Landscaping, pregnancy, and dogs.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

No, not Arbor Day. The day the of my annual ladyexam!

Yep. Best day ever.

The good news is that my gyn is fast. Like a dueling cowboy, but with a speculum instead of a gun.

The bad news is that said gyn clearly focuses on being calm and delivering an “everything is going to be fine” message along with delivering babies. This means that my “We worked with a reproductive endocrinologist and decided not to be science experiments and things were totally messed up down there so I went back on the pill to normalize some shit” message was met with … kind of a blank stare. 

And then? Then, she said that if I went off the pill, I’d probably get pregnant.

Riiight. Because I haven’t already been on enough of an emotional rollercoaster. Thanks for that.

Without going into too many details … the ol’ fertilization is never going to happen for us. And while I’ve gotten the “relax and it will happen when you least expect it” message from lots of folks, I really didn’t expect it from my own doctor at this point in the game. Because if she looked at the records from the repro endo, she’d know there’s no “probably get pregnant” going on in this here oven.

After my appointment, I sat in my car in the parking lot and weighed the release of crying versus the mascara damage. I opted for intact eye makeup and a laissez-faire attitude.

I know my gyn doesn’t specialize in infertility. I know she wasn’t being malicious. She was probably making small talk. Tee hee!

I just have to close the “maybe this will happen” chapter. It’s just too brutal. I need to stop being so sensitive about, oh, stuff like my ladydoctor telling me I could catch pregnancy, like a cold. I need to focus on other ways to allocate my energies and - dare I say it - love.

I know you can’t really tell your gyn that you don’t want to talk about your ladybusiness, but to everyone else? Those acquaintances who figure we’ve been married for almost 2 years, and the friends who can’t quite wrap their heads around us saying no to invasive fertility treatments? To these folks, I say, “GET OFFA MY LAWN!”

Wherein “lawn” means “ladywomb.”

It occurred to me today that we should name our next dog Vern, after the hippie minister who married us. Because Vern is an awesome name for a dog, and it would be a compliment to our officiant. After all, it would mean we’d named our child after him.

Maybe this random thought is a sign.

Beauties and baked goods.

As I'm sure you know, this weekend was Miss America.

Since we hosted family this weekend and the people demanded NFL games, the pageant got DVRed. But I didn't watch it alone later, in shame. Oh, no. No, my husband actually requested that we watch it together because, and I quote: "It's fun to watch that stuff with you."

I guess my bipolar pageant disorder is entertaining. On 1 hand, I minored in women's studies and think it's shady that women are required to wear swimsuits as part of a "scholarship competition."

On the other hand? I am a catty, catty bitch. And my mom used to run our local Miss America pageant, and I love all pageants and know that Miss Mississippi used to be required to live for a year with pageant consultants before competing for Miss America and I also know how to tape boobs and Miss America is the only true pageant because it has a talent component and Miss USA is a ju-co dropout poseur and blah blah blah.

So, yeah.

We sat on the couch and commented on evening gowns and groaned at some questionable "talents." Then, I fell in love with My Guy all over again when he said, "I kind of hate the swimsuit competition. None of these women are attractive - they're all way too thin. I don't ever want to see your abs, OK?"

Well, if you say so. OK.

Then, to cement the deal as well as stay with the no-abs theme, he asked, "Is Miss Iowa's talent going to be making bars and frying up some tenderloins?"

Sadly, no. Miss Iowa was a hellova tap dancer and got 4th runner up. However, I'm sure she can also make hella-awesome bars.

Are bars a thing where you live? You know, bars - like, brownies, but not chocolate? What you take to a potluck or the church luncheon after a funeral?

Mall parking lots and taxidermy.

My Guy and I went to the mall tonight.

Yes, this is news and definitely blog-worthy. My sweet husband hates to shop and especially hates to shop for clothes. So, when he mentioned that maybe at some point possibly in the future we could maybe go to Eddie Bauer because he wanted to look for a shirt, I practically threw him in the car.

We went to the mall. We went directly to Eddie Bauer. My Guy tried on a record 8 shirts and actually  purchased 3 and a vest. This is the equivalent of several years of wardrobe stocking. The trip was a wild success!

Walking out, I noticed a small black car with a ham radio license plate. These always catch my eye, as my dad is a ham with a ham radio plate. As hobbies go, it seems ham operators are kind, decent folk. As my brother once pointed out, though, there aren't a lot of sexy people in the hobby.

I don't know about you, but I always look for the sexiest hobbies. That's why I was drawn to blogging. Obviously.

Anyway ... the car with the ham radio plate was also one of those cars with lots of stuff in it. And stuff in the back window. Stuff like ... a stuffed squirrel.

Now, I kind of figure that standing over a strange car in a mall parking lot is the type of thing that can get you picked up by the mall cops and thrown in mall jail. But this was a risk I had to take tonight.

I leaned over the car and really examined the squirrel. The teeth and claws were clearly real.

Yes.

I had stumbled upon the car of a ham radio operator who tools around town with a taxidermied squirrel in his back window. And that car was parked outside of Nordstrom.

Why oh why would anyone feel compelled to taxidermy a squirrel? And why put said taxidermied squirrel in the back window of your Nissan? Are you actively trying to never get laid ever again? Or is the squirrel your spirit animal? If he is indeed your spirit animal, I'd think you'd want him on the front dash, starring confidently into the future, instead of in the rear, focusing on the past.

