Kansas soon. I promise I'll waive and fist pump when I'm directly above you. Keep an eye out.

Who am I kidding? I've not been in Kansas for Mother's Day in years. Do you wish you'd have had multiple children so they could compensate in my absence? I don't blame you. One is hardly enough. Trust me, I have two wieners. I get it.

Whether I'm there or not, I'm there. In spirit. Here is what I propose we do today.

Let's wake up and eat oatmeal. You make the best oatmeal.

Then, let's watch The Ellen Show you DVR'd last week. When she dances, we will dance. Got it?

After we've showered, we'll ceremoniously rummage through each other's make up kits and try out each other's products. You'll wear my body lotion. I'll wear yours.

Then? Taco Tico. I don't give a rip where we've got to drive. We WILL have Taco Tico. There will be no other option.

While we're out, let's rent a movie. Red Box? Doesn't matter. We both know we won't watch it. We'll settle in like we always do. We'll prepare plates of dill pickle spears and sharp cheddar. We'll have chips and salsa. And when the movie is about 30 minutes in, we'll both be asleep. It's a certain as taxes.

When we've exhausted our nap, let's cook dinner together. I'll chop at the island. You create a masterpiece on the stove. I always love when we do this - when we work together.

After dinner, let's play a game. I'm down for whatever. Boggle. Taboo. Tetris? We rock at all of them. Poor Kenny and George don't stand a chance. Let's do this until the guys are ready for bed. Then, we can stay up late and talk without 'em - while we listen to Wilson Phillips.

It's basic. It's mundane. But, if it's okay with you, that's what I want to do today. With you. In spirit.

Happy Mother's Day, Becks. You da man.

I Will Never Be Jill Zarin.

2011-05-07T07:49:00.002-04:00

This post is in response to a prompt from Mama Kat's Writing Workshop. These are the reasons why I'm NOT cut out to be a Real Housewife from any county.

Sister loves reality TV. And by sister, I mean me. Sure, it can be considered a bit brainless, but honestly, that's the attraction for me.

You should know a few things.

I normally watch TV with my mouth agape. Not because I'm in shock. Because I'm too zoned out to realize I need to shut it.

George and I have a television ritual. I love it. I count on it. It's a precise formula of DVR + wiener dogs + the smell of laying my head in his delicious armpit. It's divine.

But, I also have a secret ritual. One that I don't share with anyone. Not wieners. Not George. Not nobody. I wait until I hear their zombie breathing, and then I sneak out of bed, extend the sleep timer, and delve into reality shows into the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes I get so involved I have to extend the sleep timer a second time. I'm the real deal.

One of my faves??? The Real Housewives of Anywhere. I don't care the county, the accent, the race, religion, or social status. I love 'em ALL. Equally.

But admire as I might, I am not cut from the Real Housewives cloth. And this is why...

1. I could never date Slade. And I'm pretty sure Bravo requires that.

2. False lashes. I can only handle those in the dark of night.

3. I don't have enough money to buy The Countess some class.

4. No pajamas. Real Housewives sleep in couture.

5. I never want to own a self portrait.

6. My wieners are too fat to be lugged around in a Louis.

7. I want Andy Cohen to be my next husband. He couldn't be my boss. That would be awkward.

8. I don't understand a Sip & See. Or Phaedra. Or Dwight, for that matter.

9. Boob envy.

10. When my first single drops, I'm afraid I will be compared to Kim Zolciak. That kind of pressure is suffocating.

Andy Cohen really did say that. I swear it.

Cinco De Mayo in Ohio

2011-05-06T16:42:00.000-04:00

I have addictions. You know this. I might be a wee bit too reliant on Mexican food, as indicated here, here, and oh yeah... here.

Should I be embarrassed? Probably. Am I? No siree. (I have to admit I sorta stole "no siree" from my friend.)

Casey and flew in from our respective corners of los Estados Unidos and met in the Columbus, Ohio airport last night. On Cinco de Mayo. Hootie hoo. I was nearly twitter pressured into a solo tequila shot during my layover, but held off, as I knew my beloved Casey would be erupting with a celebratory spirit the moment we connected in Columbus. (She has four kids. The girl DESERVES a margarita.)

So cheers to an exclusive weekend with my homegirl, cheers to George and the wieners back at home, and cheers to Mexico for being so delicious. Happy Cinco de Mayo, from Ohio!!!

Oh, and here's a little Cinco present taken before I left for Columbus. Somebody needs to get her effing roots done!

Checking Bags

2011-05-04T21:53:00.000-04:00

I'm packed.

I'm meeting Casey in Ohio tomorrow for a quick weekend getaway. I was extremely excited about seeing her. Then she started giving me shit for being such a heavy packer, and that all changed. I hate criticism. And light packers.

I don't have squat in any of those bags, really. I'm not sure what takes up all the room. Electronics mainly, I spose. But a girl can't apologize for needing to stay connected. I've got Bleaders, afterall. Blog readers, duh.

So bite me, Casey. And, I'll see you tomorrow!!!! *SQUEALS* :-)

Little Pink Houses

2011-05-02T19:02:00.000-04:00

I'm so SUV-lagged. We drove in from Miami LAAAATE last night. Then, we watched POTUS "officially" (Twitter sort of spilled the beans beforehand) deliver the news of Osama Bin Ladens death on DVR. Chilling. It was back to work this morning, and business as usual.

Well, not really business as usual. In true form, my mind is still basking in the afterglow of "vacation". Yeah, I realize it was just a three day weekend, but the word vacation makes me happy. So, it's a vacation. Thanks for playing along.

This was my third time in Miami. I learned the first go 'round that you MUST fit in Calle Ocho as often as humanly possible. I'm no dummy. 'Specially when it comes to eating. After inhaling a frita (cue the image of chorizo grease running down my chubby chin), I was in vacation mode. My blood pressure steadied, my shoulders dipped. Ahhhh. Why can't I find this happiness during the work week?

As with most of our travels, this trip was purposed around Florida State Baseball. Whatevs. My George digs sports. His wife digs vacation. Match made in hotel reward points heaven. I'm usually along for the ride, but George feels extreme guilt for dragging me to sporting events, which truth be told, I don't hate nearly as much as I let on. So, with his guilt comes his eagerness to "be fair". I love that guy.

Before each trip, he has me pick several "Jebbee things" (because he calls me Jebbee) and he works them into the schedule. This trip, I only had one demand. Must complete this week's You Capture Challenge. This week's prompt is pink. Miami has A LOT of pink.

So, we drove around private investigator style. I was in the backseat armed with my camera, sliding from side to side snapping photos of pink houses out of the car windows. There is at least one pink house on every city block in Miami, I swear. (Don't you love a city that embraces color???) You know I'm not a rule breaker, so I must admit that I had heart palpi's thinking somebody was gonna call the cops on my Peeping Tom ass. I even grabbed my balls and walked up to a house or two. I know. You marvel at my bravery.

If Looks Could Kill...

2011-04-29T07:47:00.000-04:00

A picture's worth a thousand words.

This is Alyvia. She ain't happy.

I stalk her on Facebook. :-)

Safe

2011-04-28T05:05:00.001-04:00

In six days, my dad will be boarding a plane for Iraq.

Contract work.

I feel.....

eh.

I don't know how many troops are currently serving in Iraq.

I googled it.

It was unclear.

I didn't know which site to trust.

I should be ashamed.

Shouldn't I know this?

At least a ballpark figure.

I am American.

I think of our troops often.

This news has made me think of them more.

Their bravery is remarkable. Extraordinary.

I am thankful and grateful and proud.

I'm not sure how long my dad will be gone.

Hopefully no more than six months.

I wish him a reliable internet connection,

and tolerable temperatures.

I wish him a fluffy pillow,

and decent meals.

But mostly, I wish for him to return home.

I wish for them all to return home.

Safe.

Hurry home, dad!!! And bring me a magnet! ;-)

Spring

2011-04-27T06:08:00.001-04:00

This week's You Capture photo prompt is Spring. Spring is a pretty short-lived season in Florida, as the second you shed your jacket, you don your bikini. Well, I don't. (I'm 600 pounds beyond legal bikini weight.) Bust "most" people start exposing skin by late February and are full on submerged in swimming pools by March.

I was able to get these somewhat "summer-ish" photos of Jayden this week. (Aren't you glad he's moved back to town so my wiener dogs aren't the subject of EVERY photo challenge???) Cut me some slack, will ya?

