Why I didn't post yesterday.

As part of our adventures in trying to get knocked up, I had dye shot through my ladyparts yesterday. You know, to make sure everything is there where it's supposed to be and that my innards contain actual ladybits and not that monster from "Alien."

This little beaute of a medical adventure is called an HSG. I'm not totally sure what that stands for, so I'm going to say it's short for holyshitgirl. As in, "Holyshitgirl, that was the most horrendous thing ever in the history of horrendous things."

I wasn't exactly sure I wanted to be doing this in the first place. And the hospital didn't have a record of my appointment, so I had to talk to a bunch of different people, and it gave me hope that just maybe they wouldn't be able to fit me in - so I'd escape!

Except that they did fit me in. And they shot me full of air and iodine and it hurt so badly that I shuddered in shock and started crying. And then I couldn't stop crying, and my ears got soggy. Then, the doctor informed me that he was trying to be gentle, but didn't get enough oomph or whatever, so he had to start over.

It was about this time that I began focusing on the bolt in the ceiling. That bolt was my best friend in the whole world. No one understood me like the bolt. We'd get through this, Bolty and me!

I did some yoga breathing. I kept crying. I realized that I was white-knuckling the neckline of my hospital gown with both hands, just because I needed something to hold on to, to brace myself. Finally, the nightmare was done. I got dressed, was shocked at how little the 4 preventative ibuprofen I'd taken had helped, and hightailed it outta there.

To add insult to injury, I had to pay to park in the hospital garage. By the time I made it to the garage attendent, I was full-on crying. But I somehow managed to have exact change, and I figured that I wasn't the only person who left the hospital garage crying - either from sad hospital stuff or the $2.75 hourly rate in a town of free garages.

I've been in pain since yesterday, despite the ibuprofen, wine, and stash of Thin Mints. And mostly? Mostly, I'm wondering what the fuck we're doing.

Seriously.

I've never been the woman who thinks she has to experience pregnancy and childbirth in order to be fulfilled as a woman or person or whatever. I don't think I'm any genetic prize, and I'm not some thoroughbred horse, anyway, so it doesn't matter. And there are kids who need homes.

And really? I don't want to get poked and proded like yet another dehumanized, upper-middle-class, waited-too-long science experiment just so we can have biological kids. I realize my current outlook is colored by my experience yesterday, but really? This whole infertility escapade seems like total bullshit.

So, yeah. I'm processing.

Is it just me? This is weird, right?

I'm meeting some interesting characters at Mega Corporate Behemoth. Case in point: Oblivious Coworker.

I've had all of these conversations with OC. I'm not even kidding.

Me, admiring the hydrangeas on OC's desk: These are lovely! We just planted a hydrangea.
OC: Did you plant a blue one?
Me: Yeah.
OC: You know, I saw a house with blue hydrangeas out front, and it just looked weird.
Me: Uh?

--

OC: So, with this project, we need to OHMIGOD, what is that? Is that your lunch bag?
Me: Uh? Yeah?
OC: OHMIGOD, how old is that?
Me: Uh? A year or 2? It's just a reusable Whole Foods bag ...
OC: OHMIGOD, it's just so beaten down!

--

OC: I need a writer's opinion on something, and you'll just have to do.
Me, a professional writer: OHMIGOD. Gee, OK!
OC: Geez, don't get so huffy. Anyway ...

!Viva la introvert!

I had the good, good fortune of hosting (hostessing?) the lovely Mrs. G. on her roadrip. If you aren’t familiar with Derfwad Manor, I suggest you check it out - its proprietress is a wickedly funny, talented, amazing woman.

So, you’re taking kind of a risk when you invite an Internet friend to stay at your house. What if she’s crazy, and this road trip is just a way to feed her kleptomaniacal desires? And we’ll wake up to find she’s taken all of our furniture, sort of like The Grinch? Or what if she’s mean, or smells bad, or wants us to join her cult, which would require us to shave our heads, even though I’ve spent the last, oh, 5 years trying to grow out my tresses?

