Congratulations! You've Had a Baby! 1940s-style.

Part of the Paperwork Onslaught from Operation Granparents included a book the hospital gave my grandmother when my mom was born.

It's a gem. Now, as we all know, I don't have kids. So while I can't attest to the hilarity that this might induce, I do want everyone to know what the world perpetrated on mothers in the 1940's.

First, you open the book to great, creep-tastic Wartime ads.







No pressure, there, sport.














Then there are "articles":

Do's and Don'ts (my comments are next to the text)

Do: Keep your baby on an exact time schedule as far as possible.
Do: Bathe your baby every day. In hot weather, he should also be sponged two or three times a day. (really? two to three times a day? who does this?)
Do: Be sure the baby gets at least sixteen hours sleep a day the first year and from twenty to twenty-two hours sleep the first month. (I hear the hooting from here.)
Do: Give the baby complete quiet at feeding and sleeping hours. (It's like early Scientology!)
Don't: If you feed your baby out of a silver mug, be careful that the cup is not too hot.
Don't: give the baby tea, coffee, beer or wine of any kind, fried foods, pickles (?!), pie, lollypops, candy of any kind, nuts, pancakes, berries, ice cream cones (???), rich cakes, puddings, or meat gravies. (also: don't pound them in the head with hammer, feed them rancid meat, or let them eat out of the kitty litter box. Also: no radishes. But raw yolk is okay (see next article))
Don't rock or jounce your baby unncessarily. (DAMN that unnecessary jouncing.)
Don't let nayone kiss your baby if you can avoid it but if you cannot, let the kissing be done on the back of the baby's neck. (No, no wait! don't do that! Here, let me turn him over first: NOW you can kiss him!)
Though he cries, don't pick up your baby if he is well. A good lusty cry is excellent exercise. (Because I'm sure that's what'll run through your head: At least this is good exercise...)
Don't wash out your baby's mouth unless your doctor tells you to. (Whew! And to think: I was about to wash out my baby's mouth! WITH VODKA!)
Don't leave safety pins open. (I especially like the last one, because NORMALLY I think it's a good idea to leave safety pins open and about. However, once you have a baby, that's a bad idea. Only then.)

"This is How We Spend Our Day"
This is how the schedule starts:

5:55 a.m.: Diaper and night gown changed so that breakfast be better enjoyed.
(My friend Leah: "I don't think I dressed my kid for the first month. Or me.")
6:00 a.m.: Breakfast served--a la breast or via bottle
6:25 a.m.: Diaper replacement due.
6:30 a.m.: Back to bed for a snooze (we hope)
8:50 a.m.: (if awake) Orange juice. If sleeping, of course, do not disturb.
9:10 a.m.: Clothes off--all save the diaper-and into his crip or onto the top of his bathtub, safely strapped, for setting-up exercises of his choosing ("I'd really prefer the pilates today, mother."). Cod liver oil served "in the nude" saves spotting of clothing and is acceptable just before being dressed. (AFTER being dressed, however, it's worse than wearing white shoes after Labor Day.)

And so it goes... "10:30 a.m.: Nap, preferably out of doors." Um, really?

"2:00 p.m.: Refreshments; milk of course; egg yolk and other solids." Apparently, they didn't have that pesky salmonella back then.

And so on, until "10:00 p.m: Liquid refreshments--if infant and doctor insist. Diaper changing and back to sleep until 5:50 a.m."

Heh heh. That's exactly how I've heard of it working.

Now, this, of course, is predicated on the "6-to-6" schedule, but if you prefer, you can train your baby to the "8-to-8" schedule "if you're persistant."

"We guarantee it will sound fine to the man of the house who will not be awakened daily before break of dawn."

"His eating at 12 noon, would leave you free to keep your 1 p.m. luncheon engagements." Because I know those luncheon engagements (where does baby go? with you? I didn't know there was a baby-keeping place at luncheons) are of utmost importance to new mama's. Over, say, dressing. Or showering. Or maybe napping.

Also included in the book: all the updates from my mother's pediatrician appointments.

When Mom left the hospital, she was eight days old. And included on the "Instructions for Mothers" is
--The baby should nurse for not longer than twenty minutes
--Offer warm, b oiled water between feedings when the baby is awake.
--The formula recipe is: Carnation milk, 5 ounces, boiled water, 9 ounces, and Dark Karo CORN SYRUP, 1 and 1/2 tablespoons.

One month later:
--You can discontinue the nursing now.
--Make a formula using One large can of Carnation milk, 23 oz of water, 3.5 tbls. of Karo
--Offer 4 1/2-5 oz of this formula every 4 hours, 5 times daily
--After feedings occasionally, offer 1-2 eas. of water, to keep the mouth rinsed out.
--Give 3 drops of the Percomorphum oil twice daily. Drop this on the back of her tongue.
--At the same times that you give the oild rops, give 1/2 oz of strained orange juice diluted in 1/2 oz of water. Sweeten if necessary (sweeten????).

But really, it's in the back, where the ads get really good.





Look! It's the essentials for your baby! That include: strapping your baby in bed! Because that's totally safe! Safer than letting them ROLL AROUND LIKE COMMUNISTS! And also! a stuffed animal absolutely COVERED in chewable bite-sized buttons! BY DESIGN! It's even CALLED the "Button Buddy!" Your child's choking hazards should be portable! Now, they're conveniently attached to a dog-shaped...thing!







No, really, rub your baby's head with this bottle of... uh... stuff... seriously, we make chocolate, and that's good and tasty, right? And babies with curly hair are cute! so... no, there's no chocolate in this, but you trust us, right? And it's only a dollar!








You can't think about toilet training too early, so this ad, in this magazine given to you JUST AFTER YOU'VE GIVEN BIRTH, before you've probably pooped in a toilet yourself, is perfectly placed! But moreover, checck out our extra super special detail: yes, about half-way down, it's the TOIDEYETTE: "tall plastic shield and deflector".... Even better, strapping your child into a training potty WILL NOT GIVE THEM A TOILET COMPLEX IN ANY WAY WHATSOEVER, WE SWEAR.








Apparently they were really into strapping those kidlets down at every available opportunity. Look at this ad, from a seemingly innocent Qtips:





Yay! Qtips and a baby! It's cute! Look, it even says, "It's Fun!" "There's a cotton tip at each end of the stick to save you time." (Uh, I added that emphasis.) But all is not so innocent--no! Take another look at that Mama and happy baby:











Scary Mommy! Scary Mommy, threatening Giganto Baby with Pointy Thing! Giganto Baby, strapped in, can't escape!












I think this explains a lot about our parents, don't you?

Um...

Just a quick note. That test I was talking about? WAS NOT a pregnancy test. The results of said test probably explain why I miscarried last winter, that's what I was trying to get across. I'll talk more about it soon. But right now, the treatment kind of sucks.

General Updates

A barrel of laughs
Originally uploaded by karijean

This is an example of the what I found in my grandparents' basement.

I'm working my way through the OOODLES and OOODLES of irreplaceable and emotionally resonant family documents. But some of them are just mysterious. Take a look. And hey--if you notice anyone you recognize from YOUR family history? Two things: (a) we might be related! and (b) let me know!

I mean, I know we come from Norwegians. But apparently we come from dour, sour, cranky Norwegians. Look at those cheery cheery faces! Now I just need to NAME them.

In other updates: not much to update on the Dr. Doogie front. I got some test results last week that may explain a lot of things. I'm not being intentionally mysterious, it's just I'm not really at a place to be all, Hey Internet, Lookit Me! about it just yet. As always, though, Andrew is 100% my rock. He's helping me work through the solution. He's worked out a System. With a timetable. And alarms.

I will say, though, this is apparently the year when EVERYONE I WORK WITH is getting knocked up. I was in the lunch line with another teacher (that I work with but isn't exactly my BFF) who was all, "Hmmm, should I get milk for my heartburn?" pause pause expectant pause "Oh, maybe you don't know. I just found out that I'm pregnant."

I mean, really? Literally, this woman was, oh, seven weeks pregnant. (Scary that I know this? Yes.) And I understand when it's at the top of your mind and you feel you want to tell everyone in the world, I've been there. But you need to tell me so bad you tell me in the lunch line? I had already picked up the subtle hint about the heartburn.

Weirdo.

So school is running merrily apace. I was hoping for funny stories, but the past two weeks have been spent trying to get back up to speed, because I not only had to miss a week for my grandfather's services, but then I had to miss another day for the doctor's appointments. But I'm caught up now, so yay. Funny stories for another day.

In the meantime--can anyone ID my relatives? Thanks.

Endings/Beginnings II

My mom was an only child, so we were the only grandchildren for my Minnesotan grandparents. Not only that, Grandma was an only child too, and Grampa's only sibling had passed away in the sixties, childless. We were it, for family.

We'd visit, as often as we could. That's probably a little white lie; we could have visited more often, technically. But they were in Cold As Hell Minnesota, and we gradually spread as a family over nine time zones (although, curiously enough, pretty much all at the 45th parallel, lattitudinally speaking). As children, we went up in car trips (bookstore trip before we went, stop at Tomah for McDonalds, fight over the middle seat in the caravan). As adults we would try to visit when we were in the vicinity (which was anywhere in a five hour driving radius, because, really, when are any of us in the vicinity of Duluth? it was tough enough to be THAT close).