So, I scurried around the pool deck snapping away while Jayden ventured into the water for the first time this year.

This boy, this sunset, this time of year makes me happy, happy, happy.

Indiana

2011-04-26T05:50:00.004-04:00

Today's post was a memoir inspired prompt from The Red Dress Club. The assignment was to write about a positive from a negative experience.

I found out four days before the last day of my junior year of high school. We were moving to Indiana, and the thought made me want to die.

Photo graciously provided by Heartland Photography.

I'd grown up in Oxford, Kansas - home of one blinking traffic light, the Oxford Wildcats, and a historic flour mill. Surrounded by wheat fields and cow pastures, I belonged in a simple farm town where I was within walking distance of just about every person who attended my school. I spent my years entangled in deep friendships that began the first day of second grade. There were approximately 35 students in my class, and it was an extreme exception when someone moved away, or a new face infiltrated our cozy town.

In Oxford, I learned to ride a bike, I shared my first kiss, I floated down the river on an inner tube, I got in trouble with my girlfriends for drinking strawberry wine coolers, and I fell in love for the very first time. I played every sport, I participated in plays, and I tackled countless extracurricular activities. Not because I was skilled or talented, more because that's what people did in my small town. Everyone participated.

So when I heard we were moving, I'd have rather lost an arm. I had been looking forward to so many things; anticipating so many rites of passage of being a high school senior. Of course there was cross country, and cheerleading, and yearbook, and my boyfriend, and my friends, but more than that, I was absolutely petrified of not knowing how to fit in anywhere else. And worse? I wasn't even sure I wanted to fit in anywhere else. I was angry, and sad, and terrified.

I made the move with silent tears and a death grip around Libby's neck. I enrolled in an accelerated graduation program at a high school seven times larger than the one I'd left.

I wanted it over. I didn't want the rites of passage. I didn't want cheerleading or cross country or plays or boyfriends or friends. I didn't buy a cap and gown. I didn't attend the graduation ceremony.

I moved back to Kansas as quickly as I could, eager to put my feet on the soil that had grounded my roots. But, I was back only moments when I realized everything had changed. My world stopped the moment I left, but not everybody else's had. The arms I'd imagined would be open and empty were filled with new experiences, and new people, and new traditions, and new inside jokes. The cross country team had been successful without me; the cheerleaders didn't miss a beat. Nothing seemed to have suffered in my absence. I felt lost.

I spent several years feeling bitter and sad- hating that I'd missed prom and graduation, and wishing I'd have allowed myself to enjoy my time in Indiana. I'd spent the entire time trying to escape it, and I'd failed to see it's purpose. It wasn't until I was faced with moving to Florida right after college, that I began to see how beneficial that experience had been.

I learned that life doesn't wait for me, nor should it. I learned that the events in my life are determined by my cooperation and willingness to live them and breathe them and participate in them.

I am so grateful for the camouflaged heartbreak that taught me how to reach beyond my comfort zone and taught me "home" isn't about a place. Home is about a feeling.

Myth: Infertility Isn't a Disease

2011-04-25T06:22:00.000-04:00

Infertility isn't a disease.

Ummm, yeah it is. Or, at least so says Webster. And when has he ever been wrong? (You would assume Webster is a "he", right?)

He says that disease is defined as "a condition of the living animal or plant body or of one of it's parts that impairs normal functioning and is typically manifested by distinguishing signs and symptoms."

Sounds about right.

But, in my opinion, it is often uncommon to view something as a disease unless it presents the risk of death. Prior to learning about the disease of infertility, I can't say I wouldn't have had the same view. As part of National Infertility Awareness Week (NIAW), Resolve has launched a public education campaign to bust some of the myths surrounding infertility, and I'd like to help.

Disease sounds dramatic, right? I used to agree. Only because I still operated with the "must be fatal to qualify" mentality. But it is a disease. Sometimes explainable, and sometimes not. Sometimes curable, and sometimes not. But what it is, without exception, is difficult to understand, difficult to accept, and difficult to explain.

I, obviously, don't have any problems discussing my issues publicly, but I am constantly shocked by the number of people who struggle with infertility in silence. I am so grateful for my George, for my family and friends, and for YOU for listening to me, and for allowing me to say whatever is on my mind. Sometimes I feel sad and introspective, and sometimes I feel lighthearted and positive, but no matter how I feel, I am healthier inside because I have someone I can talk to. I have YOU.

I have wondered why so many couples keep their struggles to have a child a secret. Perhaps one reason is because infertility isn't widely recognized as a disease? Perhaps they feel that you won't understand the weight of the issue and they fear you will react insensitively? It could be a thousand reasons, but my gut is that it's a fear of not being understood.

Teenagers have babies, drug addicts have babies, women of advanced age have babies, hell even a man has had a baby. (Props to him, by the way.) So when you can't conceive, it doesn't make sense. I try my best not to RSVP to the pity party often, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit to going there a time or three. "Why me? What did I do to deserve this? I didn't abuse drugs, or booze, or sex. I didn't lie or cheat or steal. I take vitamins. I'm financially prepared. My husband will be an amazing and present father, so why, why, why???"

But so far, I don't have my answer. So, if I don't understand, millions of other infertile women don't understand. And if we don't understand, it is difficult to assume you will.

Just knowing that infertility is a disease will help. I'm sure it will. Understanding it is a condition that impairs the normal function of the human body (or the baby maker, if you will) makes it easier to discuss. And I can tell you, being able to discuss it, makes this disease far more bearable. Thank you for allowing me that. I'm more appreciative than you can possibly know.

If you would like more information about NIAW, visit www.resolve.org. or get a basic understanding of infertility HERE.

I Love This Bunny!

2011-04-24T12:43:00.000-04:00

Who doesn't love a bunny???

That sneaky bastard managed to visit our house

without so much as waking a wiener dog.

Skillz.

Now, we have Peeps.

George loves Peeps.

Primarily stale Peeps.

He lets them age like wine.

And avocados.

And we also got an Easter treat in the mail.

A rice crispy bunny.

With jelly bean facial features.

You gotta love Gram and Pa.

And traditions.

And now George has FSU baseball.

And I have an Easter feast to prepare.

And Peeps to eat.

What's your Easter must have???

HAPPY EASTER, AMIGOS!

Oh Brother!

2011-04-23T13:35:00.000-04:00

Making his second appearance on Babies I Adore, Wade would like to introduce his brother, Pate. Pate, on the other hand, is too busy laughing to care about his blog debut. I mean, when your brother is THAT funny, what's a guy to do??? Thanks again to Delane, for letting me steal her children for blog fodder. :-)

Open Fallopians

2011-04-20T21:20:00.001-04:00

I watch Grey's Anatomy. Not with near the enthusiasm I used to, but I watch. And even though it's not in my top 10 favorite shows anymore, it still moves me to tears every other episode. And one such episode from this season showed one of the doctors confronting another about his insensitivity toward a brain dead infant. The details aren't important, but her quote stuck with me (and caused me to cry, of course).

"That’s how you get a woman to tear her own body apart. You promise her a baby."
-Dr. Lucy Fields, Grey's Anatomy

Of course. A woman will do insane, unbelievable, extraordinary things for the promise of a child. She will allow you to slice open her belly. She will rip her vagina. She will surrender her breasts. And she won't even think twice about it.

I thought of this today while I was sprawled out on a cold metal radiology table with my feet in stirrups and a catheter in my va-jay. Today was my HSG. One of the stops on the road to diagnosing my broken baby maker. It wasn't miserable. But it certainly didn't feel good. There were moments I wanted to crawl out of my skin, but thankfully they were brief and the radiologist was comical. And in the end, the results were positive. My fallopian tubes are wiiiiiide open - like the perfect Autobahn for George's sleek swimmers. (Amen to some good news for a change!)

Image from http://current.com

I can't think of anything I wouldn't do to become a mother. Those cold, sterilized moments of pride swallowing, leg opening, basal body temping, uterine massaging, needle pricking, ultrasounding, hormone injecting promises of a baby, are MINOR inconveniences in the grand scheme of things. But even still, I have such a heavy heart for the women who have been doing this infertility dance for a while. We've been at it for about a year now, and it is HARD. So hard. And I have friends who have been dealing with it for five and six years. Can you imagine? I can't.