Well, none of those were the case with Mrs. G. She is hilarious and kind, and joked that she worried we heard her search for toilet paper and thought she was going through our bathroom stuff. And double kudos that she laughed when My Guy responded, “Oh, we weren’t worried. The web cam will pick all that up.”

So, Mrs. G. and I visited a ton, and ate a ton, and went antiquing. Then, we headed to a party given in Mrs. G.’s honor. And there were more kind, funny, amazing women there, too! And they brought delicious foodstuffs.

I brought a salad. And stains from said salad down the front of my dress. And my sparkling, but occasionally shy, personality.

Everybody was so nice! And I felt stretched by meeting 8 whole new people! Because I am more introverted than I like to admit!

I felt like I filled my quota for social interaction. That’s not a statement on the company at all - in fact, I’m embarrassed to even admit it. But really?

I’m so tired. I’m tired of doing new things and going new places and meeting new people. Many of the constants in my life 2 months ago are basically gone, and I guess I’m overwhelmed. Sort of like when Foxie Doxie gets overwhelmed and hides under the blankets on our bed.

Except, instead of finding someplace at the hostess’s house to hide, I stayed at the party. And I hope the other guests didn’t think I was a freak. I guess staying at the party and being on the quiet side was far less freaky than, oh, say, hiding under the covers in the master bedroom of someone I’d just met. So, kudos to me, right?

It takes a lot of energy and bravery to push our boundaries. Mrs. G. is doing a fine job of it right now. It will be my turn … later. And that’s OK.

Love me, love my gut.

I think we can all agree that there's nothing more horrendous than hearing about someone else's dietary issues. So, I'll make this as long, complicated, and hideously boring as possible.

I've stopped eating gluten. When one of the various and sundry ladydoctors told me that I probably had polycystic ovarian syndrome, I started trying to figure out if I could keep such craziness at bay by, you know, eating more rutabagas or something. Or, any rutabagas.

Funny, but it seems that lots of folks have issues with wheat.

Considering that I ate Frosted Mini-Wheats for breakfast every morning, and wheat germ on my yogurt every lunch, I thought about cutting those out. So, I did. And I also stopped eating bread and pasta and sweet jeeeeeezus, there is gluten in everything.

So, I'm eating quinoa and gluten-free pretzels. And lots of apples. And some other stuff, too. I haven't given up beer, but c'mon - let's not be totally crazy. But here's the thing: I can tell when I've splurged and had some beer or (gasp!) eaten part of a bun. My gut gets all unhappy and knotty.

Plus? I've lost 5 pounds.

I know, right?

I wouldn't go so far as to say I have a wheat allergy or anything like that. But I will say that I feel better without the mass quantities of wheat in my diet. Considering that my family were wheat farmers, and my sweet grandpa even had wheat in the flower arrangement on his casket? I feel sort of guilty.

But mostly? Mostly, I need to come up with a great, folksy name for "I feel better when I don't eat wheat." Because I'm jealous of people who have diabetes, who can simply say, "Oh, I've got the sugar." Or, if they're being really descriptive and technical, "I gots the sugarbeeties."

Here are some options:

• Glutenapathy
• Glutenoma
• The wheaties
• Glutosis
• Wheatbeeties
• Grainophobia

Help a gluten-free girl out. I'm looking for something that says, "Gee, she's down-home, even though she will be a giant pain to feed. Her folksiness makes her dietary restrictions totally worth it!" What do you suggest?

Leadership material.

The cool thing about being the newbie contractor is that you are detached from everything ... and everyone. So, you notice ... stuff.

Case in point?

On my first day, some random woman came to my cube. "Welcome, Cha Cha! I'm Jan!"

I thought it was nice that this random coworker stopped by to introduce herself. "Oh, nice to meet you, Jan," I said. "Where do you sit?"

