Painting Chef – Cheaper Than Therapy

It seems that at the end of the year, you can’t go anywhere on the internets without being smacked with some sort of “Year in Retrospect” post or “Best of 2009” list. And I suppose that’s only natural. The end of the year does lend itself to some degree of naval-gazing and what better place to get it all off your chest than right here. I mean, that’s why we write, isn’t it? We feel like we have something valid to say and at some point, some person without realizing the damage they were causing to our future and to the poor souls who would eventually become our “audience” encouraged us with a little giggle at a wisecracking essay or even an unfortunate “you’re a REALLY good writer” and then shit all rolled downhill…

But I’m probably getting ahead of myself.

I checked this morning. My naval contained nothing but lint and overall, 2009 SUCKED donkey balls and I have no desire to recap the year that was broadcast on this all busted uterus all the time with a side of dead grandmother channel. I cried. We all cried. 2009 was the year of the cry. To borrow a turn of phrase from the formerly loved (but now I kind of think he’s a douche) Fresh Prince, my life got flip turned upside down.

Also? I went totally fangirl crush crazy for a movie star. And I am distinctly too old for this shit so I will say no more about that and Chris Pine and roles he’s played in a VERY dirty dream or two. Except to say that I ASSURE you I am incapable of bending like that…

So maybe forward is the way to look? I have to look in SOME direction, don’t I? Otherwise I’ll fall down and bust my ass and let’s be honest, I require NO HELP in that department.

I guess the most obvious place to start is with the whole uterus fiasco. (I KNOW. Sometimes I feel like I should pay the internet my co-pay with the details you know about my lady bits. I’m sorry. It could be worse… probably…somehow…) It will soon be January. And the baby psychic (yes, you read that correctly… KEEP UP!) told me that January was the month I would find out I was pregnant. I’m not putting a whole lot of faith in that but it’s out there.

This most recent cycle (of which we are currently in the wait and see stage) has the potential to result in many, many babies and I won’t lie… I’m a little freaked. I had four eggs. FOUR. That’s a third of the way to a dozen. That’s reality show territory. But we’ll deal with that as it happens. Details (if they develop) to come. I promise.

You may have noticed that there was no mad frenzy of Christmas baking. Some of you may have noticed an absence of poorly packaged cookies in your mailbox. I thought about making them. I TRIED to get excited about making them. And then I would just cry. And miss my grandmother. So I just… took a year off. But they WILL be back next year, I promise!!

Fine. Despite my protests I guess this is a little retrospective. What can I say? It was a really strange year. But I survived it and even learned a few things so it wasn’t a total loss. Now if you’ll excuse me… I’ve got to stop typing because Patrick and I got a Wii for Christmas (shut up… MY last video game system was an Atari) and my swordfighting/wakeboarding/boxing injury is KILLING ME.

As you may have gathered, by both your incredibly high intelligence level as well as the lack of “I’M KNOCKED UP!!!!!” announcements on this website… “The Plan” has not yet succeeded.

The original timetable of “The Plan” was the end of this year. Well, my dear friends, as you may have noticed… the end of this particular year is fast approaching. But over the past few months, that timetable has become a bit more fuzzy in my mind. I have just started another cycle and this one will stretch into the new year. For many reasons, I hope and yes, perhaps even my own brand of pray, that this is the one.

I’ve had more than one person ask me how I could keep doing this. Can my body handle it? Is it healthy? Why don’t we just adopt? I don’t really have any good answers for that. I assume that my body can handle it as my doctor is allowing it and I have complete trust and confidence in her.

As for the emotional aspects of (in)fertility… I can’t explain it. This should probably be harder. It should probably take more of a toll while I am actually having shots every day and spending every third morning at the doctor and trying so hard to become a mother.

But I think I have become oddly detached from the process. It has become a book of instructions. Steps A, B and C. And as long as I don’t stop to think about what I’m doing, what we’ve been through and what lies ahead, I’m fine. I think about today. I think about this shot. This appointment. This ultrasound. And as I cross THIS day off on my calendar, it is one day down. One day that I have conquered. One more day that I have spent sore and exhausted from the various chemicals that pump through my body and hopefully one day closer to becoming a mother.

Why DON’T we adopt? Because I’m not there anymore. I was there seven months ago. Today I am not. I have devoted myself to this quest for pregnancy 100% and for me, as long as adoption is even in the picture as an option, I am not focused on the task at hand. I feel so strongly that this little person, this amazing little baby that is part me and part Patrick is out there, getting ready. And I’m dying to meet that person. Maybe more out of morbid curiosity at the hellion our combined genetics could produce than anything else…

But as we go on, there are roadblocks up ahead. The largest and most looming is the financial one. While we haven’t yet made the jump to IVF, this process is not cheap and we don’t have the savings to support many more months of my fertility drug habit. Insurance doesn’t cover any of this so we are just paying as we go.

And at some point, Patrick is going to grow very weary of my dropping trou in the kitchen every night so he can give me a shot. He’s an engineer… medical school was never on the radar and I imagine he’s done more doctoring than he ever planned. (Although this can’t be blamed entirely on infertility as I also do nothing but point and shriek when I cut myself shaving. Or get a splinter. Or a blister.)