At the end of each visit, as we backed up out of the driveway and pointed the car towards the freeway, Grandma and Grandpa would stand, arm in arm, large and solid Grampa, tiny bird-like Grandma, forlornly waving until the car was out of sight. Even as new cars (or rental cars) had tinted windows and they couldn't tell if we were waving back (or looking at all), they would wave and wave and wave. Not frenetically, but gently, continuously, graciously.

Last Sunday, my brother, Andrew and I each packed up our clothes and whatever family pictures or documents we were salvaging from years of fruit crates. Fortunately, we had only brought one carry on suitcase, so we also grabbed a suitcase (oh, so ancient suitcase) from the collection of suitcases in the basement for our piles of precious cargo, figuring we could check it on the way back.

Mom had spent the previous day helping Grandma pack up clothes. At one point, Grandma had turned to me, showing me one of her trademark Classy Lady jackets, tailored, timeless, (in fact, the one she wore to our wedding), red and black houndstooth-checked, with subtle gold buttons, asking me if it "widows wear such things."

"Grandma," I said, "widows wear whatever they want to."

"Oh," she said faintly.

"Do you feel pretty in it?" I asked.

She looked at the jacket, with her head tilted. "Howard always liked me in it."

"It comes with us, then," Mom said decisively, and folded it gently into the suitcase that had been requisitioned for this trip.

Grandma is nearly blind, partly deaf, can't drive, and has very little short term memory and is losing her long-term memory. Convincing her that she couldn't stay in the house she and her husband had built fifty years ago was a traumatic and heart-breaking process, because she couldn't always remember which parts of the conversation she'd already had. She would be sitting quietly at breakfast, and then turn to Mom and say, "You know, dear, I think I should just stay here," as if she were politely refusing an invitation to winter in Michigan. Even after we reminded her that her doctor, the reverend at her church, and her friends all said she could not stay in her house by herself, all were relieved to know that Mom wanted to bring Grandma back with her, she would find a new reason to stay. Or rehash an old one. Again and again and again.

But there is no way possible. And each time we have to remind her of that, it's incredibly hard not to cry. Or grind our teeth into oblivion. Because it's tragic and frustrating all at the same time.

So when the time came Sunday morning for Mom and Dad to be off (they had a two-day car trip), the car was packed and all it took was getting everyone into the car. Andrew and I didn't fly out of Minneapolis until after 7 that night, and my brother's flight wasn't until that afternoon either, so we were leaving a little later. The plan was, we would do thing things to close up the house, those little things that would have been terrible for Grandma to witness. Toss any remaining food in the fridge (some of the eggs, by the way? "Use by 2006"). Take out live plants. Lock all doors, close all curtains. That kind of thing.

But first, Grandma was leaving.

We all went to the door, out into the yard. Grandma took Andrew's arm as she negotiated the steps down to the driveway. He walked slowly with her, not taking a step until he was sure of her footing. Mom tried hard not to look like she was crying. Dad forced himself to walk patiently behind the procession. Surprisingly, no last minute petitions to stay. Maybe it was the influence of walking on a man's arm, but she was graceful as she sat in the car and waved at us, her grandchildren, staying behind.

They loaded themselves into the car, Grandma in front, Mom in back with the dog, Dad driving. As they backed slowly out of the driveway, and pointed the car towards the freeway, my brother, Andrew and I stood in the driveway, waving good-bye, long past when we could tell if anyone was waving back. Or looking at all. Waving until the car was out of sight.

Endings/Beginnings

It seems weird to be in this house and not have him asleep in the chair across the room. Not have him about to walk in the door after having taken the dog for a walk. Not have him hold Grandma's hand.

Sixty eight years. That's how long they were married. We found old birthday cards, old anniversary cards, addressed "To my bride of fifty eight years", signed "You're ever-lovin' guy." We also found every check he's ever written since August 2, 1940. Every income tax return since 1955. And every piece of mailing he's ever received having to do with medicare, his bank account, or the masonic lodge he had been a part of in the fifties. No, seriously. Literally. Every. Mailing. Every newsletter, every bill, every invoice.

We found the invoice for heating repair in 1962.

This week has been a flurry of trying to find all the necessary paperwork for Grampa's accounts--insurance, social security, etc. The man was a serious packrat. On the bright side, though, that meant we found my great-grandfather's ticket from Norway to the US, and my great-grandmother's Norwegian baptismal certificate. We also found every single one of my mother's grade reports--all twelve. Including the one that said, "Mary needs to talk less with her neighbors." For a man who didn't like to talk about the past a lot, he sure kept it around. In triplicate. Just in case.

It's a conflict of bittersweet and tenderness, what I've found filed around the house. I've found itineraries and fliers for trips planned, but never taken. But I've also found every single letter my mom wrote to them, bundled and stored in a fruit crate. I've even found the letters my brother and sister and I have written to them. Of course, they were stored in a cabinet in the bathroom, but still. They were saved. (But then, so was the invoice for the bathroom tile. That was laid in 1957.)

It's bizarre, seeing a life from this vantage point. Reading letters about things he never talked about (apparently his retirement wasn't quite as gracious as he liked to talk about). Identifying the dreams that were realized--the house that they designed and built themselves, that they documented, every step of the way, that they lived in for 49 years. But also noticing that they never did visit their friends in Scotland like they wanted to. Or retire to Sun City, like they had talked about (apparently, going by the voluminous paperwork they had filed).

I'm leaving for home tomorrow, taking with me a suitcase full of irreplacable family history. Leaving behind a houseful more.

Good bye

tender
Originally uploaded by karijean

I don't know what I expected, I just know the mix of surprise and inevitability when my mother's phone call woke us up Monday morning. Inevitable because I knew it was coming. He's 92, for Jeebus' sake. Surprise because... not today. Not Grampa.

I'm leaving tomorrow to say good bye to him. Considering how hard it's been to get out there, and how rarely I've been able to go, I'm so so glad I was there two weeks ago to be able to say one more time, a million more times, how much I love him.

Happy birthday

help
Originally uploaded by karijean

So that thing? That I was doing with a friend? That's my friend there, with his son. And together, we put up a basketball hoop for Andrew.

That's right, we were smarter than a basketball hoop. And it might not even fall down! What's more, it might not even pull the garage down with it.

Putting up the hoop was a two-day cavalcade of "What the hell?" and "Who builds a garage with studs that are 21-and-a-half inches apart?" and "Ah shit--do we go back and fix that, or keep going and pretend we didn't see it?"

Amazingly enough, Andrew has tested it (with his brand new basketball) and it hasn't fallen down yet. It went exactly as I'd hoped, by the way. As we were driving home, Andrew was chattering about his brother said this, his father did that, and so on and so forth, until we turned into our driveway.... it went something like this:

"So Don said that he was never going to--HEEEEYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!"

That was a good "Hey!", just FYI.

I feel quite satisfied.

And as an aside: I checked, and I still suck at basketball.

Mountain and river from airplane

Mountain and river from airplane
Originally uploaded by karijean

I'm back. I've actually been back for two days, but they've been busy days. I (along with someone else) have been preparing a surprise for Andrew's birthday tomorrow.

Because he's not here.

We missed each other by about 30 minutes at the airport on Friday. He left just before we landed. Very very frustrating. I suppose, though, since his step-grandmother had passed away and there was a funeral and everything, you know, I suppose I don't come first. Annoyingly enough. Because I miss him like a severed limb right now. Even if he did leave a nearly completely empty fridge. A fridge so empty it's like a postmodern piece of art. Empty but for kale. Which is the next best thing to empty.

So anyway. Aggie, I will totally catch you next time I'm in the cities, but this trip was saved to meet Miss Maisie Jean. Who is so much cuter than her pictures, it's almost ridiculous. And then Miss Maisie's Mama, Leah, and Caroline and I had to catch up. I want to come up with the perfect punchline to, "So, a teacher, a lawyer and a doctor go into a bar..."

This trip was... it was good. As good as it could be. Aside from the night in the cities, none of it was really for myself. It was one of those trips that you make because you know you should. I love my grandparents, but man oh man oh man, am I glad to be back. Parts of the trip were painful, because it was easier to have no conversation at all than deal with my grandmother's confusion, but then you feel like a heel for thinking that, but then you have to explain to her AGAIN that yes, Perkins is probably this crowded because it's NOON, and that's what happens... I know the trip was the right thing to do. Bleahghgh.

So, yeah, to see pictures from the trip, click on the view from the airplane. I'm pretty proud of some of those pictures, if I do say so myself.

In Duluth...

When I played rugby, we had one of those singing-forever songs, where you make up verses as you go, that had everything occuring "in Duluth." ("Oh, there's keyholes in the doors and knotholes in the floors in Duluth...")

Let me tell you, not much occurs in Duluth.

Yesterday, we spent about forty-five minutes talking about the grocery stores in the area. Because one had been updated, "and let me tell you, that is the nicest grocery store I've ever been in." And then we compared it to every grocery store in the area.