And with what I thought was a friendly conversation-starter, my new coworker positively recoiled.

"I ... am your DIRECTOR," she said. "I sit in that big office waaaay over there." She gestured.

"Oh, great," I said ... and watched her waltz away.

OK. Somebody takes the corporate hierarchy pretty seriously.

Yesterday, a new contractor joined the team. Jan welcomed her, too. I overheard the whole thing.

"Welcome, New Contractor. I'm Jan!"

"Oh, nice to meet you," the newbie said.

And then there was ... an awkward silence. That went on. And on. And on. In my fantasy, Jan the Director was waiting for the newbie to grovel or genuflect. But newbie? Just sat there.

Finally, Jan couldn't take any more overt disrespect. "OK," she said. And walked away.

I think it's impossible to make it to senior leadership in a corporate environment unless you're literally insane. Amiright?

Sometimes? You gotta own who you are.

I'm not going to be able to walk tomorrow. Tonight, My Guy and I walked to a park and shot hoops.

I don't know about you, but I am 100% certain that the free-throw line has been moved farther away from the hoop than when I was a young whippersnapper, hatin' my way through all things phys ed.

Seriously. The hoop was so. Far. Away.

But, much like the time My Guy held a little impromptu clinic and taught my entire family how to successfully catch a football, I learned some stuff tonight. He gave me some pointers on pushing off with my right hand, and just using my left hand to balance the ball, blah blah blah. Basic jock stuff.

We ran around. I looked like an idiot. It was fun. I felt mildly athletic-like.

In the middle of playing, I mentioned that my brother and Mrs. Poochie drove to northern Minnesota, ran a half marathon, and car camped this weekend. The catch was that they forgot mosquito repellent.

Have you ever been to Duluth? It is lovely. But the mosquitoes are unionized, and are all the size of trash trucks.

My Guy laughed. And then he really, really laughed.

"Ohmigod," he said. "What if I told you that we were going to drive many, many hours? Then stay at a Travelodge? Then run many, many miles? And then camp? With no mosquito spray?"

He doubled over laughing.

"What," I said / asked, attempting a meager swagger.

"That is hilarious! It's the ultimate never-gonna-happen vacation for you, my pretty princess," he said, choking a bit on his own hilarity.

I was dribbling a little better than a 10-year-old. I was sweaty, and pretending like I shoot hoops all the time, and that running and being all athletic was just, you know, how I roll.

I thought about it. I wanted to give My Guy a hard time, but I couldn't even pretend.

"Well, first of all," I said, "I don't stay in no Travelodge."

And then he collapsed laughing, and I had to carry him home. Or, actually, I should have carried him home, but I could have broken a nail. And it was hot. And I needed time to apply a clarifying mask to my delicate, never-going-camping face.

*I have stayed in Travelodges - I don't mean to hate. But keep in mind that I was raised by a woman who considers staying at a Holiday Inn "roughing it."

Watching Muppets with me? Life-changing.

Yesterday, I mentioned one of the worst days of my life. Much like yoga, a good blog requires the opposite action to keep things balanced and lubricated. So, let’s get our WD-40 on, and I’ll tell you about my friend Leeza and her kids.

When I hosted book club recently, Leeza reported that her kids were thrilled to learn that it was book club night … because they think every book club is hosted at their house, which translates into a variety of yummy snacks at their disposal. They have not quite mastered the theory of mom-goes-somewhere-else-and-that’s-where-book-club-is-meeting.

This particular evening, Leeza explained that book club was at my house. The 2 younger kids looked at her blankly. Cha Cha who?

The oldest fulfilled her obligation as The Oldest Kid and quickly took charge. “Oh, you know Cha Cha,” she said. “She babysat us, like, 2 years ago? And we watched The Muppets Take Manhattan. And it was one of the best nights of my life!”

Well.

While I'm pretty sure the "best night of my life" had more to do with Kermit & Co. than with me, I'm gonna take it as basically the best compliment ever.