Vacation, had to get away

This weekend I was at the coast with my in-laws. It started out well enough, but after a couple of days, I was irritable and prickly. I kept asking myself why - my in-laws are charming, and the extended family is fine too, better even, most of the time. And yet. Enough is enough.

After two full days I was tired of being with these people. Tired of all being together every moment, playing games and talking and and and. At this point most of you are saying "Wah, poor Nora who can't stand to be happy. Get yourself together." Well, except for Karen, who knows exactly what I am saying. But here is the thing - even when you care about people and enjoy their company, sometimes too much time with no break turns fun into torture. For me, two days was the breaking point.

Ada and her Grandpa (the fog, though lovely, did cut down on the 
amount of time we would normally have spent on the beach)

Even though I didn't entirely see this at the time, I felt it enough to take steps to disengage. Instead of playing a game with the rest of the group, I started a jigsaw puzzle. But Chris's family does not seem to feel this need for down time, and they kept trying to draw me in, inviting me to play games and participate in the group. Half-way through an excruciating game of Quiddler (trust me, do NOT play this game with more than four people or you will be bored to death) I started leaving the table between my turns. I started to have that crazed feeling that if I had to make idle banter any longer I might find a way to turn my cards into a deadly weapon. (It did not help that one card-player challenged with my assertion that the final sixth of Kavalier and Clay would have benefited from some good editing by saying: "but it won a Pulitzer!" as if that assured perfection. Then he admitted he hadn't actually read it himself. But it won a Pulitzer!)

The first of two puzzles I completed. Notice the missing piece (bastards).

During visits with my family, Chris takes a lot of time apart from us. I have noticed over the years that he needs down time when they are around, and I give him plenty of space. A typical day when my parents are in town involves some Ada-centered activity (which Chris does not attend), followed by nap-time lunch for the adults, and then another outing or neighborhood excursion (often without Chris). It is not uncommon for my parents to see Chris at breakfast and then not really interact with him until dinner. I do not necessarily need this kind of space, but this weekend made me realize that I do need a little more space than I have been giving myself. Next time we spend an extended stretch with the in-laws, I give myself permission to sneak off and read a book, take a walk or otherwise disappear for an hour or three. With Ada as the central focus of our family, they won't care if I wander off. If it improves my mood, I am sure they will even appreciate it.

Wow, Talk About Spacy

I just realized that I never selected a winner for the picnic code I was going to give away. Over a week ago. Ahem.

Ok, here goes. (Drumroll, please.)

The winner is Kaci! Congratulations, Kaci. Have fun Picniking!

When you get a minute, will you make me look less green in this picture? Thanks!

Chris and me on the St John's bridge, during this year's Bridgepedal

Special Delivery

This arrived today:

Yes folks, that is a $4,500 package. It showed up this morning, and I stowed the various vials and containers in the fridge and on counters. Now that Ada can open the refrigerator I am a bit more cautious about where I put those meds.

Turns out I had mis-calculated the cycle dates when I was estimating on my own, which means that we CAN go to Canada for Labor Day. (Or should I type Labour Day?) Yay for us! Hopefully the Lupron headache will be controllable this time. It helps when I identify that it is a Lupron headache and don't fruitlessly try to medicate with ever more caffeine.

In other health care news, the Onion Radio News has a good piece up: Republican Enjoys Paying Huge Health Insurance Premiums. Saying I got this from one of my bosses does not violate my "don't blog about work" rule, I suppose.

In case you think you might need your eyes checked, see this first. (found at design for mankind)

And now for mental health: I am off to the beach with Chris' family. No doubt to get my ass kicked in Settlers of Catan. But I'm the king of Boggle. See you next week.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

To some extent the hostility is a byproduct not only of the abdication of common sense, but of widespread ignorance of state and local laws.

Jan Hoffman
Moving Targets

That's a lot of poop talk from a kid who refuses to use the potty

Ada told herself a story that ended with "and the poo poo came out of her head."

Turning to me, she asked: Isn't that a funny story?

Me: It's not my favorite kind of story.

Ada, exasperated that I did not get the joke: But there's poo poo . . . coming out of her HEAD!

Ada, talking to herself again: That's a poo poo head story. Mama didn't like it. She likes a pee pee story. I like a poo poo story and Mama likes pee pee.

Why didn't we do this before?