And then we ate.

That is the major activity here. If we're not eating, we're planning to eat. If we're not planning to eat, we're planning to snack. And so on. I'm falling into the soporific speed. It's 2:00 and my major accomplishment is that I'm dressed.

But I'm seeing my grandparents (92 and still living on their own, in the house my mom lived in when she was a teenager!) and that's good, and it's all good. Plus I got to change my schedule so that I can stop of in Minneapolis and see some of the best women in the world.

As soon as we decide where to eat.

Dune

Dune
Originally uploaded by karijean

We were supposed to go camping.

That's what was supposed to happen.

Yes, it's Put Everything On Hold week, and so normally this wouldn't have been the type of week where we could make plans, but the campsite is 45 minutes from Portland, and we thought that even if I had to come in to the doctor, we could do it.

And we reeeeally wanted to go camping. All the moreso because we haven't had a chance to go camping by ourselves. Don't get me wrong: I LOOOOVE camping with my friends, but Andrew and I haven't gone camping with just each other and we really wanted to. Andrew has FINISHED HIS BOOK (Thank the sweet little baby jeebus) and I start up teachery stuff next week for real and...

Like I said, we reeeally wanted to go camping.

Apparently, so did EVERY OTHER PERSON IN THE ENTIRE STATES OF WASHINGTON AND OREGON. After coming back home from the campsite of choice (first come first served, and apparently we weren't there early enough), Andrew went online and I manned the phones. And I'm only slightly exagerrating when I say there was not one available campsite in either Washington or Oregon. Because there were two. One was north of Seattle, and the other was south of Bend. In the middle of a baseball field. Aside from the horrid idea of camping in the middle of a baseball field, that would seriously impede our Saturday morning doctory plans.

So THAT sucked.

So Saturday after the doctory stuff, we decided, you know what? Fuck it. We tossed a picnic in the car and headed off to wine country. Our favorite vinyard was holding two bottles of one of our favorite wines for us, it was a gorgeous day for sipping wine and eating cheese, and so we did. And while we were out there, we figured, hey, what else could we do? So we hopped back into the car and just kept on driving, on to the coast. And then we drove home through the Tillamook forest. Every car we passed that had camping or outdoor gear we said, "They're probably camping this weekend. Assholes." But instead, we went geocaching and exploring and "Well, why not go left?" up the coast, and I'm not sure, but we might have had a better time than if we'd gone camping.

I'm going to like this Andrew's Done With His Book thing.

I love to be a student.

So, that conference.

One of the few benefits from my school dsitrict is that they will reimburse up to $550 or so a year of expenses, and if you don't spend it, it rolls over. Since I haven't spent anything for two years, I've got some bucks saved up, and I decided that since I like this AP Stats gig, I might as well really go for it. The folks that own the AP brand (and, seriously, make no mistake: it is a brand, just like American Eagle, Hollister, Dell, and Converse) run institutes all across the country and so I signed up.

I took one of these last year, up in northern Washington, which--uck, so much suckitude, other than the fact I got to hang with a dear dear friend of mine and his wife.

(speaking of which: mental note--they have a baby due. Is it a boy or a girl? Must check into that.)

But I figured this institute was in driving range, and wouldn't fuck (tooo much) with our Make A Goddamn Baby plans for the summer and I could still, you know, progress as a teacher, so hey! Everyone wins!

And of course, it falls right in the week of every cycle that is the Put Everything On Hold week. When calculating weeks and shit in the spring, I thought the PEOH week would be NEXT week, but apparently I miscounted. PEOH week is, um, FUN (or not), but I'll talk about that some other time.

Anyway, I'm in this training.

And. Um. I LOVE it.

Yeah, sure, I'll bitch about the class, about the 25% who have no idea what they're talking about but still insist on FUCKING TALKING. And maybe I'll bitch about the teacher, who isn't very good at getting people in line and making them shut up. And sure, I know, Teachers Make The Worst Students (ask me sometime about the Freedom Finger learning experience...). But I love being a student.

I love it.

I am actually learning some cool projects that I could do as a 1-day or 2-day thing that really do make the "Ah-ha!" light go on (or at least they did for me). Hard concepts, like transformations, or how to explain R-squared, or whatever Stats-associated topic may come up... this instructor has some great material. It makes me think, and I actually do understand some things better because of what I've learne.d I will be a better teacher because of this class. And soon I have to do some homework for it, but first I'll finish this because...

Also? Hee. I ran into another teacher from my district. Not from my school--there aren't any (which actually is a surprise). But this teacher (who rocks, ROCKS!) and I know each other from some post-grad classes we took together. Turns out she's going to be teacing some of the same classes as me and asked how AP Stats had gone. Oh, I said, I had a 90% success rate. THAT WAS YOU?!?!?! she asked.

Huh?

Apparently there is some talking. At the district level. ABOUT ME. That she overheard. Because an influential parent said, "LOOK at this teacher with the 90% passing rate: you can't TELL me that teaching doesn't affect that." Emphasis, by the way, on influential.

SQUEE!

So yeah, despite that PEOH factor of this week, I'm feeling pretty good. I'm a rocking teacher, and I'M GOING TO BE EVEN BETTER.

Um, hello?

"Hi, Kari? This is Dr. Doogie's office. Yeah, your 8:45 appointment is... well, he's on vacation and so won't be in that morning, so will a 10:45 appointment be okay? In fact, I'm just going to put you down for that, so if it's not okay, can you call us? 'kay, thanks, byeee!"

Um, no? It's so very NOT okay? Because I'm supposed to be twenty miles north of here at that time? And my ovaries kind of feel like two inflated balloons so I kind of have to get in for this appointment tomorrow some time? And so it's great that the Doogster can take a vacation with his family and all, but if there was doubt about whether he'd take appointments in the morning after coming back, could you ahve scheduled me for another time? AAaaannd you've pretty much fucked my ability to attend this conference, thereby probably fucking my ability to get the $600 refunded? So fuck you very much? 'kay, thanks, byeeeee!

This thing we're doing

So, for that brief time I was pregnant, and basically ever since then, I've been putting a lot more thought into what I eat. Not losing-weight wise, because I am doing too damn much to my body right now to fight a two-front war with it. I'm on meds that make me gain weight, I gained weight while pregnant that a miscarriage doesn't help with losing, depression does great things for one's waistline, whatever, I'm trying to let that go.

What I am trying to do is pay more attention on the fresh vs. packaged, local vs. organic vs. conventional, enhanced vs. not debate. Not necessarily picking sides, but at least being aware of the payoffs and costs. I guess what struck a chord was reading one of the many THINGS YOU HAVE TO BE AWARE OF NOW THAT YOU'RE A HUMAN INCUBATOR books and it said, "You should be trying to each as much organic food as possible." Now, that might be dirty-hippy lies, but whatever it is, it resonated with me.

As Em said once, there weren't choices a generation ago that we have now, but there also wasn't the massive amounts of additives either. And we need to think about the growth hormones, the perservatives, the corn syrup, the partially hydroginated di-methyl siloxane or whatever. I'm not saying don't buy movie popcorn, because hello? Have you gone to a movie with me? I guess I'm saying, it makes sense that some of this stuff may be affecting us in ways that we won't ever know.

So Andrew and I--okay, mostly at my urging--have signed up for this great thing, Organics To You, that delivers fresh produce to us each week.

We call it the Hippie Box.

This is me, who hasn't cooked with fresh food much in her life (and whose favorite recipe is a casserole that has exactly 1 ingredient that's fresh--who's midwestern????) It's kind of giving me a hard time, because, well, for instance, here's next week's box:


1-6oz. Blueberries - *LOCAL, farm direct*
4-5 Nectarines
1lb. Apricots - *LOCAL*
3-5 Pluots - 'A Plum-Apricot Hybrid'
1lb. YukonGold Potatoes - *LOCAL, farm direct*
1 Romaine Lettuce - *LOCAL, farm direct*
1 bunch Kale or Chard - *LOCAL, farm direct*
1/2lb. Snow Peas - *LOCAL, farm direct*
1 bunch Green Onions - *LOCAL, farm direct*
6-7oz. Crimini Mushrooms - *LOCAL, farm direct*
1 bunch Beets - *LOCAL, farm direct*
1-2 sm. Red Peppers - *LOCAL, farm direct*
1 bunch Broccoli - *LOCAL, farm direct*
1/2lb. 'french filet' Green Beans - *LOCAL, farm direct*


Okay, the first few are easy: fruits! And fresh fruits! And Pluots? SO FREAKING TASTY. And the potatoes, well--mashed is easy. Lettuce--uh, salads, sandwiches? And then we start getting into what I call the "uh-oh!" territory. Kale or Chard? Yeah, I'm googling recipes for that. Snow peas? Beets? I have never ever cooked with these. I mean, I know how to cook broccoli, but seriously, how much cooking of fresh vegetables do I do? Well, now I do quite a lot.

