Late

I am so tired of feeling like I'm being messed with all the time. 

I miss life when kids were the farthest thing from my mind. They're already pains in the ass, and I don't even have them yet.

I was late. The day the dumb bitch was supposed to show came and went with only the smallest amount of spotting. The day after did too. And the day after that. It really looked like this roller coaster might be over (or just starting, depending on how you look at it.) Then I did something that I swore I wouldn't:

I got my hopes up just the tiniest bit.

I had been nauseous for days and the ta-tas were hurting. I peed on sticks and they told me I was crazy. Seriously. They were like, "Bitch, what the fuck are you thinking? Two lines for you?! No way in hell." I held my breath and jumped up and down inside when everything was different this month. It just seemed like this was it.

And then it wasn't. 

And I'm just so mad at myself now. 

I'm also kind of mad at the universe. And by kind of, I mean totally. I'm so tired of this process and watching it work for people around me while I get beat up by my own effing body. I'm not even safe in my own skin. 

If you ever tell a person who is actively trying to get pregnant to "relax and just have fun," I hope a hoard of angry toddlers with shitty diapers raid your living room with grape juice in sippy cups that are not properly closed. Do you think we would be stressing our brains out if the alternative of "just fun" were easily attainable?

I'm thankful for a husband who is a super hero and let's me go through these awful days without hating me for how frequent they can be. He still tries to make me laugh and encourages me to get it together without being a jerk about it. I'm lucky for that and about a thousand other things. I don't say that enough.

The reproduction game, however, is clearly not one of my skills. Keeping my head on straight while dealing with this stuff is not in my wheelhouse no matter how hard I try. I'm exhausted physically and mentally, and I am starting to dread the thought of pee sticks and more months and the uncertainty of it all. I hate calendars and weeks and thinking ahead to end up right where started. There should just be a test you take where if you get a high score, you get a baby. I'm great at tests and preparations and planning. I'm terrible at the rest of this crap.

It all keeps coming back to the thing that my dad used to say to me when I was a kid: "Life's unfair." It infuriated me then for different reasons. Then, it was the unjustifiable imbalance in a world that I hadn't earned my place in. Now, I feel like the place I want doesn't exist. It's like I'm wasting my life fighting my way into a world that doesn't want me. 

Sigh.

As always, it's hip to be square, kids.

Life Hack With Brownies

I have developed a life hack that makes cleaning totally interesting. 

Well, maybe not interesting. But it totally makes life tasty. 

I typically don't mind cleaning, but once in the while, it's impossible to find the energy. No one is going to pat me on the back for cleaning my own house, so I have to give myself a high five. 

Here's my new system. 

1. Purchase a box of brownie mix.

2. Prepare brownie mix. 

3. Put brownies in oven.

4. Wash dishes. Clean countertops. Put away mail. 

5. Brownies are done.

6. Reward productivity with brownies.

7. Win at life. 

I'd rather be fat with a clean house and brownies than skinny and live in a mess.

And c'mon. BROWNIES.

As always, it's hip to be square (and life hack-ed), kids. 

More Like Beauty BLAHger

I put on makeup because I have to, not because I'm any good at it. Without makeup, I look like I'm 12. With makeup, I'm pushing 15. The extra 3 years matter, I promise.

Lately, I've been trying really hard to get better at, you know, giving a shit. It's really difficult to spend much time thinking about how I look because I'm working so damn hard all of the time. The time that I'm not working, I just want to be in my bed. It also seems silly to get fancied up for my patients, so I have a very minimal routine in the morning of ways to make myself look like a person. Straighten hair, some makeup, clothes, DONE. Oh, I brush my teeth in there too. I do not, however, brush my hair. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. I don't even own a hairbrush. YOU DON'T BRUSH CURLS, EVEN ONCE THEY'RE STRAIGHTENED.

That was really for my husband. He doesn't understand not owning a hair brush.

Back to the topic at hand.

I had this thought. There have got to be a ton of women out there in my same situation. Women who don't buy cosmetics because they're fun and sparkly but because they need to look put together. Women who don't particularly enjoy trying new shades and looks, but who need functional pretty-fying stuff that WORKS.

This can't just be me. In fact, I know it isn't. So now that I'm putting some damn effort into this shizz, I will share it with the internetz for those of you who, like me, just need things to be simple but effective.