After several years of chatting with neighbors about having a block party, two of us finally arranged one. We got permits, official city-approved barricades, food and an honest-to-goodness bouncy house.  The bouncy house was borrowed from a neighbor's suburban friends, but now that we've had one I am not sure you can have a block party without a bouncy house.

Or without goats, for that matter. One of our neighbor owns a pair of pygmy goats, and nothing says "Portland Block Party" like goats on leashes. To be fair, the goats are very well behaved, leash trained and only tried to eat my plants a couple of times. Plus, they are cute.

The jazz musicians who live on the cross-street moved their practice session onto the porch so that we all could enjoy their music. Meat was grilled, children got pumped up on sugar and ran around until their tongues lolled out of their heads, and I met neighbors I have never seen before.

No one called the cops, but a local conifer did stop by to urge us to plant trees this winter. So I'd call it a win all around. We'll be doing it again next year. Maybe next time with a parade.

One of my neighbors, making nice with a local conifer. 

Ada and a friend hang out in the living room set up on the street, 

complete with couch, rug and lamp.

A friendship, full of mystery and hope

A package arrived today from my friend Jane.

Before June, I hadn't seen Jane in five years. We talk periodically, but like many people who live thousands of miles apart, our lives are not as intertwined as those who who see each other regularly. Despite this, I think of Jane regularly and warmly. When I lived in Rhode Island, Jane was a friend, boss and mentor. She is one of those people who never reminds you how much more they know or suggests that you are in any way not completely compelling. Even when I have not talked to her for months I routinely see a movie or read a book and think immediately that I need to share it with Jane.

In the five years since I moved back to the west coast, Jane has sent me several thoughtful gifts. One of my favorites is an oversize shopping bag made of red floral oilcloth. She has also sent me more sentimental gifts, including the milagros that sit on my personal shrine. Somehow her gifts and notes seem perfectly timed. Today, the day I got my plan for my 4th round of invitro fertilization, a package arrived from Jane. This gift was exactly what I needed, as the official start of another attempt at pregnancy was more emotionally charged than I had expected.

 

Inside the mailer was a small box, tarted up with sparkles, fabric roses and what looks for all the world like red fishnet stockings. The box was filled with the sweetest of hand-picked treasures, each one perfect and beautiful. Jane's gift made me cry with the happiness of someone so well loved by her friends. Ada helped me open the gift. With the seriousness of a 3 year old, she picked up and examined each item. She did not understand the meaning of the gift, but as a collector and appreciator of all manner of small objects, she knew its value.

In her card, Jane wrote that she made the box, "full of mystery and hope", for my embryos. She quoted a Salvatore Quasimodo poem that had made her think of my embryos:

everyone stands alone
on the heart of the earth
transfixed by a sun-ray
and suddenly its evening

She signs off by writing: So here's to their life, whatever that may be. With much love, Jane.

I love Jane for so many reasons. Today, because she is such a kind and thoughtful friend. Her note introduced me to a new poet. And even if she did not know it, her timing was perfect. The box is a reminder of how lucky I am to have such wonderful people in my life, people who care for me and love me no matter what our circumstances. The box may be aimed at my ovaries, but it also points at my heart. Seeing it will help me focus on the mystery and hope in my life, any help with that is an amazing gift.

Thank you, Jane.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

He's a middle-aged man wearing sweats and a top hat of green balloons, a rubber crown of garden hoses, on a sweltering Saturday in downtown Portland.

Jessica Machado
Keeping it Weird (Downtown)

Did You Buy That New?

A few weeks ago I hinted that Debbie was all fired up about an idea for a new blog. Well, spitfire that she is, Debbie got the blog up and running.

Before I tell you about the site, first a story to explain how I got involved with it: in high school, I wore clothes designed to make me blend into the background. My college roommate turned me on to thrift shops and vintage clothing. Home on vacatiions, I proudly wore my oversized 50s dresses and 30s heels. My mom, who loves a good sale and rarely buys clothes at full price, was not impressed by my thrifty finds. Her usual response to my polka dot dresses and threadbare coats was: did you buy that new?

This question became a running family joke, applied to all manner of clothes purchased over the years. When Debbie told me she was planning a blog about incorporating thrifted, vintage and repurposed clothing into everyday fashion, I insisted that she use the phrase to title her blog.

Did you buy that new? is part how to, part show-and-tell, part eco-fabulous lifestyle blog.

Debbie and the other contributors are a bunch of fabulous women whose closets I will raid just as soon as I can convince them to tell me their addresses. I will be contributing as well, hopefully offering ideas for ways you can wear used clothes without your mother asking if you've become homeless.