We get the Hippie box each Tuesday, but I can look up what I'm going to get on Saturday, so that I spend most of Saturday and Sunday figuring out what I can make. I'm making a lot of stir-frys--I had to go out and buy a wok finally--because that's easy, healthy, and uses a LOT of veggies.

But we get either chard or kale, or--lucky day!--both once a week, and I am running out of ways to make that shit tasty.

End of Summer.

I have been spectacularly unproductive this week. About the most useful things I've done are: I gave blood, and I squeegeed the new storm door.

I had to use my new 99-cent IKEA squeegee which by the way has a name. It's the LETTEN. So even a 99-cent squeegee has a goofy Swedish name.

And in trying to google what the name of the squeegee is, I found folks who are selling the squeegee! On Ebay! For $2.99!!!! That's some markup.

Anyway, my summer is basically over--next week I'm in AP training again. I know, your pity is overwhelming. But it's part relief and part disappointment. I get to have a purpose every day again, a reason to shower and get dressed again. On the other hand, I haven't reorganized the basement like I had planned to, cleaned out the garage like I had planned to.

I did this training last year, but I did it in waaaaaay northern Washington, so I had to sleep in a hotel every night. It basically sucked. Now I get to do this training here and come home every night which is way cool. Plus, I couldn't have gone away this week anyway, because I'll have at least one if not two doctor's appointments this week which would have been difficult from waaaaaaay northern Washington.

So, bye bye summer, hello fall. Hello Back to School clothes (thank you Mommy!), reasons to wear new super cute shoes, and homework. Good bye aimless lonely days, copious free time, and America's Next Top Model marathons. See you on the other side.

Minneapolis

I never lived there, but I visited often.

I have family there. I have friends there. I've checked in with everyone I can think of, or checked in with someone who checked in with them. God bless Teh Internets, because when cell phones go down, you can still post to a site.

I'm glad everyone I can think of is okay.

RESULTS ARE IN

Dude.

There were two 1's (neither a surprise) and two 2's (only one was really a surprise), but every other stats student passed their AP Exam (including the two who weren't even in the class, but whatever).

Holy CRAP!

There were a couple surprises, a 4 from someone I would have sworn would get a 5, a couple 3's from some people who I was pretty sure would get 4's, but there were surprises the other way too: two people passed that I didn't think had a snowball's chance in hell; three people got 4's that I'm sure weren't expecting to (including my sister's favorite: go Cowbell!). Both of my twins passed, but one got a 5 and one got a 3--but that doesn't really surprise me. And you know what? A 3 counts for credit, so it's just as good as a 5, functionally speaking.

But SERIOUSLY. I now have DOCUMENTED PROOF of exactly HOW MUCH I ROCK. Oh, and that my students were the greatest bunch of students ever.

NINETY PERCENT PASS RATE, SUCKAS! National average: 60%.

I had an oops.

I don't feel guilty. Conversations like this have been going on all over the greater Portland metro area since Wednesday.

Him: What’s this?

Me: A squeegee.

A what?

A squeegee!

Why do we have a squeegee!

It was ninety-nine cents! At IKEA!

I thought you were going to IKEA with Emily on Friday.

Well, yes, but I just stopped by today. I’m sooooo bored, and plus I needed a shelf for the bathroom.

So you went to IKEA, and you bought a shelf and a squeegee?

And a salad spinner.

And a salad spinner.

It was right by the checkout! And we have all that lettuce.

So if I looked all over this house, all I would find is a shelf, a squeegee, and a salad spinner.

Yes, I only bought stuff if it started with an s.

Really?

No.

So, that’s it, though?

Oh, yeah, I was great! Well, that, and the mirror that’s still in the car.

A mirror.

Yeah, and some hooks.

So a shelf, a squeegee, a salad spinner, a mirror and some hooks.

Yeah, and I’m going back on Friday with Emily. We totally need some shelving for the basement.

The cuteness. The CUTENESS

In my neighborhood

This morning I went to the farmer's market. Normally, this would not be a big deal: Portland is awash in farmer's markets. Organic farmer's markets, farmer's co-op markets, year-round farmer's markets. You name it, if it's granola enough, there's a farmer's market for it.

But this one was different. It's brand new, and it's down the street from me.

When we moved in to this neighborhood, the wee little neighborhood strip was a four-block long strip of mostly empty storefronts. There was a dusty, dark, and usually closed Hippie Emporium, selling "herbs" (it's closed now: shocker!), but otherwise, all other operating shops were an auto upholstery shop, two auto-body shops, a billiards hall, a specialty lumber yard, and three slightly sketchy taverns.

As I walked to the farmer's market--it's wee, really, not a huge number of stalls--along the four-block walk, more and more people joined me on the sidewalks. A block ahead of me, three families--whole families!--were walking together, stroller and dogs included. Behind me, two hipster couples shuffled along, holding hands and sipping coffee.

Since we've moved in, our neighborhood has been going through some amazing change. A coffee shop has opened up, the kind with fresh-made pastries, that doesn't have that familiar green-and-white mermaid logo. The "herbarium" disappeared; now we have a wine shop and a crafty paper/art store. The old drug store finally got leased; half of it is this super awesome, reasonably priced, rotating menu of American food restaurant. The movie theater that had been closed since the 70's has been through a makeover and now plays recent-release movies for $3 a pop. Oh, and serves beer, wine, and tasty tasty pizza from the pizzaria next door.

Standing at the farmer's market, all I could think was: who knew all of these families with these wee little kids lived within walking distance? I bought some golden raspberries and a margarita melon (less alcoholic than it sounds), sipped my Ethiopian Fair Trade Shade Grown coffee while munching on a ham-and-gruyere croissant and realized I was standing next to the auto-body shop and across the street from the billiards hall.

I love my neighborhood. I can't wait to see what we get next.

Whew!

So, how's everyone doing with my last few doses of Extra Special Bitter?

Good? Or a little too hoppy?

Yeah, I know.

So, on a brighter note: ANDREW'S FINISHED HIS FIRST DRAFT! WOOO HOO! I might actually get to socialize with him again one day SOON! Yeah, Andrew, go!

I don't think I've talked enough about how proud I am of his endeavor. Frustrated as all hell because I miss the shit out of him (evenings, weekends, that kind of thing), but also proud as shit. You can search his name on Amazon: he has a page on Amazon! My husband! It's like proud by vicarious nearness.

Or something.

Also, I rearranged the living room today. Again.

In related news, I have three total unplanned weeks left of this summer. Remind me of the cabin fever when I'm stressed as hell next April, willya?

Thanks.

False Promises.

Well-meaning people, people who love me, people I love, have a common refrain that really, truly rubs me the wrong way.

It will happen.

My mom, I love her, but that's her refrain when there's another failed cycle. And we've had our differences about how to communicate lately, but finally last month I just had to stop her.

I know this will work out in the end, she said.

And she meant well. But.

No, mom, I said, you don't know it. You hope it. That's the thing. It may not happen.

It's hard to explain to anyone who hasn't dangled at that precipice, that panicky realization that it really truly may not happen. Yeah, we're using IUI right now, and that may happen, and there are other options, the next step is IVF--but that's expensive/risky/just may not happen. Adoption (oh, boy, is THAT a topic for a future Oh The Things People Say!) is expensive/intensive/just may not happen. And while the fact that Nothing In Life Is Guaranteed is a truism, no one ever thinks it applies to them, not about having children. Until suddenly it does. Some ART-folks maintain their optimism, and my own optimism rises and falls (usually in concert with the levels of clomid in my system, odd, huh?), but personally as I keep going, pragmatism and realism (some might say pessimism) creeps in.

It Might Not Happen. We might not get lucky. That's not me inviting pity (much) or even self pity (well, a little). That's me acknowledging a truth that really honestly kind of sucks, but it's a truth, along the lines of "Actually, no, I never WILL be a supermodel" and "I really wasn't meant to be an athlete". We'll still keep going, try again next month, and probably the month after that, et cetera and so forth, because I want this more than I've ever wanted anything and I will keep trying until we've exhausted ourselves. But that doesn't mean it will happen.

And I can't help at getting irritated at people (usually women) who got pregnant by, of all things, having sex, telling me that I should be patient, it'll happen.

There are two things so very very wrong with that statement. First of all: Look, we've been seeing doctors on and off for almost four years now, and steadily, monthly, bimonthly, almost weekly and sometimes biweekly, for over a year. This is just a drop in the bucket to some ART couples, I know, but seriously, you don't think I know about patience by now? If I could have hurried things up, don't you think I would have by now? I don't have a choice about patience.

Second, you don't know it'll happen. Last I checked, your ESP didn't include reading the tea leaves. That's just an empty empty Thing to Say, comforting you far far more than it comforts me. It's all very well and good to say that from the easy place of having had your child/children, but every time you say that, no matter how difficult your own process was, it is a reminder that you are on the other side of a bright shining line that so far I've been denied.

What could you say instead, you ask?

Most likely--and here's the sucky part for you--nothing. Each failed cycle is a little less carefree than the last, you see, so it hits a little harder. Being there and listening is the best possible thing a friend could do when another cycle fails. Or, being there and distracting if I don't want to talk about it.