But it is amazing. It's amazing the sacrifices both fertile and infertile couples will make to build a family. While some couples may not have to subject themselves to assisted reproductive technologies, they still sacrifice finances, space, emotions, relationships, vacations, and more. And for what??? A puny little baby that most likely won't really appreciate you until they have children of their own someday??? Why, yes. That is exactly the reason.

Touché, Dr. Fields. ;-)

National Infertility Awareness Week is April 24th - April 30th. Check out www.resolve.org for more information.

TMI?

2011-04-19T05:41:00.000-04:00

These three little letters are beyond my comprehension. I wanna know about your TMI. I wanna tell you about mine. Sharing helps me find my normal. And my abnormal. I have shared just about every detail of my life for most of my life to just about anyone who cared to listen. And what I've found is that we are all pretty much the same. I have yet to share something embarrassing, off-putting, or taboo that hasn't, at some point, been met with a "No kidding?!?!? Me too!!!"

Now, don't get me wrong. I have limits. I don't find bathroom humor funny in the slightest, and I certainly don't find sharing it to be anybody's business, but on the other hand, I'll tell you whatever you might wanna know about my vagina. Therefore, I understand that one person's TMI is another persons hot topic. I can handle a little give and take, and in the blogosphere, TMI is what makes the world go round. I respect it. I love it.

One of my blog friends (another Jennifer, wouldn't you know) was recently featured on The Today Show discussing TMI in the world of pregnancy. She's a big deal in the blog world, blogging about everything that's on her mind. I love her for it. Watch her HERE. She's brave, entertaining, and gloriously open about her life. Oh, and her baby is BREATHTAAAAAAKINNNNNGGG (Oprah voice). Check out her fantastic blog HERE. You're gonna be hooked.

The Baby Making Machine & Lil J. Gorgeous.

Smile

2011-04-18T05:56:00.003-04:00

This week's You Capture challenge couldn't have come at a better time. The prompt? Smile. George and I spent Friday night with Jayden and Sophia while their mothers got some well deserved adult time. There was no shortage of smiles around our house (mostly mine), but I did my best to capture theirs. What a really fun weekend! Smile.

Stick That In Your Vocal Cords and Shave It!

2011-04-17T12:25:00.000-04:00

I went back to the ENT on Friday. Yep, torture rope again. After last time, I was sweaty palmed to say the least, but much to my relief, it wasn't too bad. The doctor was able to quickly confirm that I'd not experienced much improvement and decided we needed a new plan of action. Bu-bye Prilosec, it's time for surgery.

It's a simple, outpatient procedure called a Microlaryngoscopy. In this procedure, they will shave off the excess, "beefy" tissue making up my abnormally thick vocal cords. The excised tissue will then be biopsied, so we know better what we are dealing with. They will operate on one cord at a time, allowing one to heal before shaving the other. Each surgery will require one to two weeks of total voice rest immediately thereafter, and will most likely take about a month for me to regain optimum use of each cord.

My doctor predicts I will sound fairly close to my old self once that happens; however, the amount of time that will last is unknown. The surgery will undoubtedly give me a little scar tissue on each cord, causing slight changes in the vocal folds, but he seems highly optimistic that the scarring will be minor in comparison to the excess tissue I'm dealing with now.

My doctor described the procedure as kind of a "roto rooter technique". Harsh, right? But honestly, I am eager and ready. My voice problems sound so minor in the grand scheme of health problems, but I can't tell you how it has affected things for me. I know I've said this before, but so much of a person's personality and public perception comes from the sound of their voice. I didn't realize this before I had these problems and started sounding like a winded dude with allergies and a carton of cigarettes. I'll get in to specifics in another post on another day, but until then, think about it. I never realized how much I pre-judged people over the phone until now. I didn't have a gorgeous voice before, but at least I sounded slightly feminine.

So, surgery is scheduled for late May. I'm ready to get the show on the road. Maybe once I'm healed, I'll post a singing vlog!!! Okay, I'm kidding. I love you too much. I won't subject you to that.

Out With The Old

2011-04-16T20:40:00.000-04:00

Notice anything different???

I'VE HAD A MAKEOVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Well, I haven't. I'm still fabulously grotesque, but Jen Has A Pen, on the other hand, has experienced a Harpo Studios caliber makeover!!! Fancy, right??? I have been chomping at the bit to unveil the finished product and want to thank Carolynn, Casey, and Shayna for all their help!

And, while I'm introducing the new face of Jen Has A Pen, let me help you get to know me better. If you are new around here, I hope you find something that doesn't bore you to tears. Maybe these 30 ~~yawn worthy~~ AMAZINGLY INTERESTING facts about yours truly will spark some interest. Or not. Either way, thank you for checking me out.

Without further adieu...

1. I don't like to drive. Especially at night. I do it, of course, but if I have my choice, I am ALWAYS the passenger.

2. I typically wear George's deoderant to work once a month. Just rarely enough where I'm still surprised by the smell when I lift my arms. I love the unexpected reminder of him in the middle of the day.

3. I love Canadian Geese. I am sure that spotting them in any given day is sure to bring good luck.

4. I never set my alarm for "on the dot". I always opt for 6:02 or 6:03. Never 6:00.

5. I can't sleep without pants. No matter how hot it is, no matter how freshly shaved my legs are. I can't. My legs can't touch.

6. I have a pituitary tumor that causes me to lactate. It's not as cool as you might think.

7. I can sing with my mouth closed. Not on key- but you could understand me. :-)

8. The greatest heartache of my life was making the decision to put my 16 year old dachshund, Libby, to sleep. I miss her everyday, and wish so badly George could know her.

9. I won a state championship in high school. Nope, not for anything cool. For journalism. ;-) Hehehehe. Did you know such a thing existed??? I was really proud of myself, but didn't tell anyone.

10. Before I turned 25, I could count the number of times I cried on two hands. At 25, my faucets turned on.

11. I don't like to take baths. At all. And, I hate when the shower curtain touches me. Gross.

12. I drink everything out of a straw.

13. I don't "get" Lady Gaga, Twilight, or Harry Potter. Gasp!!!

14. I can't swallow more than one pill at a time.

15. I eat ketchup on my tacos.

16. I've aspired to take great photographs ever since I met Mike in college. His images make me happy.

17. I had a premonition I would fall in love with a man named George after watching George O'Malley on Grey's Anatomy. I swear it.

18. I have a hard time sleeping without my kushie, which is the name of the blanket my Grandma made me.

19. I am not germ phobic in the slightest. I can share a drink with anyone, except for milk.

20. I participated in an MCI Worldcom training video when I was in college. It was the first time I realized I had a crooked mouth and my dreams of being an on-air television personality were shattered.

21. I'm a trichotillomaniac.

22. Cooking makes me feel good about myself.

23. I cannot watch people shave or mess with blades of any kind.

24. I am incapable of telling a story about someone without acting it out and/or imitating their voice and mannerisms.

25. My first "real" interview was with Clint Black, but I can't remember one thing about it.

26. I love to be alone.

27. My brother has given me the greatest love and appreciation for all red headed little boys. I'm in love with every single one of them.

28. I am married to one of the world's greatest lover of sports and I could give a shhhhh...

29. I don't enjoy pedicures or massage.

30. I love to pop zits like nobody's business.

Baby Faced

2011-04-11T05:05:00.001-04:00

The Two Week Wait

2011-04-10T14:34:00.001-04:00

Should you drink this Diet Coke?

Or take this Advil?

Should you stop taking Prilosec until you know for sure?

Will this beer kill you?

Or what about this sushi?

Are you more tired than normal?

And what about your boobs? Swollen? Just fat? Are you normally this tender?

Wait. Are those pains menstrual cramps? Or implantation cramps?

You did ovulate.

Didn't you?

Who knows?

Peeing on sticks is stupid.

Shit. Mona just jumped on your gut. Hope she didn't knock anything loose.

Maybe you should exercise today?

Or maybe that would be too jarring for this delicate stage?

Or maybe you're being too cautious?

Did you take your vitamin yesterday?

What about this morning?

Should you take Tina's meds this week?

Could that migraine mean anything?

Should you be this emotional?

Are you usually this emotional?

Buy a pregnancy test?

Or wait it out?

Will your period be on time if it even comes at all?

Oh just buy the damn thing!

No, don't.