Please check it out. It's your new guilty pleasure, without the guilt.

Coffee, tea, or . . . barium milk?

Ada: Here is some puta hutu banana lemonade.

Me (after deciding not to get into why puta might not be a good thing to drink): Delicious.

Ada: This is barium milk.

Me: Yum.

Ada: Coffee? But it is bad for you.

Me: What? Coffee is?

Ada: Yes, BAD for you.


Later, after feeding her rubber ducky some barium, Ada allowed as how barium tastes bad. Maybe because it was cut with bath water? 

Beach Photos (or) If one picture is good, three are better

As long as I have you thinking about photographs, I wanted to mention that the nice people at Picnik* handed me a code for a free year of its Premium service. If you want it, leave me a comment on this post by Friday, August 8 (let's say, 5pm pacific time), and I will randomly select a winner. Be sure to include an email or web site, so I can get in touch with you if you win.

*Ok, I don't actually know them, so I can't really vouch for their interpersonal skills. But they did give me this code, and I do use Picnik myself (and like it), so there you go.

The three best things I read this week

Magpie Musing on marriage and equality for all.

Julie Pippert, arguing that the fact that she cares about her hair does not mean she does not also think deeply.

Thailand Chani, sharing her life in order to increase our understanding of the nuance behind a stereotyped group.



Thank you all for producing such thoughtful and heartfelt writing.

Photo Faves: The Man I Love

There are so many things to love about Chris: his good humor, his cooking, his brains, his active and thoughtful parenting of our daughter. He's also beautiful.

As you can see in this picture, Chris has what he calls his grandfather's legacy - his big eyebrows. Hair stylists always want to trim them for him, but I am glad he resists them. I love his eyebrows. I love him.

Happy 9th wedding anniversary, Chris. You are still my favorite.

The real problem with IVF

It is not the cost. We are lucky enough to have the financial support of my family. Without that, we would have long ago been done with this process and settled for good into our three person family.

It is not the pain. I have a higher threshold for pain than I would have thought. Even though the progesterone shots have arguably gotten harder over time as my backside has increasingly given itself over to scar tissue, they are bearable and never hurt for long.

It isn't the possibility that it will not work. Though I reserve the right to wail and gnash my teeth should the need arise, I am coming to terms with the fact that I may not have another child. 

It is the fucking scheduling. After our most recent round I wanted to go again as soon as possible. However, my travel schedule was going to be a problem. In late June I was scheduled to fly to Boston for a conference. I really wanted to go and did not want a maybe-event to keep me home. I put off the next cycle for a month. When my period started I consulted the calendar and found that starting the process would mean cancelling my plans for San Francisco and interrupting my vacation at the beach with several early morning drives to visit my Portland doctor. So again I put it off.

Now I am waiting for the go-ahead to start again. Once I start bleeding I can begin the two weeks of birth control pills, followed by a couple of weeks of follicle stimulating drugs and the paired joys of egg retrieval and embryo transfer.

So what's the problem? The timing. One of my favorite bloggers invited my family up to see hers on Labor Day weekend. (and to hear Neko Case perform, one of our shared enthusiasms) Once again, I am looking at the calendar. A month from now looks like exactly when I can't be away.  Crap.

I have put off this round of IVF twice. I can not wait any longer. I hope Mother-Woman and her family will forgive my indecisive rambling and back and forth emails (I'd love to visit, I don't know if I can come, yes we'll be there! No wait…).  Somehow I think they will. In any case, the bug is in my ear, and I will see them soon. If the IVF works, I will know I made the right decision. If it fails? Probably still the right decision, but it will sting a little more.

Thanks for your patience, Mo. You are welcome here any time.

Random Quote and Unrelated Photo of the Week

We're like The View on Clomid.

Lori of Weebles Wobblog...
Talking about the make-up of the Blogher panel on Adoption, Infertility and Loss

Dear Friends

To friends old and new, I am sorry if I neglected you this week. The cards of those I met at Blogher are burning a hole in my pocket.  I have been at the beach with limited internet access (or interest).  I will be making the rounds soon, to say hello and check in on your varied, fascinating lives.

Until then, proof that I really was away:

Walking In A Stranger's iPod

What was that saying about knowing someone only after you have walked a mile in her shoes? Well today I listened to a stranger's ipod, but I am still not sure who he is, other than a fan of rap music.

And of Steve Winwood.