If you find yourself in that place where the words are on the tip of your tongue, no matter how firmly you believe it will happen or is meant to happen or God whispered in your ear one night or the chicken bones aligned or whatever!, keep it between yourself and your chicken bones. I'm glad--for you--that you feel that way, but that's your faith. I have my reality to deal with.

This is the reality of IUI.

So you sit down to take your test and you caution yourself. And it's not like you don't have practice cautioning yourself, because you've taken this particular test a squizillion times.

I don't feel any symptoms, you say to yourself. My boobs don't hurt, they aren't bigger, someone told me I'd have Porn Star Nipples and I definitely don't have those, nothing.

Plus, you remind yourself, this is early. Good ol' Aunt Flo isn't due here till, like, Thursday, so really, chances are super slim that even if I was pregnant, that it'd register.

And really, no matter how many times we've tried, it's still like, a 10 to 15% chance that any particular month will work, you tell yourself. So, really, you remind yourself, the odds are not in our favor.

And you're still crushed when that second line doesn't appear, when there's no plus sign, when the wee computer doesn't tell give you that ten-dollar sign.

The cruelty is that you still have a blood test waiting for you, but it's not for three days, so that if you really wanted to, you could keep peeing. And you will.

Ahh... a quiet, silky voice from the back of your mind reminds you, remember? That one time you actually were pregnant? Remember how you got a not pregnant one day and a pregnant the next? That could happen. You never know. Because that damn silky voice comes back, day after day after day.

And so you get to be crushed tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, until Aunt Flo actually comes and you get to start planning your appointments for the next month.

PKW event

I got an email from my mom for a "Pamper Kari Week" event. I guess I'd sounded a little pathetic on the phone on Thursday.

Okay, maybe a lot pathetic.

"You're doing much better this month!" Em had said.

Apparently I'm crying less in public. This is good. But I still have crippling self-pity, though, that sneaks up on me. Yeah, it's still self-pity, so I'm not proud it's there, but regardless, it comes out of nowhere (a JC Penny's ad, a picture, a thought) and then I want to do nothing ever again.

So on Thursday I sounded really sorry for myself. On Friday, Mom emailed me for a chance to be pampered at her home in Michigan. They'd pay the freight.

It's novel, really, to be in my thirties and a guest in my parents home by myself: no siblings, no husband, no crisis for a change. And aside from some snippieness when we were on the way to the movie but MIGHT be LATE, MARY, WHY DID WE CHOOSE TO EAT AT A RESTAURANT ACROSS THE CITY FROM THE MOVIE THEATER, but we'll ONLY MISS THE PREVIEWS, KEN (me in the back: LALALA I'M NOT LISTENING) type of tomfoolery, it's been a really mellow week.

I helped Mom with her newsletter formatting which unexpectedly turned into a lot of laughter. Dad and I have watched the Tour de France and taken the dog on walks through their Faux French Provincial Community. Mom and I went to the Ann Arbor Art Fair and counted people who bought art on sticks. And might have maybe perhaps bought some shoes.

Mellow.

I miss Andrew (hi hon!) but maybe he can USE THIS TIME TO FINISH HIS DAMN BOOK so that I'll see him some when I get back. (hi hon!)

I can dig this PKW event.

At least...

I just wanted to start a little service for those who are going through ART (assisted reproductive technology). More specifically, this is for those who know someone else who is going through it.

If you are going through ART know this here and now: otherwise well-meaning, sympathetic and intelligent people will say some dumb-ass shit. Family, friends, coworkers--some may know what you're going through, some may not, depending on how open you are--doesn't matter. They don't mean to, but they will.

And it will hurt. I mean, it may be a small pinprick, or it may be a raw seeping wound, depending on the day, the person saying it, and the clomid levels, but somebody will say something that will bother you. In fact, several somebodies, and they'll all say different things.

The truth is, they have no idea what to say. And the painful truth is, many won't do research on the emotional aspects of how to deal with a friend with fertility problems. And the real truth is, almost none will know how to ask you what you need, nor will they know how to react when you talk about it.

When you find the friends or family who know how to ask you questions frankly yet sympathetically? Who follow your lead when you do or don't want to talk about it? Coat them in gold and chain them in your basement. You won't find many, so hold on to the ones you do. I have three chained up down there right now. It's being able to go downstairs and visit those three that get me through the bonehead shit that other people say. And then I occasionally toss them a treat.

That said, I wanted to start a small recurring feature of They'll Say It, But That Doesn't Mean You Have To Like It. I just want to cover what I've heard and why it sucks, and what some viable alternatives may be.

Today's entry:

"At least you know you can get pregnant!"

You will here this after a miscarriage. Guaranteed. You will hear this after every miscarriage. You will hear this in the down times between miscarriages. You will hear this in the empty times between doctor's appointments--assuming, of oourse, that you've been pregnant at least once, whether you actually gave birth or not. You will hear this while waiting after your last IUI for your beta blood tests. It's often the go-to thing to say for people who want to comfort, and they will say it any time you admit to feeling anything less that optimistic.

And you know what? It's not comforting.

Can everyone who only wants to get pregnant, but doesn't want the baby, can you stand up?

Anyone?

The goal is to stay pregnant. Right? I mean, you'd tell me if I was wrong, wouldn't you? The thing is, every fertility story is different, and so yes, some people have difficulty at the getting pregnant stage, while others have diffiulty at the staying pregnant stage. Some lucky winners (!!!) have difficulty with both. But I'm fairly certain, even without doing clinial research, that it isn't anyone's ultimate goal to just get pregnant, even for the women who have problems getting that far.

And besides, how on earth is that comforting? "At least the one event that no one has control over can happen!"

It's a little like comforting your newly divorced sister by saying, "Well, at least you know you can get through a wedding! Now next time you just need the marriage to stick!"

If you find these words allllmost coming out of your mouth, ever, for the love of all the fluffy kittens in the world, stuff your fist in your mouth before these words come out. Check yourself: does this person you're talking to really want comfort, or do they want a sympathetic ear so they can just not be Susie Fucking Sunshine all the time? If they really want comfort, don't give them false promises (more on those in a future installment!), ask. Ask, ask, ask: "How can I help?" If they want sympathy, try something crazy: just be sympathetic.

And if someone says that to you? I'm sorry, not if, but when? God, I wish I knew. If you had a good response, please let me know, because I'm still searching for one that doesn't make everyone want to stop talking to me altogether.

Next up: Variations on a theme: False promises.

Slippety Doo Dah

So, the White Spot.

Beyond that being the name of my first punk album, I have an update. Of sorts.

To recap: in my last few dildo-cam appointments (oh the joy of that being plural! Can you get frequent flier points or something, some kind of coffee club card for those? A dozen ultrasounds, and your next one is free! They could even use some sperm-shaped hole puncher, just for continuity.), the doctor has paused with the oh-so-reassuring sound of, "Huh." Not precisely what you want to hear when assessing the health of the uteral areas.

Last year, this time, I was waiting to have a fibroid removed. They'd tried to do it the non-invasive way--well, they're still sending cutting implements up my happy chute, so it's still pretty damn invasive--but that was ultimately unsuccessful, so we'd gone the surgical route. Wheee! A caesarian for Phil, my fibroid.

So was this white spot a new growth, or unfinished bidness from the Phil-ectomy, or something entirely harmless? The dildo-cam would no longer suffice, it was time for the big guns: radioactive elements.

For the past month, I've been pretty mellow about all of it because, hell, The White Spot was there. If it was harmless, it was still harmless, if it was screwing up our chances of growing a baby, it was already doing that, and besides, ain't nothing fertilizing up in those parts anyway. The past few days, though: not so much. The sort of overwhelming feeling of This Is It was sneaking up on me. It's some horrid growth, left over from my miscarriage. It was The Son of Phil, back for a sequel, and I'd need to schedule surgury for August. Again. It was cancer and I'd need to lose the entire Happy Fun Uterus.

That is to say, I was slightly pessimistic.

I had an appointment for an HSG: a hystero schmemememe gram. Hystero: uterus. Shmemememe: something about scoping or sono or something. Whatever. The upshot (heh) works something like this.

Have you ever cleaned out a bottle or some long-necked thing where you can't get a sponge the entire way in? So you swish soapy water around in the bottom? We did that, only substitute "uterus" and "radioactive dye". Fill it up till it hurts, make me roll around on a table that moves like an animatronic Disney creation from hell, and then shoot the xray machine at me when the correct anatomy is under the mutation-inducing lens. It's like America's Next Top Model of My Uterus. "Okay, now we need a 3/4 angle... shoot that! Great. Okay, now roll the other way, shift the table up a little, Great! Shoot that."

And it's oh so much less fun than it sounds. I know, right? I'm just hoping I don't get eliminated.

Of course, my geeky side can't help but be slightly awed by the images that show up. You kknow those drawings we all saw in middle school, how the ovaries are attached to the uterus? Picture that as, say, a water slide. An egg's last little fun as it descends into the uterus. The drawings in middle school all have the water slide that looks like this:
See the dude at the top? He's the egg, about to slide into the pool of my uterus.

Stick with me here, this weird analogy will pay off. Okay, maybe, I make no promises, but stick with me anyway.