Okay, do it.

But every time you do, it's never positive.

Then you kick yourself for wasting the $10 and for getting your hopes up.

Just do it.

At least then you'll know, right?

It's better to know.

Isn't it?

Did you buy the best test?

Maybe you shouldn't have tried to pinch pennies for this?

But it seems silly to splurge on the name brand ones when you aren't ever pregnant.

Crap, you should have just spent the extra $5.

Open the box.

Why are your hands shaking?

Take off the cap.

Hold your breath.

Stop trying to pep talk your urine.

That doesn't help and you know it.

Rest the stick on the side of the sink.

Stop holding your breath.

Check your watch.

Pace.

One of these times it's going to be positive.

Why not this one?

It's gonna happen sooner or later.

Seriously, stop holding your breath.

Okay, it's time.

Go check.

You are gonna have to open your eyes to see the result, dummy.

Negative.

Throw the stick in the trash.

Wipe down the counter.

Start your period an hour later.

Awesome.

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Jittery.

2011-04-08T19:46:00.000-04:00

You know the dream where you are standing in front of an audience and all of a sudden you realize you aren't wearing pants??? Well, I've sort of been living that. Only, instead of missing pants, I'm missing my BLOG!!! Badly. Real life has been a busy bitch lately and I DON'T LIKE IT.

So much has happened in the last few weeks. So many things require their own individualized posts, but in the interest of saving a smidgen of time, I'm going to catch you up in one rushed entry. (There will be no pregnancy announcements, though, so don't get your hopes up. Effing uterus!)

First, I can't tell you how much I've appreciated the people who've been checking on me. I guess when a girl who blogs life's every detail drops off the face of the earth, it could be assumed that she's gone a little mad. I haven't. Buuuuut I'm not gonna lie, the messages I've received have made me feel super loved and important. Reminder, I'm an only child (sort of) and attention is something I'm accustomed to. ;-) And while all of the people who reached out to me are important, here are two to note:

I received a voicemail this week from George's grandmother (well, my grandmother now thanks to holy matrimony) wondering if I was okay. I'd been sleeping off a migraine when she called, but I awoke to this message.

"Hi Jen, this is Gram cwolling," (she's from Long Island). "I was just wondering if you'd broken your fingers because I've been checking your blwog every day, and there hasn't been an update in a couple weeks. I hope everything is okay. I love you. Okay."

She melts my heart.

Then, I got one curious little e-mail from my mother. All it said was, "www.didjenloseherpen.com".

She makes me laugh.

Cute, right?

Having those types of messages made me smile in a week that was crap. Why was it crap? Shayna moved. Did you hear that? That's the sound of my heart snotting and sobbing and throwing a tantrum on the floor. Is it odd to be 30 and miss a friend so much? If it is, I'm odd. I can't stand that she's gone. Can't stand it! My best friends have lived states away from me for my entire adult life. I'm used to leaving people and being left. I have been trained to maintain friendships from afar, and am a pro at using the tethers of modern technology to keep the VIP's of my life "close". But losing Shayna from my everyday life has been a sock in the gut.

I had anxiety leading up to it, of course, but figured after we'd celebrated over farewell sushi, I'd go on about my business like any other day. I am a fool. Not having her (and Ozzie and Brandon) blows. Big time. I keep telling myself they are a mere four hour drive away. Damn them for moving on with their lives! ;-)

It's not been all sad news around here, though. George and I celebrated our ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY last Sunday!!! Can you believe it? Well, you probably can, but to me - it seems impossible. The days of my life have been flying by for years, but getting married seemed to put things in hyper speed.

George, who truly seems to get better as each day passes, did not disappoint for our anniversary. He took me back to the tree where he proposed, so I could flex my photographic muscle and relive one of my most favorite days. While I was taking pictures, he brought me to tears by giving me a first anniversary ring. It's awesome. I mean seriously, if going to this tree equals jewelry each time, I might just pitch a tent under the sucker and live there forever! Honestly, if George weren't already taken, I'd suggest you hit on him. The man is from another planet. I am lucky beyond lucky.

On the baby front, I did receive results back about having a bicornuate and retroverted uterus. Although it sounds flashy, I don't think it's much to worry about. To be certain, it looks like I'll be going in for an MRI sometime in the next few weeks. I just love spending money on that crap, you know. Ridiculous. I'm also still waiting on the HSG, but other than that, my gamut of initial fertility tests will be done. There should be a prize at the end. Or, at the very least, a sushi dinner.

My voice problems still exist. I seem to have taken a couple of steps backwards in the last two weeks, but I see the ENT next Friday. I'm hoping he's able to give me a game plan without causing me to barf on the torture rope. For now, I sort of sound like the bastard child of Barry White and Toni Braxton after a loooong night of getting wasted and smoking cartons of cigarettes. It's HAWT.

Oh yeah, one more fun little tidbit. For the past couple months, I've been working on a blog makeover. It's not quite ready yet, but will be soon! I'm eager for you to see it! I'd like to introduce it like they unveil weight loss success stories on "The Biggest Loser"! Too much? Probably.

Otherwise, I missed you. I did. Thank you for not leaving me. I promise not to go all MIA on you ever again. You do allow for maternity leave should I ever need it, though, right? :-)

Pollen

2011-03-30T05:45:00.000-04:00

This week's You Capture is Vibrance. Tallahassee has been extremely cooperative. This city is an orgasm for my eyeballs this month.

I forgive you for red, swollen eyes. And for the itchy throat. And crusty nose. I forgive you for the allergic rash you've given my poor Millie. I forgive you for making my black SUV look a swampy shade of green, and dusting my patio furniture with yellow poison powder. I forgive you for all of these things, because you have given me this.

Kindergarten

2011-03-29T06:00:00.000-04:00

This post was inspired by a memoir prompt from The Red Dress Club. The assignment was to write about kindergarten.

New dress. New shoes. New gray and pink backpack. I stood at the base of the biggest elm tree in our shaded front yard while my mother forever captured this moment on film. She'd taken extra time with the blow dryer this morning and had turned my long brown hair into silken perfection. I posed with pride.

"Cheese!"

Click.

Kindergarten, HERE. I. COME.

I'd already met my teacher. In fact, she'd also been the kindergarten teacher to both my mother and my father. Plus, I liked to learn. My parents had made a game out of education from the very start, making school seem hardly itimidating. And finally, and most importantly, Casey was going to be in my class. And she was already my best friend. Awesome.

Six months my elder, Casey was God. She had the perfect matching headbands and jellies. She had freckles. Oh, I can't tell you how badly I wanted freckles. She had fancy Barbies and scented stickers, and expired, but REAL credit cards to play with. She was bossy and assertive, and I idolized her for every bit of it.

Having her in my kindergarten class made for an instant clique and gave me a built in ally. Together, we took on the play kitchen and the teeter totter. We bartered white milk for chocolate. We learned the joy of graham crackers in the afternoon and show and tell in the morning. We became familiar with stubby fingers positioned on fat pencils that wrote wobbly letters on Big Chief tablets. We crouched in the head lice infested coat closet, where we giggled at the expense of our loving teacher, calling her Mrs. Blanken"shit" instead of Mrs. Blankenship.

I'd known Casey my whole life, but kindergarten is where we truly became partners. Fast forward 24 years, and she stood beside me while I vowed to love George forever. Still freckled and assertive, with four beautiful children popping the heads off of her formerly fancy Barbies. I enjoy her more now than ever. Instead of sharing tiny cartons of milk and graham crackers, we share secrets and recipes. We still participate in show and tell, only now we talk about careers and children and their stubby fingers positioned on fat pencils writing wobbly letters. She still whispers "shit" as she has tiny, absorbent ears waiting to take naughty words to their own coat closets at school. Nosey boogers.

In 50 years, she will still be my ally. She will still be freckled and assertive. She will still have four beautiful children, and a heart full of grandchildren and possibly great granchildren. We will still share milk and graham crackers, and secrets and recipes. Our show and tell will be about our book club and crafts made from stubby, arthritic fingers positioned on wobbly knitting needles. We will be giggling old ladies, telling stories about the head lice infested coat closets and the beloved Mrs. Blanken"shit". Only now we won't whisper the cuss words. Because we will be too old and will be laughing too hard to know the difference. And just like in kindergarten, she will still be my best friend.

Polished.