What would you do with a found iPod? I went right for the "25 most played" playlist. Something is wrong with the screen (hey, it was dropped at least once, right?). Only the bottom-left corner of the screen works. I can read the first word or two of the song titles, but nothing else. After a half-hour of assorted (and to my ear, second rate) rap, all of a sudden a fast-paced remix of "Call On Me" comes on. A quick search turned up the name Eric Prydz as the artist. And then, as quickly as it came on, it was replaced by more nameless hip hop.

Truthfully, it was a little disappointing, this iPod full of music that means nothing to me. I like rap, but it is not so good as office music, especially while I finish up edits on a report eight months in the making. When I saw the iPod lying in the street, I hoped that I would be transported into someone else's world by the music I found on it. Well, first I hoped that no cars ran over it before the light changed. But then I hoped to get a musical ride. Mostly I was bored by what I found, though maybe I will dig a little deeper to see what else is on this guy's playlist.

No doubt if the tables were turned, and this unknown rap fan found my nano, he'd be equally confused by my choices. Bon Iver? Neko Case? What the fuck? Natalie Portman's Shaved Head? I wonder if he'd turn the iPod over and see that it has "Nonlinear Girl" engraved on the back? (Chris ordered it for me when we got the new computer.) Maybe he'd google the name, and find me. He'd comment on a random quote post and we'd forge a lasting bond between people who frequent the corner of 12th and State. I would give him his iPod and take mine back. We'd laugh at our good luck and shake our heads at the other's taste.Or not. I feel bad that I can't return the iPod to this guy. Even if he knows where he lost it, what is the point of putting it back there now? Anyone need a half-broken iPod? Free to a good home.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

She strode past me on those mile-long legs, her sensible nun shoes making a hollow klopf-klopf, the sound of Joy itself agreeing to some pragmatic temporary restraint.

George Saunders

Hypocrites

When I left the hotel

Camp Blogher

At one am, one of my roommates was sure she was done with blogging, the other was hatching plans for a new venture. I was still reeling from the conference, trying to decide what to make of it.

Debbie called Blogher the blog prom. To me the two days felt something more like summer camp. As kids, Karen and I both went to sleep away camp. When I talk to other people who had been “camp” kids, I hear the same stories about the experience, whether it was a camp organized around kayaking, one run by the girl scouts or for Jewish youth. It is an intense experience; days feel like weeks, and weeks contain years. Friendships are forged, feelings are hurt, dramas rage, are discussed, analyzed and forgotten in the face of new dramas. Sleep is forgone, nerves fray, people declare themselves and remake themselves daily.

 

Gwen and her favorite blogger enjoy a SF cab ride

As with camp, I enjoyed it and hated it in equal measure. In the session on infertility, adoption and loss, I listened to women speak and felt in synch with them. Over the course of the weekend I met several women who I genuinely enjoyed getting to know, with whom I want to continue friendships across time and space.

I also felt confused and a bit put off by the structure of the event. As a blogger with a small readership, I am not expecting to monetize my blog, I do not hope to get a book deal or even a paid writing gig. I did not need to network in the way that people do when their business is at stake, when working the room can affect their careers.

my old bunk was never this swank

At lunch on Thursday, Karen asked what I wanted out of the weekend. I could not really answer. Sitting in the airport waiting for a delayed plane, I still don’t know. As with camp, I leave exhausted and overstimulated. Unlike those years that I came home from camp with a pile of dirty clothes and a slight sunburn, unpacking is not accompanied by an immediate nostalgia for the days past and a hopeful excitement for next year.

But maybe that's just because I am no longer 14. 

Feeling much better now, thanks.

I didn't realize how emotionally exhausting this whole Blogher thing was going to be. Just now, crying and lying curled up on the bed, I got it.

Being outgoing and friendly all day? Hard.

Asking questions and being trying to be funny all day? Tiring.

Approaching people you know only online and who you aren't sure will recognize you? Forcing yourself to repeatedly overcome the urge to hide in the handicapped stall? Listening to people read and knowing your writing is never going to be that funny/beautiful/poignant? Fucking exhausting.

(Wah, cry me a river, right?)

Oh, and Chris? I told Liz that she is your favorite mommy blogger. I hope that's okay. She said something about kissing you. I told her she could be on your list, after Neko Case.

Live Blogging: Mommyblogging and Privacy

I am in the Blogher session on public parenting and privacy. Hearing these stories I started to wonder if I should worry more. I have a fairly small readership, and I know many of them (more of them as of today). BUT. I can not know everyone who is reading.