Well, as we swish the dye around my insides (fun! fun! fun!) I got to see as it snakes up through my fallopian tubes. This is good, since it means my eggs, when the pills and the shots make them do their thing, actually have someplace to go and a way to get there, and that's part of the point of this particularly fun test. But what strikes me is those waterslides. They're no direct shot, they're really more like this:
That's one crazy ride those eggs are taking before settling into life of babyhood. No wonder most don't make it.

And about that White Spot? No idea. Didn't find any homonculous-type Head of Satan staring at me from the 3-D images, so that's a plus. Experts get to pore over the negatives and tell me if we're screwed or what. I meet with my Doogie Howser doctor tomorrow (another punch on my dildo card! eeeee!) and I suppose we'll find out. My ovaries feel almost ready to explode out of my abdomen right now (thank you, Senor Clomid!) and if we're going to do another IUI this cycle, it'll be this week, so yeah.

Like everything about this whole damn shit: it's all wait and see.

But I really think now I want to go to the water park.

How to spend a night not sleeping.

One thing that sucks about living in the Pacific Time Zone is that when you have insomnia, it's pretty much guaranteed that no one is awake. So let's say, hypothetically speaking, you have the hours from midnight to whenever the hell you get some sleep to fill. What do you do?

You've got your blogroll, the RSS feeds, but very few people update their blogs between midnight and eight a.m. on an early Monday morning.

There's MetaFilter, a good site to go to that takes you to other sites, but it can be hit or miss.

Surf YouTube, sure. Find some mildly amusing clips like Marvel vs. DC (parts 1, 2, 3, 4, and so on--now with more mutants), a sort of low-budget Robot Chicken. I mean, REALLY low budget. You see the hands. But there's some great geek in there.

There's other YouTube stuff that might occupy you for a while. LisaNova amused me for a little while, especially her three part series on Keira Knightly, Johnny Depp, and the Pirates of the Carribbean (parts 1, 2, and 3). She's got some other stuff, but those were my favorites.

You can try watching old movies. Something like Back to the Future has held up astonishingly well, actually; of course, parts are period and so aren't affected by the TWO DECADES since the movie. And really, the other part is now period all on its own. Ahhh Michael J. You were adorableness.

Also: apparently Billy Zane is in Back to the Future! Who knew?

What's next? I mean after the couple hours you lie back down and toss and turn and haunt yourself with the stupid stressors you let invade your brain.

So, next up on cable: Cousins! Yes, it's that wonderful movie, the one with Ted Danson as a romantic lead! Verdict on Isabella Rosselini: still an always gorgeous, but the eighties were not kind to her. Not kind at all. (I've been trying to find images to link to, but I can't say I blame Isabella for erasing all memory of herself in shapeless Coldwater Creek Tops and blazers that--no kidding--go down to her knees.) But where else are you going to see a movie with Ted Danson, Isabella Rosselini, William Peterson, and Sean Young? Oh, and Lloyd Bridges.

So, now it's 5:30. The sky is starting to get lighter. You check your email, but who would have emailed you by now? Update your blogroll. Nothing. Is that... yes, it's the paper arriving! And the garbage being picked up! You, my dear, have officially Not Slept. Yay, you!

It's time for Crap TV! Yes, that lovely thing that TNT, USA, Spike and TBS all do all day long: those syndicated shows. JAG, perhaps? Or maybe you'd prefer Charmed? Baywatch? Something, anything, to get those beloved alpha waves? I do still draw the line at Walker, Texas Ranger. Even sleep-deprived, I have some standards.

No? Well, crap, it's 8:00 by now anyway. You've got a doctor's appointment to dread. Might as well get up and get to it.

This just happened.

Andrew in truck
Originally uploaded by karijean

Andrew: Hey, can you do me a favor?

Me: What?

Andrew: Can you do me a favor?

Me: Yes, what?

Andrew: Can you do me a favor?

Me: Yes, Andrew, what favor?

Andrew: I'd like you to think of a favor, do it, and then tell me about it.

Me: ...

Andrew: Thanks, bye!

Me: What?

Summer Vacation

Double time
Originally uploaded by karijean

With the Fourth of July over (or, as Will says, "Happy Birthday Fourth!"), I'm staring down the gun at a long summer.

I know, poor me, right? It's hard to get sympathy about two* months off. To be fair, I work hard all year in order to earn this summer off. Plus, I get paid for crap, so I might as well get two months off--one of the very very few perks of teaching.**

Sometimes, though it doesn't really feel like a perk. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind not having to get up with an alarm in the morning. But to go from a world of daily deadlines where planning and organization can make or break you to absolutely aimless days is a little overwhelming.

I don't do aimless well. I do one of two things: I sink into a well of inertia which, yeah, good times! or rearrange every closet in my house while weeding the lawn and building a to-scale model of Portland's Pearl District.*** I may have a problem with finding a happy medium (ya think?)

In the meantime, take a look at Flickr. Fourth of July pictures are up (compare them with last year's! Lookit me, coming full circle!), and I'll be updating the Flickr stuff with pictures as I find a way to distract myself from having nothing to do. I've got some geocaching I did out in wine country, and I plan to do more around PDX and its environs.

Happy Fourth of July, happy summer everyone.

* Yes, it is only two months. June 20-something was our last day, and I have to return on August 20-something. Again, I know, poor me, but I just wanted to clear that up.

** Not that I don't love teaching, because I do. But it's a damn. Hard. Job. With very very few upsides. Objectively speaking, summer is one of the few.

***Or I rearrange someone else's basement. True story.

Rays

Rays
Originally uploaded by karijean

Back in civilization, there's nothing so awesome as a shower.

You know, I can dig this new hobby of ours, this "camping" thing. I feel tired and sore, but in a good way.

Click on the pictures to go to flickr, or click here to go to the set.

just a little humor on Thursday

What do I love about this comic? That it's hippie-knowledge crossed with geeky history crossed with a pun like my dad would make.

And then we'd all groan.

From xkcd the best collection of geek-math-love humor that I've ever seen.

Rube

I'm such an intense geek, I adore Rube Goldbergs. We had to make on in fifth grade, and I say "we" but really for the most part, it meant a kid and their parent. I wish we got chances to do creative stuff like that again. I tell you, if I taught AP Physics, this is what I'd have kids do for the month after the exam. I'd say, "the only requirement is you have a regulation golf ball go one meter, put out a candle, set off a mousetrap, be airborne at least once, and end in a paper cup." And just let them have at it. That'd be a cool class.

Bumbo

CBHQ

Craft Room, aka: a Saturday well spent.
Originally uploaded by karijean

I just wanted to post a link to the coolest found space I've ever had. For zero dollars last weekend, I made myself a bitching Crafty Bitch HQ.

Click on the picture to see more.

With summer officially TWO DAYS (!!!!) away, I can. Not. Wait. I already have one new project underway (we'll see how it goes--I may have harvested the lavender too early) and have a binder full of ideas for more.

Sometimes I'm mildly embarassed by how Crafty Bitch I am--it all sounds so like a woman whose username would be ZacksMama231. But then I realize that what I really prefer, what I really love, is to give gifts that I've had my hands on. That I put together thinking, I can't wait to hear what Gail thinks of this. Or, I wish I could see Lee's face when she opens this. As gifts, they're so much better than just another thing.

Added to the fact that to give meaningful gifts to the people I really love, there's not much I can purchase. I've pretty much exhausted the Only in Oregon gift plan--there's only so many times you can give marionberry jam before you're just weird. And for people like my parents--Lord love 'em--they will buy anything they want, need, or momentarily covet. They will buy it better, faster, and more expensive than I can. So short of finding that mythical, mystical gift They Didn't Even Know They Needed And/Or Wanted That Is Still Forty Bucks, I just end up buying them more Stuff.

So I like to make a gift. I give less Stuff that way, and what I do give means more. Plus I get the joy of planning and anticipation. It's win-win-win.

...and so it goes...

In an ass-crap shitty week that started with the dildo-cam doctor's appointment (that included this phrase: "...and that's... well, I don't know what that white spot is. We'll... huh. Need to test that."), proceeded to four nights in a row with five or fewer hours of sleep for various reasons, had a dining room chair finally collapse, just unfortunately while I'm sitting in it, and decide to take a big chunk of my quad with it (hellloooo, tetnus shot!) and ended with some really mean accusations that I was unprepared to field, there's a wee bright spot. A 7 pound, 11 ounce bright spot.

Mateo Andrew, born June 13th at 12:12 a.m. I'm an aunt! And he's a wee peanut with the cutest fingers this side of the... huh. It's actually the other side of the Mississippi. And Atlantic.

But really cute fingers. And nose. And everything else. That's what I'm getting at.

I'm an aunt, 2007! (part 1)

I have a nephew! 3.5 kilos, which teh interweb tells me is 7.7 pounds, so approximately 7 pounds, 11 ounces? ish?

No word on a name yet.

More deets as they come.

View out my back door.

View out my back door.
Originally uploaded by karijean

Some days are better than others.