2011-03-28T06:26:00.000-04:00

Some girls just know how to work it.

Grace happens to be one of those girls.

It's Like Yoga. But Not.

2011-03-27T17:05:00.000-04:00

I grew up on a farm where I was exposed to lots of animals. (Shout out to my mom and dad!) We had bird dogs, and barn cats, and pigs, horses, and snakes. Gross. We raised quail and pheasants. I had a bunny, a pygmy goat, sheep, geese, and of course, a wiener dog. I love animals. All of them... except for reptiles. (Reptiles scare the piss out of me.)

I bottle fed my goat and the orphaned baby lambs. I helped my aunt and uncle bottle feed their calves. I walked my bunny on a leash, potty trained my goat, and spent nights in the barn reading to my cats. Animals make me happy. They relax me. They remind me of being a child and help to make sense out of the stress of being an adult.

My work week was chaotic. By Wednesday, I could feel the burn in my shoulders as a result of harbored tension and unmet expectations. I tried to find relaxation by driving a more scenic route to work, getting away for a lunch breaks, and even getting a pedicure. Still stress. Until Friday night.

On my drive home, I was given such unexpected relief. My shoulders went soft. My eyebrows relaxed, and I spent two hours alone with my camera and these good luck charms. Why did I waste money on a pedicure? Animals do it for me every time.

Are You Kidding Me???

2011-03-25T19:52:00.002-04:00

Does This Bother Anyone Else?

2011-03-24T22:17:00.000-04:00

Before I start, you need to know these things:

1. Barbies were my favorite childhood toy. By a mile.

2. I don't have children. Yet.

This is a picture of a Barbie I saw at Target today. Why was I in the Barbie aisle? Ummmm, I was lost. With Shayna. Okay, not really. The truth is that a Baby Alive cooed at us as we were walking to Lawn & Garden causing us to detour into the toy department. After marveling at dolls that eat and talk and pee and walk, we stumbled into the wall of Barbies and were greeted by this lady. And her boobs.

She's a part of the Barbie Basics Collection, which from what I can gather, is Barbie's way of showcasing The Little Black Dress. But let's be honest.... who is even noticing the dress??? Those hooters are large and in charge and totally STEALING the show. I mean, Barbie has always had disproportionate boobs . I realize that. I kind of like that about her, actually. But put this dress on those guns and doesn't it get a little obscene? This chick is a black Jenna Jameson. And although I adore Jenna, I don't know that she should be used as the body profile for children's toys.

I am not uptight. I consider myself pretty dang liberal. And for the most part, I think Barbie has been unfairly blamed for body image issues in young girls. I played with her ass until I was older than I'd like to admit, and never once did I feel self conscious that I didn't look like her. Skipper on the other hand??? Sometimes. But this Barbie bothers me. Not because I think she's gonna cause little girls to be auto-sluts, but because I think the makers of Barbie should just use better judgement. Was there some high demand for Video Ho Barbie? Was there some sort of focus group in a tiny room at the Mattel headquarters who found it prudent to model a Barbie after Hef's Girls Next Door?

Just seems odd. She's hot. Don't get me wrong. I'd love to look like her, and I'd love to rock the LBD. I just would prefer that toys for little kids couldn't be confused as masturbation material for grown men. Put 'em away, Barb! No need to display them like that. Ken's a sure thing. On second thought, I'm not even totally sure he likes boobs. Just sayin'.

New Friends Are Exhausting.

2011-03-20T23:34:00.000-04:00

This weekend we went to Tampa for the Kenny Chesney and Zac Brown Band show. More importantly, Mona and Millie hung out at Brendan and Colleen's pool and met their dog, Finley, for the first time.

It's safe to say they didn't make a HUGE love connection, but maybe next time.

We've been home for hours and the girls haven't moved.

I love tired kids.

Detour

2011-03-18T07:37:00.000-04:00

This post was inspired by The Red Dress Club.

The prompt was to write about a detour.

I have imagined this scene over a dozen times. My head is full. The noise around me is unbearable. I smile, even though I'm about to explode. I excuse myself from the chaos. I find you. I grab your hand. It is smaller than mine and always feels strange at first. I don't say a thing. You know what I'm thinking. You always do. People are looking at us. And why wouldn't they? It's strange to see straight women holding hands in the middle of the afternoon. But, we barely notice as we walk by them with purpose.

We walk out the door. We leave the chaos behind. But we still don't talk.

We get in the car and we drive. We drive north, or south, or left or right. We might drive fast. Or slow. It doesn't matter if we run straight into the ocean or hit the Canadian border. We might be silent. We might listen to an audiobook. Or, we might talk about everything. In this scene, we never run out of gas. We never hit traffic, and we certainly never have to pee. Everything is perfect.

Once we get where we are going, which by the way, might take hours or days or weeks, we get a hotel room. And for hours, days or weeks, we nap and dine and see the sights. We shower or we don't. We get out of bed or we don't. We chit chat or we don't. We soak up the sun or we don't. What we never do is shop, or live by a schedule. And never, under any circumstances, do we make a plan.

I've never imagined a detour like this before. I've imagined running away a thousand times, just never with someone. We both know we'd never do it, but isn't it fun to dream sometimes? Our lives in the real world are far too rewarding to ever flee. But having this detour- this make believe escape, helps me find the ground when my head is full and the chaos gets too loud.

I will never have another friend like you. You have have helped me find my way more times than you'll ever know.

Boob Tube Romance

2011-03-17T17:43:00.000-04:00

I love you for comprehending the importance of The Bachelor finale. I love you for knowing the names of most of the Real Housewives. I love you for getting in to Idol with me this year, even though Simon is gone. I love that your least favorite show is America's Next Top Model, but you understand my need for pretending I'm 6 feet tall and fiercely photogenic. I love that you have been known to tear up over Parenthood and that you rewind Modern Family when Gloria bounces into a room. I love that together we solve the sexual crimes of New York City alongside Benson and Stabler and that we have helped keep Dexter safe. I love that Dwight Shrute and Ron Swanson get us through the week, and that you understand why Hank Moody and Jon Stewart are so amazing.

I don't ever want to share a remote control with anybody else. It's way too intimate.

See George? I Love Sports.

2011-03-16T23:21:00.000-04:00

Everybody's doing it.
I shall be no exception.
My husband loves sports.
I too shall love sports.

Who am I kidding?

But I will participate by way of a March Madness bracket.
I AM from Kansas, after all.
Home of The Phog.
That's got to mean something, right?

I studied at The University of Kansas for crap's sake.
I graduated from high school in Indiana.
Hello??? Heard of Bobby Knight?
Predicting basketball championships should be a piece of cake for me.
Geographically speaking.

So I spent tonight ~~randomly~~ carefully selecting my predictions.
But not for money.
Because that wouldn't be legal.
And I don't break rules.

Mona and Millie got baths tonight.
And their March Madness collars were exhumed from their drawer.
Mona is rocking garnet & gold.
And The Fat One is rocking crimson & blue.

I understand why you'd wanna copy me.
I do.
I'm flattered.
I seem like a genius.
But I'm not.
Just a girl who took 23 seconds to complete my NCAA bracket picks for 2011.

If you care, I say Kansas takes it! Rock Chalk!

What's Tina Got To Do With It?

2011-03-15T21:00:00.000-04:00

We spent this weekend in DeLand visiting my in-laws. (Isn't that kind of a strange word, like "step" dad?) Without meaning too, it sounds negative? Not the point, Jen. Stick to the point.

George had family in from New York, plus it was his brother's birthday. But rather than enjoy family time, I found myself thrashing in the grips of a migraine. I have dealt with migraines for years. I experienced my very first migraine in college, and at the time, I was absolutely certain I was going to die. I couldn't rationalize anything. I couldn't see. I couldn't walk. I couldn't talk. I couldn't do anything but prepare for my brain to burst into a million bloody little pieces.

But it didn't. I spent a night in the ER learning about my sky high prolactin levels and the probability of a pituitary tumor. It was an absolutely fascinating diagnosis. Amidst my pain, the doctor described symptoms most common in patients with elevated prolactin levels, and every single one of them was something I'd been dealing with, but dismissing, for the past year. This was the moment I began to realize the vicious games my hormones played, and how something seemingly so unrelated could be explained by the tiniest imbalance in the tiniest gland within my skull.