Also, if you're a squirrel, would you be insulted or pumped that your corpse was stuffed and used as the mascot of a small, cluttered import?

Seriously. How do you feel about this squirrel-as-automotive-detailing business?

In which I am tightly wound and on the verge of a meltdown.

The last 2 days at Globotron, I've been sitting in The Most Useless Training Ever.

Like, seriously. So boring. So dumb. And karma could very well hit me with dementia or Alzheimer's, because at more than 1 point today, I looked around the room and thought that 90% of the folks in the room were complete morons. Dumber than boxes of rocks.

An example of the dumb is the woman who presented a style guide to the group ... an editorial style guide that directed users to follow completely made-up rules of punctuation. These guidelines have never before been used in any version of the English language or any weird language that twins teach each other.

As a native English speaker, I was offended. As a professional writer and editor, I was livid. And I pretty much spontaneously combusted when someone questioned the made-up rules and was told, "We're past the point of debating these guidelines. Now is the time to implement them."

Whaaat?

See, there are rules. Rules for language, rules for working and playing well with others, rules for being a decent human being. As a life-long Good Girl, I have followed the rules forever. And I'm offended when people think the rules don't apply to them.

I feel like I'm the only person following the rules.

I feel like the only person who recognizes that proper comma usage is the 1 thing that separates us from our simian brethren. I'm also the only person who seems to understand that kitchen counters need to be wiped down several times a day or the terrorists win.

These seemingly small things help me feel like I have some modicum of control. Which, if we're being honest, I don't.

I need to let go and let God, or at least take to my bed in a very Tennessee Williams sort of way. Except that we don't have teevee in our bedroom and I'm not sure I have the energy to read.

Dirty little secret.

This weekend, My Guy and I helped his sister and her husband prep their nursery. They've been married a few weeks and are still in the midst of combining households. Their daughter is due in March.

The weekend was emotionally exhausting - maybe that's why I haven't blogged for several days. I have post traumatic stress disorder.

My task at hand was cutting in the pale lilac paint in the nursery. Yeah, I freehanded it. Yeah, I'm totally an excellent painter after painting our entire house. Lookit me go!

Except.

In the midst of working my trim magic, I realized I was painting someone else's nursery. You know, safely breathing in those paint fumes, like the infertile, completely not-pregnant woman I am.

And then? Then, all I could think about was the Huey Lewis and The News song, "Doin' It All For My Baby." Damn you, Huey Lewis! I love you, but damn you and your baby-centric propaganda!

So, I painted pale lilac walls for my niece. I hummed Huey Lewis songs and said a little prayer - for her, for me, for us.

And hygiene for all!

Good news, world! Our hot water heater is now functioning. This means that after 2 long, stinky days, I managed to take a shower today.

As you might imagine, I stood in the shower for about an hour and 27 minutes and scalded all the skin off my body. It was great.

Turns out, I'm not the only one with bathing on the brain.

On my dad's very first day of retirement, he got a call from someone wanting to sell him a walk-in bathtub.

My dad hits the treadmill every day and can probably out-push-up you. So, this tale made me snort in a most unladylike way. My Guy's response was way better.

"Yeah, he should get on that," he said. "Is he making arrangements to get his Lil' Rascal, too? They'll help him with the insurance, to make sure he gets his scooter."

I'm not sure we'll be invited back to my folks' house anytime soon. But we have hot water! Yay!

I don't ask much. Really.

Today was supposed to be my first day back at Globotron after a week and a half off.

Supposed to.

See, I've been hunched over with the worst cramps. Like, I know it's totally TMI, but ohholyOprah, I am in so much pain.

So, after moaning my way through Tuesday, I decided I'd just work from home today. Except that the pain kept me awake for 3 hours in the middle of the night. By the time 6 a.m. rolled around, I sent a quick email explaining that I had a migraine and would try to log in later. Because you can't tell your male boss that your uterus is falling out of your body.

I'm so annoyed by this job and so dread going back that I didn't even feel bad about taking a sick day. I didn't even feel bad about using ladyproblems as an excuse for the first time since I tried to get out of P.E. in junior high.

So, I rolled over and slept until 11. At that point, I decided that the 1 thing that would make me feel good would be a steaming hot shower. Hot, hot, hot.

I slouched into the bathroom and turned on the water. And waited. And waited. And waited.

It never got hot.

I went down to the basement and discovered water dripping out of the bottom of our hot water heater, soaking various items in the basement.

You can see where this is going.

I never got my shower. And I never logged in to work. Instead, I coordinated getting our hot water heater replaced. This, despite the fact that I hadn't washed my hair in 5 days and my lady business was trying to kill me from the inside out.

The good news is that the HVAC guys who did a bunch of work for us this summer were able to come over quickly and get things moving. And when My Guy questioned the quote, my silence effectively told him that this was not a time to shop around, haggle, or otherwise mess with his poor, put-upon spouse.

The bad news is that it's almost 10 p.m. and we still don't have hot water. We're still waiting for the on-call night dude to come over, as the pilot light on our new water heater is very fickle, and won't stay lit long enough to actually heat any water.

You know who could really, really use a hot shower right about now? And who is trying really hard to be all flexible and in love with her body and all its cycles but really just wants to kill somebody?

Uh-huh.