The speakers (and audience) are talking about not using their kids' names and not using pictures of their children on their blogs. I am not sure how I'd do this. A couple of years ago I considered switching from names to psuedonyms, but in the end kept referring to my family by their names. Some of my favorite pictures of Ada are closeups; I am not sure I am ready to give up showing those.

I have limits - I do not share my last name online. I don't write about certain things. The moderator says it is  about balance.  This is very comforting to me. I think we all need to do what feels right, while being clear-eyed about what we share. Beyond those with extreme stranger fear (legitimate or not), I am hearing good advice about thinking before writing, and abut considering the impact on myself and those I write about.

A Sign She May Not Win Miss Congeniality

The other night after her bath, I was helping Ada brush her teeth.  While I had control of the toothbrush, she farted. Before I knew what was happening, she put her hand to her bottom and the raised it to my face, offering up the scent of her fart. 

I pulled away, and laughing asked her where she had learned that. Between peals of laughter she told me that no one had taught her, she just did it. After she was done laughing (this took a few minutes) Ada tried to raise her hand to my face again.  I told her not to do it. 

Ada: Why?

Me: Because I don't want to smell your stinky farts. 

Ada, after pausing to consider this: Maybe Papa will!

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

If my having an orgasm saved a whale or stopped global warming, then I'd have a decent shot.

David Bar Katz
Philip Roth In Khartoum

Is there an Allbottom list?*

When I was thinking of that title, it sounded much more innocent than it looks now that I have typed it. Unintended implications of sexual proclivities aside, I think there should be some website for the rest of us, perhaps a badge. ("Alltop doesn't know I exist") I'd make one if I wasn't so busy worrying about what to wear to Blogher. I know, it should not matter what I look like, but you prepare to spend three days with 1,000 women and not doubt your wardrobe or haircut. Despite her self-proclaimed tendency to obsess, Debbie kindly talked me off an "I've got nothing to wear" ledge yesterday afternoon. I felt a bit better, but then I read that she planned on doing it up herself next week, sartorially speaking. Great, a roommate of charm and sophistication, dressed to the nines. No pressure there. (Maybe she can make up for this gaffe by making me an Allbottom.com shirt. I'll wear it out on the town; maybe Guy Kawasaki will take pity on me and start such a site.)

Luckily my kind neighbor offered some help. She loaned me a wrap, perfect for the frozen wasteland that is a hotel conference room. (and a July day in San Francisco) When in a fashion crisis, it is always good to wear someone else's clothes. Thank goodness for her, because looking around at my closest friends I see women who are vastly different shapes and sizes from me, which is to say NO HELP AT ALL in the clothes borrowing department.  Which will not stop me from running upstairs during Monkey Boy's birthday party to rifle through Ellen's things. A 5'9" woman can wear her 5'2" friend's clothes, right?  Maybe not the jeans, but I'm sure there is something in her closet I can use.  That way, if it looks terrible I can blame it on Ellen.  Win-win, as I see it.

After the last of my three attempts to find something to wear at blogher, I left the store with purple footless tights.  Which helps me how? Not at all, but does make me feel 14 again.  I take that back; the 14 year old me would never have worn bright purple, or anything else that called attention to the fact that I had a body.  Now I am so desperate for something new that I resort to tights that are tantamount to holding a sign over my head.  One that reads "I have no taste and no time to shop; be my friend!"  Yeah, that'll work. Maybe I should just have gotten the sign.


*I debated whether to use this subject line.  My experience with seemingly innocent titles that generate traffic from porn-seekers (I s*** my****, for example) makes me wary. But apparently not wary enough to think of a better title.



Edited to add: HRH pointed me to allmediocre.com, which has apparently beaten me to the punch on this.

One Fine Week In July

A quick peek into a very busy week:

enjoying the park with a neighbor

Ada and Thing Three, picking their way through the wheat

Kruger Farm has trees just the right size for climbing

biscuits with friends old and new

Plus, a trip to the firehouse museum

the firehouse's resident fire-fighter/historian

then some time at the park

and the rest of the bacon from the biscuit

a trip to the farmer's market for berries and carnitas tacos

Monkey Boy's 4th birthday celebration

and a night bike ride that had us up late into the night,

with stops for movies, a dance party and DONUTS!

If I were a bear

On the walk home from the farmers' market, Ada said: "If I were a bear . . . I would turn into a bench."

hopefully not like this one