Years later, a teensy little bump showed up on an MRI. And that, is how Tina Tumor was born. Today, she causes me to lactate, toys with my vision from time to time, causes me to feel claustrophobic, brings on an occasional migraine, and is the primary suspect in my inability to get pregnant. We aren't friends. I hate her, actually. So does George. I blame her when I'm a "little" moody. Gotta love a scape goat, right?

I wasn't able to really participate in a ton of family activity this weekend, but I did manage to get a few pictures. A girl's gotta continue perfecting her craft. That camera ain't gonna learn itself - migraine or not!

Sir, You Have Studly Sperm!

2011-03-11T18:29:00.001-05:00

Relief. I had no doubts, but George's swimmers came back with glowing results! Good news! Great news!!! The bad news for him is that I'm going to continue preparing his intense vitamin regimen each week. Poor dude. It's a wonder he can even fit lunch in his stomach with all those pills! Such a team player, that guy.

So, all accusatory eyes are back on me. I'm the only one with the funk. And I can work with that! Fixing one person seems a lot easier than fixing two. You.Go.Boys.

Dear George's Sperm:

You guys rock! We plan to treat you to hot wings this week!

Love and Fertilization,

Jen's Ovaries

One Hairy Homeboy

2011-03-09T21:21:00.000-05:00

His nose is a joke. He's got 80's rockstar hair. And his torso is relatively proportionate to his legs.

He's no dachshund, but we are babysitting anyway. The wieners are interested in him.

Confused, but interested.

And, since he doesn't know George, he's sticking close to me.

We are buddies. :-)

Toto, I Don't Think We're In Kansas Anymore!

2011-03-08T06:08:00.001-05:00

This post is comes from a memoir prompt from The Red Dress Club. The assignment is to describe a scene in your life that would help someone you just met understand who you are. This is an exercise in showing and not telling.

It was the first time I'd ever not made it, not sailed through an interview, and not gotten the job. It felt rotten. It was the first time I cursed my previously charmed life for not setting me up for rejection. Today, all of my life's successes seemed almost unrecognizable next to this one, small, seemingly insignificant dismissal.

I'd interviewed for a night job waiting tables at a casual Italian restaurant. I was light years overqualified, but had gotten in over my head with my beautiful, yet massively overpriced apartment. To subsidize unexpected expenses, I needed to swallow my pride and make some fast cash. Something that wouldn't interfere with my day job, but would give me the most bang for my buck. My 9 to 5 provided stress. I did not need more of that. I simply wanted to sling lasagna, collect tips, and go home.

I sat across a sticky table while the pompous manager raised his eyebrows and pretended to really absorb my resume. It was saturated with qualities that I knew made him question my motive for even applying.

"Look, I have a day job. But, I just moved here from Kansas, and I don't know a soul, and I need some extra money, and I was hoping I could just pick up few shifts here each week."

After explaining his vision, mission statement, and team member expectations, he politely told me I wasn't "quite what they were looking for".

Blow me. I left pissed off. I felt rejected by the boy I didn't even want in the first place. It was for the best, right?

I drove home and opened the front door to the apartment that was driving me broke. It was empty. And quiet. Just as everything had been since I abruptly loaded my life and my dogs into a Uhaul and headed to Florida. I slipped off my shoes to feel the tile, the tile that always seemed to remind me that I now lived in the south. Branches filled with rubbery Magnolia leaves dipped by my window, and taunting mini lizards rested on the glass. This was my home.

Me, Millie & Libby - April 2003

My Moving Team.
Young, Brave, Clueless.

I'd probably made a mistake. I'd made the split decision to uproot my life, leave my family, leave my friends, and write a new story, with new, sandier landscape. I'd made my career my priority. I hadn't given myself the time to bullet pros and cons. I'd just done it. And then, when I'd arrived, I rented the first apartment I could find and had been pinching pennies and scraping by ever since. So much for my first big girl salary.

I spent a thousand nights making dinner for one. I drove a thousand miles with the dogs on my lap under canopy roads exploring my new terrain and finding my new favorite places. I spent a thousand hours on the phone with my mother describing the suffocating humidity, and the alligator that lived in the holding pond near my office. I said a thousand thank you's for having the determination to make this foreign land my new home.

I needed a break. I had been skirting by on luck and a positive attitude, and I just needed a flipping break. I was proud of myself. I was working like a dog, feeling my way around my new job and trying like hell to look calm on the surface. But I was lost - in over my head. And I needed that second job. It would be just enough to bail me out and get me by, and without it, I'd be screwed.

But I didn't get it. I'd failed at the shittiest thing I'd ever tried out for. Now what? My DNA had never allowed me to throw in the towel before. I knew that wasn't an option. So I didn't.

Eight years later, I sit in the kitchen I share with my new husband. My feet are planted on the chilly tile, and my dogs rest on the rug in front of the kitchen sink while our dinner simmers on the stove. I look out the window to see the first lizards of Spring staring back at me. Magnolia trees fill in the background and will never be anything less than remarkable. They remind me of how far I've come, and how lost I had to get in order to find my way home.

Set for Sandal Season

2011-03-07T06:02:00.000-05:00

Just Us Girls

2011-03-06T19:54:00.000-05:00

George ditched us for the weekend, which, as you already know, makes me the happiest homegirl in town. I love George. I LOOOOVE him. He is funny in a way that I cannot explain. He's a great roommate. He's tidy. He's snuggly. He's thoughtful. He's everything. But all that said, I cherish a single girl weekend like Oprah cherishes Gayle.

My weekends alone are always super exciting. I get hammered. I spend obscene dough out at the clubs. I normally rent a limo. I sky dive once or twice, end up with a few hickeys, buy extravagant spa treatments, and get tattoos.

This weekend, however, was a bit more low key. Shayna and I banked some hours of friend time before she moves to Orlando. Did I tell you that? She's moving. Inconsiderate. I'm pretty sure I might decide to go with her and stow away in the Uhaul.

But in the meantime, we ate sushi, let our dogs play, experimented with my camera, and wore no makeup. Glorious. I rocked an elastic waist band alllll weekend long. Nice, right?

George will be home tonight and will be resting up for his donation tomorrow. Damn you, Monday.

Hope you all had a great weekend!

Oh, and by the way... since I'm pretty sure I'm Ansel Adams these days, I started a Flickr feed. If you are at all interested in where my photo experiments are being posted, click here. I'd love feedback on my shots as I'm flying blind. :-)

Ma'am, I'm Gonna Need You To Lose Some Weight.

2011-03-05T20:51:00.000-05:00

This post was inspired by Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop. Check her out, link up, be inspired. This week's writing prompt was to compare what you were writing about last year to this year.

My mother says that once I started to walk, I never fell. Sure, I walked later than most toddlers, but either way, I didn't fall. I am cautious by nature. I was a dork at the skating rink, hanging on to the side bar, trying to look cool. I was ridiculously old (maybe 11) before I learned to ride a bike. I don't speed when I drive. I properly eject flash drives from my computer. I studied for my marriage like I was taking the LSAT. I follow rules. I am PETRIFIED of failure.

This time last year, I was preparing to ~~trap~~ marry George. I battled like a gang member trying to change my body from one that I hated to one that I could deal with. I won. Sort of. No, I wasn't NEARLY the vision I wanted to be, but I could see myself in a photo and not shudder. I promised, swore, declared, and put my stern fist DOWN. I would NEVER do that to my body again. I would NEVER be ashamed of myself again. I would only improve upon my wedding body. I had worked so hard. I would NOT let myself down. I would not fail.

But, I did. Failed, failed, flippity failed. Carnie Wilson style. (God, I love Wilson Phillips.) I ate like I had been homeless on our honeymoon. I "took a two week break" from the gym. And then was so tired from the honeymoon, I took another break. And then I got busy with work, and then I had a death in the family, and then I had surgery, and then, and then, and then. I am a slot machine of excuses. A fat slot machine.

I have been trying everything to get pregnant. My vitamin regimen is nuts, daily temping, Pre-Seed (get that, by the way), OPK's, fertility jewelry, positive attitudes, research, reading, standing on one foot - the works. But the one thing that I've not done is lose some effing weight. It makes me so mad at myself. I don't want to live in this body. Why would a baby?