AND AND AND, I'll give some of them away while I'm at it.

How 'bout them Apples?

Speaking of giveaways, don't forget about the one that we're currently rocking over here: Raccoon Eyes No More!


As always, it's hip to be square (and functional!), kids.

The Clllllllaaaaawwwwww

I love claw games. I have no idea why, but I love them. I can't walk passed one without at least wanting to load it up with quarters. For years, my husband told me I was ridiculous, but he has since learned the magic of the claw. Now it's like our thing.

When we were on the cruise last month, there was a claw game in the casino where, instead of stufed animals, we played for $100. It was $1 per play, but I think we made our money back. Husband walked out there with $200.

Now that we're back on dry land, you can pretty much only play for stuffed toys, but it's still fun. We're like the dream team of scoping out an available get and finding the perfect position for the claw. If Little Brother is with us, the only thing that gets in our way is physics. And when the claws are rigged.

Last night, we pumped way too much money in to a claw game at a toy store. We like playing because it's fun to win, but the best part about the whole thing is that we almost always give the toys to a nearby kid. I don't think we need any more stuffed animals. We got to hand three or four complete strangers toy to snuggle with (so what if they're filled with lead?!), and they were all super appreciative.

So, yeah, we waste a lot of money on stuffed toys that cost pennies, but it's like our skill. We can master pretty much any claw game. And we can make some unexpecting kids smile in the mean time, so BONUS.

As always, it's hip to be square, kids.

And remember, the mascara giveaway is still happening until November 18! Find it here: Raccoon Eyes No More!

No Good Very Bad...

I just don't feel good at much right now. I mean, I know there are things I'm good at. I just keep looking at my friends and all of their successes and thinking that they are far more impressive than I.

I have the friend who is the super successful blogger. The friend who got pregnant on her first try. The friend who has a fancy corporate job with all the perks and good hours. The friend who eats whatever she wants, never exercises and weighs 98 pounds. 

And then there's me. 

I need to stop comparing myself to other people. It makes me feel like I have nothing to be proud of. I'm not a successful blogger. I am a successful business person-ish. I don't have the body that I want. I'm no where near close to who I want to see in the mirror.

The thing is, I logically know that I'm the only person who sees these as shortcomings. Why can't I agree with everyone else's assessment of my life? It's been a roller coaster of a month, and I just don't feel comfortable in my own skin right now. I certainly don't feel comfortable in my clothes. 

There is so much to be proud of. Does it ever get easier to focus on what you are rather than what you're not?

It's hip to be square, kids.

On a lighter note, don't forget about my super fun giveaway that is going on until November 18! Find it here: Raccoon Eyes No More!

Raccoon Eyes--- Giveaway! EXTENDED!

I don't wear mascara. I have a terrible habit of rubbing my eyes. I also have awful dark circles that probably come from years and years of working too hard and not sleeping enough, but that's not what this is about. The eye touching and the natural darkness mean that after a few hours, I look like a rodent burglar no matter what mascara I'm wearing. I have tried a ton of them, and the benefits never outweigh the quickness with which I look like a dead person. 

The easy solution would have been to stop touching my eyes. Yeah. 

Fidgety people are fidgety. It's pretty much impossible. And then, when I think about not doing it, I end up doing it more and looking like a raccoon even faster.

First. World. Problems.

This first world problem, however, has been solved. I found the mascara of my dreams. 

I don't actually dream about mascara, but you get it.

I introduce to you to the mascara that holds up even through my neurotic neurotic-ness:

Clinique High Impact Waterproof Mascara

Image courtesy of Clinique.com

Seriously, kids. This stuff is great. I wear it every day. I put it on at 6:00 in the morning, and it's still in place when I get ready for bed at 11:00 p.m. One night, I was super gross and fell asleep without taking it off, and not only was there nothing on my pillow, but my eyes still looked fab the next morning. I also managed to test this stuff out during the most stressful month I've had in a while, and it withstood all of the tears and exhaustion like a cosmetic BEAST. 

I take it off at night with a small amount of makeup remover on a cotton ball and BAM! Naked eyes like it was never there. 

I am so happy with it that I want my readers to understand and enjoy the majesty, so I'm giving one away. All you have to do is comment on this post to enter. Then, you can get extra entries by sharing the post on your social media. Tweet it, Facebook it, Instagram it, Pin it, sky write it, dance on the rooftop with it-- whatever you have to do. Just post a comment with the link to your share, and there you go. 