Yesterday was a very fulfilling day. For once, I was glad it rained ("What do you call two days of rain in Portland?" "The weekend."). We've had a gorgeous June so far (want proof? go to flickr and see my camping pictures!) so I can't begrudge a day of rain. Moreover, I'd promised myself that THIS was the weekend to clean the basement.

And oh, did I.

Other reasons I have to be happy:

It's nine school days till summer.

Nine.

The sun's out today.

Andrew's nearly done with his book. Three chapters left and then I get to see my husband again! At least until his revisions are due.

Did I mention it's nine days til summer? Okay, technically, I suppose, it's like 11 days, but really, weekends don't count. And nine sounds so much smaller.

Nine. 9. neuf. divyet. nueve. 9.

I'm baaaaaaack!

AAAAAhhhhhhhh. Internet connectivity at last.

Our wireless access point had been slowly dying for a while. We'd be connected--then we werent--then we were--then we weren't. That was frustrating.

But not nearly so frustrating as when it'd died altogether.

Which led to lots of conversations that went like this:

"I can stop by Best Buy and pick up a new hub, but which one should I get?"

"Here, I'll go find one for you on the... ARGH!"

or

"Can you write down where we're going?"

"Yeah, I'll just go look it up on... ARGH!"

or

"You haven't uploaded pictures in forEVER!"

"I'll do it right after camping then... ARGH!"

Yeah.

Apparently our household is stupid dependent on magic invisible pictures that fly through the air to appear on our computer screens. And I found exactly which sites are blocked at school (YouTube, updating on blogspot, the comments sections of any blog) and which were not (blogs themselves, THANK GOD! I kept up to date on Go Fug Yourself!) and that I severely missed my RSS feeder.

But it's all better, all reconnected. There's nothing like going to your RSS feeds and seeing, oh look! Melissa's updated! TWELVE TIMES!

So stay tuned for new pictures on Flickr--soon, I swear--and other stories. But it's 11 and I've put off my usual Saturday morning chores to get re-updated on Pink is the New Blog and so now I have to go do some of the crap I've been saying I'd do all along.

Besides, now that I have the internet again, I can listen to NPR while cleaning the basement. So I'd better do it before our WAP dies again.

Different Day, Different Conversation

...so, the problem starts here.

By the washer and dryer?

Yes. And we attached this here.

Okayyy...

...and then we strung this up across here and drilled a hole through the wall here...

Yeahhhhh...

...where it attaches here.

Uh-huh.

This is where my husband plugs in his computer.

His.... computer?

Yup. Into this powerstrip that's plugged into that extension cord. And then there's this extension cord that's plugged into the power strip there that goes back here, and behind that, and around there, and then there's another power strip plugged into that.

Oh... God. What... what is in the power strip?

Well, there's the cable box, there, and then the AV tuner, and the DVD player and... oh, yeah, the projector and... oh! the speakers, those big ones over there. And, huh. There's another extension cord plugged into this power strip. I think it goes to that floor lamp over there, but I'm not sure.

Does... when... um. When you turn anything on, does anything happen, to, um, the other lights?

Oh, it goes to the XBox! Huh. I didn't know we had this many extension cords. Or power strips. Or extension cords in power strips. Wait, what? Does anything happen? Wow, I don't know. Here, lemme try.

NO! I mean, no, that's... okay.

Oh, okay.

I mean, it's not okay, this isn't okay. There is nothing about this that is okay!

Yeah, okay.

No! Not okay!

Right, yeah, okay. I MEAN! Bad! Bad us!

So can I see your panel?

Right. It's over here.

Uh... huh.

What?

Well, it's... there's... there's a little too much going on here.

Oh, well, that is certainly a shock.

Hrm.

Get it? A shock?

Yes. I got it.

A shock? Because it's electricity? And we're overpluggers?

Right. I got it. Shock. Funny. You'll need a new subpanel.

Um, okay.

I'm afraid to ask but... anything else you want me to take a look at?

Nope! I think this is the only electrical health hazard we have to pour money in after. If you want to take a look at our furnace, though...

Dear god no. The heart trembles.

Right then, that's it.

It's certainly enough. I mean! Should I fax the estimate to you? You... don't have a fax plugged in anywhere down here, do you? Please. I beg you, say no.

Yeah, no fax.

Right. I'll mail the estimate to you.

Great. The heart trembles.

...

Get it? Because you said that and...

I got it. The estimate will be in the mail tomorrow. No, no, I can show myself out. In the dark. Please. Don't turn anything on until I leave. Please.

Conversation

So... how long do we have to wait?

For what?

For it to do its thing.

I think it's done it.

No, I mean, thirty seconds? five minutes?

No, really. I don't think it's going to do any more than it's already done.

...

A second line isn't going to just, y'know, appear.

...

Yeah.

A view into a week without a spounse

Monday: Yay! Get to be naked and lazy! And awww, Matilda misses him!
Tuesay: Please, really, stop whining Matilda. Go out, be Young Single and go out.
Wednesday: No, really, stop whining Matilda. Clean kitchen. Have hour-long phone conversation on speakerphone as he drunkenly watches American Idol on East Coast time. Conversation goes like this:
"And then that guy, that dog guy..."
"Dog Guy?"
"That guy who always says, 'Dawwwg...'"
"Randy Jackson."
"He's dancing with... that ditzy lady!"
"Paula Abdul."
"And that English guy!"
"Simon Cowell."
"He just pinched her! And the guy finalist!"
"Blake."
"He looks weird! And that singer..."
..."
"Who sings that song about wings!"
"Bette Midler? Wind Beneath My Wings?"
"Yeah! She's awful!"
Go to bed at 12. Not because anything is keeping you up. But because that giant bed all empty kind of sucks.

Thursday: Fuck this shit. Drink wine (which I mistakenly typed as 'whine') for dinner.

Anticipating:
Friday: go out. Somewhere. Anywhere.
Saturday: Clean house like a demon so spouse thinks I ALWAYS LIVE THIS WAY. Pick him hup at 9. Make him swear in blood to never be gone this long again.

My Chemical Romance

I subbed for a chem teacher today, and it was a disaster. A toxic fumes, caustic chemical, shattered glass disaster.

Whee!

Teachers have "prep periods", one period a day where we ostensibly are able to prepare for the rest of our day. Leaving alone the absurdity of being able to prepare for five fifty minute periods--that's two hundred and fifty minutes (I'm a math teacher!)--in fifty minutes. Yes, that's ten minutes per class, in which to do our grading, call parents, chase down problem children, plan engaging new lessons, write tests, grade tests, file old paperwork, and maybe get a cup of coffee. For each class. (Yes, the cup of coffee for each class too. You think it's easy to be at work at 7:00 each morning, facing teenagers?)

Ahem. Leaving that aside.

By contract, that fifty minutes is our own. (Unless, of course, some other teacher, condemned to the hated "traveling teacher" realm takes over your classroom during your prep, and then your prep is only sort of your own. I've been a travelling teacher, it sucks, but it also sucks not being able to use your own damn room during your own damn prep.)

Ahem, again.

Anyway, that fifty minutes is our own. Sometimes, though, there's a need for a sub (note to anyone in southwest Washington: desperate need for subs!). Since my prep is first period, I often get the call to cover for late subs or late call-ins. It's an extra $30 each time I do it, so hey, free money! Plus I get to see other teachers' rooms, other classes styles, it's interesting. Plus, $30!

But today wasn't awesome.

The teacher who made the late call... he's not good. I mean, he's a great teacher, but dude's had a rough rough year and I can't talk much about it, but I don't think he's doing so well. Mentally. So it's a bit heart-breaking to see him kinda sorta falling apart.

So there I am taking over his class. Chemistry. Not just chemistry, but advanced placement chemistry. And what does he leave me with, as a sub plan? A lab. And not just any lab, but one involving hydrochloric acid, and zinc, and sodium hifuckyouupate and technotronic burnoffyourskinate. And heating things up and then burning shit up.

Awesome.

So I'm just sorta, you know, haning out, because I can describe significance levels and p-values and student t distributions, but ask me about chemical compounds and I'm all drooly and "Whaaaa?" But I'm noticing that I'm coughing and feeling kind of burny in the back of my throat and I'm thinking, um, this can't be right...

These are AP kids, and five of them I know from my little geek squad, so I said a few things like, "Should that be smoking like that?" and "Maybe you should be heating these caustic chemicals under the vent hood sucking oven thing?", impressing them all, I'm sure, with my wicked smarts.

And then I hear, "Wait! How stupid ARE you?"

Never a good thing to overhear while heating things that end with "-ic acid".

And then I hear the glass shattering. And I see the "-ic acid" stuff going everywhere. Apparently one of the other students poured cold sulfuric acid (?) on the heated zinc solution (?) and caused the glass dish to, um, well, break into a bunch of pieces.

One of the students turns to me and says, "Um. Maybe we need a real chemistry teacher in here?"

Ya think?

I go off in search of a real chemistry teacher. He looks at me and sighs through his nose. "You know," he says to me, weaving through the hall to get back to the classroom, "we think that AP kids can handle more, but that means we sometimes forget something." He looks at me. "They're still kids." He heads into the classroom to decide which things can be touched by human skin (not much) and which will cause extreme pain when touched (most surfaces), and orders the kids to clean up.