And aside from the aesthetics, it's not healthy. Once, when I was having a fertility pity party, I sat myself in the corner of a bookstore and read chapters from Dr. Oz's, "YOU - Having a Baby". There was a chapter that discussed overweight mothers and the impact it can have on your fetus. He described the baby's lungs as being made of cellophane and that, when the mother is fat, the cellophane lungs have trouble fully functioning. The imagery was impactful, and at the time, I felt super uppity to have lost all that weight so I wouldn't put my baby in harm's way. Why, in the name of Oprah, would a yo-yo dieter like me EVER feel superior about losing a few pounds?!?!?

So, over the last couple of weeks I've been dipping my toe back into healthy water. And by dipping, I really mean, hovering over healthy water and not taking ~~much~~ any action. I blame my hormone imbalances all the time. I blame Tina's meds, my sore foot, my dogs, my job, my shoes, my polycystic ovaries, my lack of workout clothes. I'd blame you if I could. But, you already know... I have only one person to blame. Yep. Paula Deen. I kid.

Maybe I'll get my shit together this week? Or next week? Or the week after? But either way, I can't fail again. I can't do that to myself, my George, my future child. I could kick my own ass over this. My fear of failure is preventing me from getting back on the horse. Doesn't that sound absolutely absurd??? I know. But, it's the truth. I am a failure at failing before I even fail. I have a headache now.

This time next year, I'm certain I will be posting about how many bikinis I own. It'll be so obnoxious and self indulgent that you'll stop reading. Just a warning. :-)

The River

2011-03-04T07:44:00.000-05:00

This prompt is inspired by The Red Dress Club.

Water gives life. Water takes is away.

We lived in the country. In the middle of nowhere. With a river less than half a mile behind our old farm house. It was my mother who had the flexible work schedule. The kind that regularly left her with me during the day. But not today. Today, it was my dad. Home from work. No mom.

I was eight years old.

Dressed in my bathing suit, covered by cut off jean shorts with tattered fringe tickling my legs, we walked through the tree row leading to the sand bar. When we hit the sand, I slipped off my keds and let the golden sand warm the bottoms of my tanned and dirty feet. Feet my mother would have been ashamed of.

What a fun day.

Just me, and my dad. And our german shepherd.

We walked along the shore. I collected broken muscle shells, trying to find the one with the most brilliant pearlescent pink interior.

He taught me to skip rocks. Or, tried to. I was never very coordinated.

It was hot. So hot. My jean shorts stuck to my skinny thighs and sweat raced down my back.

What a great day.

I stripped off my shorts and waded into the rushing water. Have you ever spent time at the river? It is LOUD. But peaceful.

You can't swim in the river really. But the water was cold. Unbelievably cold considering the 100 degree temperatures that had burdened the summer.

I was now in the water up to my waist. Hot, sweaty shoulders and cold, satisfied legs and toes.

The water became deeper. My shoulders submerged. Finally, I was no longer hot at all.

I was eight years old. Safe.

Until the current became stronger than I was prepared for. I was eight feet from my father. And eight years old. Facing him. I could feel the water pull me away. I felt I was being kidnapped. The sound of the river faded away. I felt fear, but couldn't yell. I had nothing but panic on my face. Wide eyes. Scared eyes.

But my father didn't look scared. He didn't panic. He smiled at me. I fought against the current, feeling as if the water was going to sweep me away, pull me under, take away my life. And my dad would be helpless against this power. Helpless. And he would watch me drown. And his whole world would be flipped upside down. His only daughter. Gone before his eyes.

He'd been crouched in the water, allowing his shoulders to feel the relief of the cold river. Slowly, he stood up. Water to just under his muscular chest. As I tried to fight against the force of the flowing river, he waded toward me telling me to be calm.

He didn't understand. The current was too strong for me. I was weak. And once I lost strength, the inertia would whisk me away forever. He was calm. Too calm. But I was frozen and couldn't tell him how scared I was, how scared HE should be.

He reached out his arms. Long, strong, sturdy "dad" arms. I grabbed his hand. Steady, rough, calloused "dad" hands. Effortlessly, he pulled me toward him. The power of the current had nothing on him. The sound of the river came back in my consciousness. The fear in my gut went away. I felt the sun on my shoulders again.

And just like that, I returned to being eight years old. Not a care in the world.

What an amazing day.

Technology

2011-03-03T06:48:00.000-05:00

The alarm clock on my personal cell phone is set to three different times with three different ring tones. I wake up in increments to the sounds of Jason Mraz, O.A.R., Jay Z, and finally, George Bruno. I need this gradual rousing, starting with something soft and relaxing and culminating with Jay Z making me wanna kick the snot out of the day. Then, George plops my BBT thermometer into my mouth and hands me my phones.

I check work e-mail. Then, personal e-mail. I reply to tweets. I kiss wiener dogs. And finally, drink my cyber cup of coffee by reading Nichole's post for the day.

I stumble, bent legged and holding my phones, into the kitchen where I pour something to drink and open my laptop.

I dig into a few of my other blog favorites, record my waking temperature, and then reluctantly head for the shower.

This week's You Capture challenge is Technology. Here is the shot from my table this morning. Some people need coffee. I need technology.

Progress

2011-03-02T20:03:00.000-05:00

I feel great. We met with my gynecologist today to discuss our failed attempts at pregnancy and to put in place a game plan for conception. He was understanding and proactive and has given us homework for the next two weeks. George is armed with a specimen cup and lab instructions. I will be having blood work done, a pelvic ultrasound, and a hysterosalpingogram. Then, we meet to discuss results. Then, we formulate a plan. I.Love.Progress.

What's Up Doc?

2011-03-01T22:20:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow is a big day. Or, at least I hope it is. We see the gynecologist. What? Are you cheering? Me too. I see this as a victory. And yes, an even greater victory would be to get pregnant on our own and not need this "family planning" appointment, but that's not how we roll. As evidenced by my blog, we (or me, mainly) like to get lots of people involved in our business. Why on earth would conception be any different???

I'm not the least bit saddened by the need for this appointment. I am amped up and ready. I knew, long before I met George, that I had a couple baby parts out of whack. I knew, before we even got engaged, that it was important to start taking measures to prepare my broken body for the hope to one day have our own child. So, the fact that we've not gotten pregnant has been no surprise.

Really, we've just been puttin' in our time. We've been socking away hours of trying to conceive just to create the historical data required for a medical professional to dub us infertile. We've done our best to blend The Kama Sutra and Franklin Covey. I mean honestly, if you've not organized and documented your sex life, you simply haven't lived. Truuuuust me.

Here's the problem with all of our boot knockin'... SOMEBODY, and I don't wanna name any names, hasn't been ovulating. So no matter how diligent the sex, even George Foreman couldn't fertilize me.

Insert medical professional here. This is the first milestone in our fertility journey. I feel confident in our legwork leading up to this point and am ready (like nobody's bidness) to get the show on the road. No, our appointment is not with a fertility specialist. He's my regular gynecologist, who I believe, at the very least, will induce ovulation. Get it, doc! I'm hoping for some blood work, an ultrasound, and the 'ol semen in the cup trick. Just in case, I shall pack a sports magazine in my bag. That is George's porn of choice, after all. What? You took him for a Hustler guy? Wrong-O.

I'm sure I won't know any results tomorrow. Just know I'm about to erupt with anticipation. And if the doctor doesn't understand I mean business by the binder of information I will be toting, George Bruno will be in tow to make sure I make myself VERY clear. He's my mouth muscle, and I'm grateful. Wish us luck! Or don't. Haytah. :-)

To Nose Job, Or Not To Nose Job?

2011-03-01T07:18:00.000-05:00

You should see him from the side. Wow.

This Room.

2011-02-28T07:32:00.000-05:00

This week I'm participating in a memoir assignment from The Red Dress Club. Here is my memory of a room from my past.

There was a room. My favorite room.

A room where I grew up, where I began to understand what it meant to need secrets. A room where I covertly shared forbidden wine coolers with my very best friends and forbidden kisses with my very first love. A room that was isolated at the end of the house, but right across the hall from the sleeping baby brother I'd wanted my whole life.

In this room, I'd pack in six girlfriends and a wiener dog. We'd cram ourselves end to end and giggle and gossip until the sun met the horizon.

In this room, I'd spend hours alone. I'd listen to The Cranberries. I'd scribble in my diary. I'd kiss my dog. I'd look out the window.

In this room, I'd dream of being a little girl. I'd dream of being grown up. I'd dream to be anywhere but where I was.