But the point is… I’m not sure how much longer this is going to go on. Only that it IS going on and that I’m good with that. Because for all my bitching and whining and moaning, it isn’t THAT difficult. You just put one foot in front of the other, remember to breathe and NEVER, EVER involuntarily tighten your butt muscles right before a shot.

Dear Postal Customer –

Hi. I know. It’s SO FUCKING INCONVENIENT when someone shows up at the post office before you and proceeds to go about the business they showed up here to do.

I do know the inner eye-rolliness you felt when I stepped up to that counter and announced my intention to send a dozen certified letters. I’ve felt it before too.

And I am SO SORRY that you had to stand there in your pajamas at two o’clock in the afternoon with your bed head and your house shoes and the seven pounds of mascara smeared down your cheek and wait for me. Because I had to something for my JOB. Where I WORK. Like a NORMAL PERSON. Who does not come to the post office in their bunny slippers and Winnie the pooh pajama pants in the middle of the afternoon. And by the way sweetie? Those pajama pants are WHITE. So maybe your black underwear with the word SLUT emblazoned across the ass wasn’t the best choice…

While we’re at it… here’s another little tidbit of advice you may want to file away for future reference. There is a big tower of postal supplies in the middle of the room. But that’s all it is. It isn’t a MAGIC SOUNDPROOF tower of ridiculously priced flat rate boxes ($10.95? Really? Because I mailed that box last year for four bucks) and various quasi-festive mailing labels. I can still HEAR YOU. And I heard what you called me… And I ASSURE you that hearing you call me a selfish bitch didn’t exactly light a fire under my ass.

Much love…

The one who stepped on you foot with her pointy, pointy boots.

Saturday morning(ish). Sitting on the couch watching a BEAUTIFUL and UNPRECEDENTED snow event taking place in our very own backyard. (Front yard too!!!)

“The snow is over.”

“Um… no. It’s not.”

“Look. Look at this map on my laptop. The snow is over.”

“Look. Look out the window at the actual out of doors. That snow is coming down like a mo-fo.”

“I’m just saying. That according to the Weather Channel, the snow is over and it should not still be snowing.”

“FINE. I’M JUST SAYING THAT ACCORDING TO MY EYEBALLS IN MY HEAD AND THE SNOW FALLING IN OUR YARD THAT THE SNOW IS NOT OVER.”
(and yes, I’m speaking in capital letters at this point, thank you very much.)

“Argue all you want. But that snow is over and there won’t be anymore today. I’m looking at the radar map right now and that’s just the way it is.”

“You are a nerd and I kind of want to stab you with a butter knife. I will be fixing you NO hot chocolate today.”

And then… 10 minutes later… when the snow ended… he did a little victory dance while I pointed out that the snow was over because it had STOPPED SNOWING.

Oh my head. She rattles with so many things to talk about. Dealing with the first holiday season since the loss of my grandmother. The CRAZY anxiety I’m having over what is looking like a promising cycle and how I still have SEVEN WHOLE DAYS until I will know if I’m knocked up. The sinus infection that took up right where my bought with the swine flu left off. The wonderful success that was Thanksgiving and the tingles I got each time my mom, in her Cabernet haze, would tell me how proud she was of me.

These are all such wonderful topics of conversation. But they are not what prompted me to grace you with my presence. (HAH!) No… today I want to talk about Christmas trees. Specifically? My secret hatred of them and how it makes Patrick die a little inside.

I adore looking at a beautifully decorated Christmas tree. The lights, the ornaments that each have their own little story, it all just sparkles. And I’m sure that when I was little I also totally enjoyed decorating the tree and remembering why each ornament was special as we unpacked them. My parents have a collection of wooden, hand-painted ornaments that were obviously made from some sort of kit that I always loved. These ornaments are from their first Christmas together and I can just picture them in my head laughing and having a ball as they painted and glued and glittered.

But at some point in my life, something changed and I realized that DUDE. Putting up the Christmas tree is just a bunch of WORK that is better delegated to kids. However NOTHING matches my hatred of taking DOWN a Christmas tree. Going on that painful treasure hunt through the prickly branches (because you stopped watering the tree four days ago and are, at this point, scared to plug in the lights) to find each ornament. Unstringing and untangling those damn lights. And finally? Getting that stupid tree out the door in a wake of pine needles that will clog your vacuum cleaner and poke your bare feet for the next three months.

Somehow, I think I would be able to handle the whole Christmas tree mess better if I were allowed to have a fake tree. Pre-lit! No needles! And let’s be honest. Fake trees have come quite a ways. They no longer look like a tube stuck full of bright green toilet brushes. They are lush and full and beautiful and did I mention PRE-LIT!?!?

Sadly, I know better than to even approach this subject with Patrick as I would suddenly become the bitch who killed Christmas. You see, Patrick’s family had a Christmas tree farm. And every year we go to what is left of the Christmas tree farm and select and cut down a tree. (By which, OBVIOUSLY, I mean I point to the three closest to the car and say “one of those” while Patrick manual labors the cut it down and tie it to the roof of the car. I? Am an EXCELLENT “stander and watcher”)

At some point I may broach the subject with him, then again I might not. The funny thing is that Patrick is actually ALLERGIC to Christmas trees. By the time ours is lit and decorated, he looks like he tried to put him arms through a shredder. But never once have I heard him complain about it. I guess the only thing I can compare it to is my love of pointy, stabby boots. I love them too much to not wear them.

A good wife would let him have his tree…