And then the bell rings.

I'm an awesome sub!

Knowing.

One of the hard things of dealing with infertility is that you don't know who else is. Because it deals with such personal issues (like MY CROTCH), most people don't, you know, bring it up around the water cooler. So when you're dealing with the various indignities of intra-uterine insemination and the cost of dildo-cam appointments that aren't covered by health insurance and what it's like walking back into the fertility clinic that you triumphantly--and pregnantly--sailed out of three months ago, it's hard to find those "Girl, I know" moments.

As good as good friends are--as sympathetic a sounding board as they can be, and level headed as they can be when Clomid is making you cry for reasons you can't even put into words and as you apologize they can say, "I think that's Clomid talking, hon,"--as lucky as you can be to get that support, even those friends (especially those friends) will acknowledge that there's aspects to your situation that while they might understand, they don't truly know.

I should know, I have great friends. So that when my family or inlaws make well-meaning but bonehead moves like sending me emails about how great adoption is, or how "it's meant to be, so it'll happen", those great friends are there to be outraged on my behalf. When yet another friend finds out they got pregnant the very first time they tried and isn't that funny? these wonderful saintly friends will let me rage and rant and cry until I'm ugly and they still love me (I think). I'm super super lucky on that point. But... they don't, and they can't, and I wouldn't want them to know

And I just don't have the wherewithal to go make Infertile Friends because blech. I don't want to be friends with someone just because they can't get knocked up either.

Which makes my newish friend a lifesaver. I'll call her Rhoda.

Rhoda is really a friend of a friend. We've orbited past each other for a decade or more. I've known of her for a long time, but we've met and hung out for the past few years a couple times a year and I've always really liked her. She can be crass (like, um, someone else I might know) and that's a good thing. She can be funny. She can be thoughtful. She's not embarassed to be blunt and to have a sense of humor about things that suck.

And some things suck a lot.

Turns out we see the same fertility doc. The same Doogie Howser has his face in each of our crotches.

Ordinarily, this might be awkward.

With us, tonight, it was a chance to compare pubic grooming.

We drank cheap beer because her second IUI just failed and I'm preparing for IUI#3 and we're both wired on Clomid and we toasted the crappy things People Who Don't Know Better say.

"It's good you miscarried because it means something was wrong."

"At least you know you can get pregnant!"

"Just relax! I have friends who..."

"Have you ever thought of adoption?"

We made each other cry and made each other laugh and bought each other another round because hell, we're not pregnant so we might as well drink! And Mother's Day is Sunday! And I know I'll get a call from my mom and I dread her fucking sympathy! And then...

... and then we talked about how her husband doesn't understand that mesh tank tops are not hot and my husband accidentally shaved his head last week (yes, it can be done) and where is there good shopping when you're not a size eight and what's it like working with all guys (as it turns out: a lot like working with all teenagers, so a lot of great same-experiences going on there) and we talked about things that had nothing and everything to do with all this crazy shit we're both putting our bodies through.

And suddenly five hours passed.

Because she knows. I don't have to explain why I threw a full glass when I found out my sister-in-law was pregnant even though I really am happy she's pregnant, or why I resent having to be the one to email pregnant people to let them know it's okay to talk to me, infertility isn't catching. She doesn't have to preface a story with "I know so-and-so's trying to help but..." when explaining the crushing blow someone inadvertantly landed or feel lame for describing crying her eyes out when hearing that her sister got pregnant from a guy who isn't really sure he wants kids. Because I know.

But also because we both know that we are more than our bruising desire to be pregnant, and so having a conversation meander off into the embarassing story of a dream one of us may or may not have had about her high school students (it's a dream! we can't be held responsible for our dreams!) isn't weird or awkward because it's what friends do. And then we could both twirl around back onto the topic of our pregnant friends who complain about gaining weight because they're pregnant or how tough their choices are and we both know that anger that has no place to go and we aren't scared by that anger from each other.

We're not friends because we get thrice-montly dildo cams and count those two-week-waits every month... Our friendship as the two of us that isn't mediated by our mutual friend is still new-ish, but I think this is the beginning of something good.

In fact, I know.

Essentially on Empty

They did it. It's done. It can't be undone, and whatever got done is now done.

They dang did take that darned ol' AP test. It's... over. Essentially.

I mean, sure, yeah, we have a month of school. (six weeks for non-seniors, thank you snow days!) And in that month, we'll be "working" on a "project". So, yeah. Technically, not over. But in essence, the statistical essence that has permeated my every waking thought and several of my sleeping ones (including some great "dreams" where my necklace was coming alive to choke me, or where my teeth were falling out of my head), we are done. We cannot be undone. We cannot be more done. We are as done as we can get and we can't get donner, but then, we can't get less done either.

However they did--whoever passed, or didn't pass, whatever--I'm so freaking proud of them for sticking through this with me the whole damned way.

But we're done. They're done. It's done and I can't squeeze in one iota more of doneness.

I could keep going. Because I'm sure this is going to sink in.

Any minute now.

Days

Yesterday started with giving blood and running into a friend at the next little recliney bench("Hey, anything new?" "Well, our son was born." "Well, yeah, besides that?").

It rounded the corner teaching Will how to watch the Kentucky Derby, substituting apple juice for mint julep*. "See, they lead the horses into the little rooms... and close the gates... and now ready? set? GO! GO! GO!" Given the roomful of adults slightly tipsy from National Home Brewers Day** and tasty tasty mint juleps, in the end, Will's only description of the Derby ends up something like this, "Horses! Go Fast! Real Loud! Yayyyyyy!!!" with lots of clapping to celebrate.

Then my day gently turned the corner as I chaperoned Prom. Some things (the hair, sprayed to withstand a tornado, the tuxes making the boys ever so slightly uncomfortable and unnatural) never change, while others (cleavage, dear GOD THE CLEAVAGE) certainly do.

No real point to this posting, other than to notice and earmark how very weird and whiplashy yesterday was.


-----
* (which, except for the spring of mint inserted by a delicious mint julep maker person, look startlingly similar, so I can understand Will's confusion).

**Seriously, National Home Brewers Day, the Derby, and Cinco de Mayo, all on the same day: it's a wonder we any of us have livers left.

S1GNS

"...so do you think it's PMS?"

"I dunno. I mean, I don't feel especially PMSy. Except..."

"Except what?"

"I did cry tonight at an episode of NUMB3RS."

"..."

"What? It was really sweet moment where the guy on death row got to meet his daughter for the first time, and all he could say was, "Sorry.""

"NUMB3RS?"

"Yeah, okay, so maybe PMS."

Wanna teach AP?

They say, so, you wanna teach AP?

And you think, oh my god, I can't believe that (a) they think I'm smart enough to and (b) I'm experienced enough to without having to wait until I've been at the school for forty billion years and (c) I'll get to teach kids who are, y'know, MOTIVATED, and so you say, of course, sure! even though it's possibly been, say, perhaps, a DECADE since you took that ONE CLASS in the subject. (Somehow, maybe, they think because you come from business you have some deep insight into the subject. You let that misconception lie, because, hey, you get to teach AP!)

You don't think about the fact that EVERY DAY you have to make up what you're going to teach them.

And GOD FORBID they ask questions! Because if it isn't about today's (okay, maybe also tomorrow's) lessons, you really truly might not know. Given, there's worse things than saying, "Okay, I don't remember, but I'll get back to you." But still.

And you really really really REALLY don't think about what that week (month!) before the AP test is really like. When you worry that that one part that you didn't emphasize enough is what is gonna be the difference between them passing with a 3 or not passing. When you think, okay, I didn't teach probability well enough and now they're all stressed about it even though it's not that tough or really that important so they're spending time on probability even though it's only like 10% of the test when they COULD be spending studying time on inference tests! Which are way more important!

You don't think you'll be waking up at 4 a.m. wondering what the HELL are you doing in class today and HOW will you get through the day and OH DEAR GOD WHAT IF YOU'RE LETTING EVERYONE DOWN????

You don't think of that.

You just think, "AP! That's cool!"

Of course, you also don't think you'll be falling in love, just a little bit, with these kids who are leaving the school next year and that you'll never see again. You don't think that you'll ride the acceptance roller coaster with them as they sort the next major chapter of their lives out. You don't think of how momentous senior year is, and relationships are, and how you'll deal with all of these almost-adults and how you just want them to come back in five years and let you know how they're doing.

You don't think of that either, of how they're going to take this tiny bit of your heart with them when they leave.

You just think, "AP! That means I don't have anything to do after the AP test! for a month until the end of school!"

You don't think that your life, until that AP test, is a slave to What The AP Test Tests and that you'll always feel inadequate. That getting these kids to pass will take over your life and you'll spend--yes--it's true--FIFTEEN HOUR DAYS because you have pizza-bribed study sessions because you just want them to pass, if they could pass then you haven't let anyone down.

Good Gods and Goddesses. My life, until May 8th, is a walking, living, breathing ulcer.

"Yeah, AP! That'd be great!"