In this room, my brother would wake me when he had a bad dream. He'd crawl into my bed, and I would sleep - comfortably sandwiched between a warm, snuggly little boy and even warmer, snugglier dachshund.

In this room, I made promises to myself. I made promises to my friends and to my mother. I made good decisions and bad.

This room contained the closet that protected my cheerleading uniforms and my love letters, my cross country spikes and my photo albums.

This room houses my last memories of being a child. In this room, I lost myself. I found myself. I spilled my guts. And I kept secrets.

In 10 Years

2011-02-27T07:31:00.000-05:00

I'm a dreamer. I've been dreaming of the next 10 years for 20 years or better. I use to dream of how happy I would be "when". And "when" is my now. I am happy beyond measure. My family is healthy and supportive. My friends are loyal and extraordinary. My husband makes my stomach flutter and my mind relax. My home puts me at peace. My dogs give me purpose and make me laugh. And, aside from the ache of my reproductive challenges, the pieces of my puzzle "fit".

In 10 years, I hope for "infertility" to be a thing of the very distant past. I hope I can barely remember the kick-in-the-gut negative pregnancy tests, the periods that forgot to come, the eggs that failed to fertilize, and the emotional sucker punch that came from doing everything right, only to get results like you've done everything wrong. In 10 years, I hope someone says, "Didn't you struggle to get pregnant???" and I will say, "Yes, but hell that was AGES ago!!!" I hope to say this to one of my girlfriends, as we sit in the bleachers of our children's little league game, or as we meet for lunch before picking them up from school.

In 10 years, I hope to know the way my heart will sing karaoke when I see my warm, floppy baby asleep on the chest of my devoted and enamored husband. In 10 years, I hope to know the feeling of walking into a nursery to a groggy, gummy smile coming from a crib. In 10 years I hope to have played "rock, paper, scissors" with George in the middle of the night to decide who's on diaper duty. In 10 years, I hope to have seen our child form unbreakable bonds with eager and proud grandparents. In 10 years, I hope to have stressed out about what type of cupcakes to take to preschool and what type of backpack our child needs for Kindergarten.

In 10 years, I hope that George continues to dance for me on command. I hope we still use our own vocabulary, and I hope to successfully let him know what he means to me - rather, what he means to our family - every single day.

"New"lyweds For Life. Deal?

2011-02-26T08:26:00.000-05:00

I am married. This week I realized I've been married for nearly a year. Insane. I still feel like a brand "new"lywed. When does that title stop? I hope never.

I did not intend to be married. I intended to have great loves, even live with a few of them. I intended to be Goldie Hawn and have a Kurt Russell. I intended to have a baby from an anonymous donor, through adoption, or from my Kurt. At 26, I had no need to get married - only fear. It's not that I was a non-conformist. Quite the opposite actually. I have always loved tradition, love stories, and the idea of building a family. I just wasn't sure I personally was cut from the fabric of marriage.

Sure, in High School, I had huge dreams of marrying my then boyfriend, moving to Seattle, having three children, and living happily ever after. Then, I grew up. We grew apart, and my aversion to marriage began to emerge. I dated someone seriously not long after moving to Tallahassee. We lived together. We had fun together. We were both involved in our careers, really good at living together, and had minimal issues. But, we never wanted to marry one another. It wasn't discussed. It wasn't considered. People found our contentment odd. But, because we didn't want marriage, it was the perfect arrangement for us.

Then, things changed.

I met George in April of 2007. I was totally drunk on him by June. I felt completely incapable of controlling the urge to vomit my adoration all over him. I would literally have to sit on my hands to keep from typing him babbling e-mails expressing my emotions and even had to catch myself once or twice from prematurely letting the "three little words" fall clumsily from my mouth. Thankfully, his profession of love for me came just in time to prevent me from being the girl I didn't want to be. I was able to maintain my independent and level headed facade for a moment longer, and I appreciated his timing.

I was giddy and ridiculous. I probably still am. He was my Kurt - I knew it, only for some strange reason, he made me no longer want a Kurt. Suddenly, I felt sure - I needed this man to be my husband. At that moment, the only fear I had about marriage was that perhaps he wouldn't feel the same way. I spent a few months uncertain, but terribly opposed to broaching the subject. At about our six month anniversary, the evolution of our relationship had revealed our like interest, and I felt more confident than I ever had before.

Today, I am his wife. I am super proud of this title that, at one time, made me squirm. I am very serious about this role, and feel so outrageously lucky to have a partner of such extraordinary salt. Sure, I didn't need to marry him to feel this way - but somehow, it's made the best thing - even better.

Helmets For Sale

2011-02-24T07:49:00.000-05:00

Today's prompt comes from The Red Dress Club. The prompt instructs you to pretend you've just gotten into a fight with your loved one. What would you sell? Why?

Here's my revenge.

Pointless. Absolutely pointless. First of all, I blame myself. What kind of an idiot sees TWO full walls covered in teensy football helmets and sticks around for dessert? Clearly a fat girl, but still. What was I thinking? I'm not kidding. I knew you liked to collect things, but holy shit. I'd seen your car. Normal. I'd been in your bedroom. Clean. I'd marveled at your closet. Organized. I'd even snooped in your e-mail. Yawn. So when I hadn't seen your office, I thought nothing of it. Dumb ass. You know how they say you never really know someone until you've walked a mile in their shoes? Forget that. I could have walked to fucking Japan and back in yours and not have been prepared to know you like this. I now know why you kept that a secret until after I fell in love with kissing you. Fuck your kisses. Seriously. And fuck those helmets.

What purpose do they serve anyway? Remember that time when you tried to sell one on craigslist and that crazy lady called to see if it might fit her three month old? And remember how we laughed at her for thinking she should shove her three month old's soft head into a tiny replica of a collegiate football helmet? Yeah. That was funny. Except for now it pisses me off. Why was I laughing? Who does that helmet fit? A cat perhaps? Nope. I tried it. A wiener dog? Huh uh. Maybe a stuffed animal? That's just stupid.

I remember being in love. I remember moving in and never dreaming of the day I'd come between you and your precious collection. Funny how short-lived that was, huh? I've lived under the confines of over 220 pointless dust collectors for long enough. I feel completely apologetic for every house guest we've ever made sleep underneath their glare. It's fucking creepy, dude. And remember how I used to joke that "hopefully we'll have a boy"? I didn't mean that. I would NEVER make my baby sleep in that room.

So today, I'm sellin' 'em. On craigslist. For cheap. How does that feel? Stings, huh? Odd. Feels so good to me. And then, once I've collected my profit, I'm going to blow it all on sushi and Jägerbomb's. And a boob job. Stick that in your wallet and smoke it, sucka!

The "L" Word

2011-02-23T07:28:00.000-05:00

This week's You Capture project is to photograph things that begin with the letter "L". No sweat.

LOVE

LEVITATION

LEAPS

LINE UP

LIFT OFF

LAUGHTER

Don't Let Me Wear The Pants.

2011-02-22T06:07:00.001-05:00

This week I'm linking my love note to For the Love of Blogs. This is the 3rd week they've profiled love letters, and I love the opportunity to share. Link up, make some friends, feel romancey. ;-)

Today I love you for helping me find the work pants I obviously misplaced in one of the many wings of our sprawling mansion. I love you for participating in this scavenger hunt over the phone, and never being aggravated when I disturb you at work for such emergencies. I love you for keeping an immaculate closet and for understanding mine has a different type of character. I love you for helping me retrace each step of the weekend, and for saying you will hold while I check the laundry one more time.

I love you for calling me your Wordsmith. I get a little turned on every time you say it. I loved our editing sesh last night. I love your vast, "off top of your head" knowledge of Florida State baseball - even though I can't participate in sporting conversations worth a damn. I love you for being an admired opinion in the FSU athletic circuit and for writing your very first piece about your other love.

You make me weak in the knees and tickly in my guts. And by the way, I found my pants in my car. Makes sense, right?

Warmth

2011-02-21T05:24:00.002-05:00

The sunshine brings hope.

The sunshine brings growth.

The sunshine brings warmth.

This week's You Capture project was timely as it has been absolutely BEAUTIFUL in Tallahassee. I was able to practice action shots while the dogs basked in the glory of the sun. Don't you love it when your dog smiles? Makes me feel.... well, warm.