A winner will be selected on Monday, December 2, 2013. So get to posting!

I have no affiliation or relationship with Clinique, the maker of this product, and they did not supply the product for the giveaway. I purchased the product myself and will be shipping it myself. I have no sponsorships or affiliations with any companies. I am an excited consumer who wants to shout from from the top of a mountain, but I don't have a mountain, I have a blog.

Also, you get an extra entry if you can tell me what movie that last line referenced. Also also, we'll be best friends. 

As always, it's hip to be square (and wide-eyed!), kids. 

Boing Boing

Two years ago today, I said the following words:

"There is a bounce house. I want to go in the bounce house."

I was in my wedding dress, and my husband was in his tux. He talked our way into the pink bouncy castle that, for some inexplicable reason, was in a ballroom at the Ritz Carlton while we were taking our newlywed pictures immediately after our ceremony.

And we jumped.

And we fell over.

And I almost tore my dress.

And it was perfect in a way that would have been imperfect had it been planned.

And that is why my husband is wonderful. I said I wanted something silly and within seconds, he figured it out because he knew it would make me happy.

And that's what he does.

And that's why he's perfect.

Happy Anniversary, babe. I love you.


As always, it's hip to be square (and a little mushy!), kids.

Dilemma

I am an efficient person. Terribly so. I can do 10 things and once and still know what I'm doing, and I usually do more before everyone else gets in to the office than they do all day. I'm not bragging, but I am. Every so often, though, I get myself in to a situation where there is the efficient answer versus the arduous way of doing things, and I can't decide which would be quicker.

I am in one of those days.

I have a spreadsheet that I need to make, but there's a chance that someone already made it. It's just a matter of finding out who and getting a copy of it. I have no idea where to start, but I am almost certain that this exists. If I can get a copy from the mystery organization, I will have to do very little work to get this project started. That would be great.

Except I don't know where or who to talk to. The time that it may take me to get that information may be the same amount of time that it would take to just make the spreadsheet myself.

Let me clarify, this is not a small amount of work. It will take me hours upon hours upon hours to make the stupid spreadsheet. It's so much tedious bitch work, but it will be work that I have to do anyway if I can't track down a copy of what I need.

So... Do I put it off and hope I can get what I need the easy way, or do I put in the work and at least know that it's done so we can get started on the tough stuff?

In the mean time, I'm going to get nothing done and write a blog post about it because that really is the best use of my time.

Lawd.

As always, it's hip to be square (and useless!), kids.

On A Scale of Pants to No Pants...

I have a motto by which I live. Okay. It might not be a motto, but it pretty much sums up my goals and aspirations all quick-like.

"On a scale of pants to no pants, with pants being pants and no pants being no pants... Eff pants."

I don't like pants. 

In fact, my goal in life is to cash in the corporate job for a work-from-home gig that pays as much but never requires me to actually put on pants.

I call it bottomless employment. 

*Side note: While my never-ending crusade against pants rages on, I really like having an office to go to. I worked from home for a while, and I wouldn't mind going back to it, but the actual getting out of bed thing isn't so bad. Don't tell me that I said that, though.*

Anyway, in my attempt to never wear pants, I have gone on a parallel search for pants that aren't so, you know, pant-sy. This includes dresses, skirts, jeans, whatever. The requirements are that they be comfortable, inexpensive and that they don't accentuate the muffin top I'm trying so hard to get rid of. 

Okay. I'm not trying that hard. I'm busy, yo.

I have a couple of pairs of jeans that I will suffer through, some yoga pants for around the house, and a couple of dresses that I like. I have the pants (GASP!) that I wear to work. I would love to wear things like maxi dresses, but I have this odd lumpy waist that just looks bad in things that show my silhouette. It's a struggle of the gargantuan first-world kind. 

And then came these: 

Image courtesy of OldNavy.com

Meet the Old Navy Fold-Over Jersey Skirt. 

Also known as, "The Closest Thing To Not Wearing Pants That I Have Ever Come To Except For Actually Not Wearing Pants."

I bought two of them, one in grey and one in black. They were inexpensive, and I wear them everywhere. I had a little bit of trouble figuring out how to best wear the fold over, but it pretty much gives me the choice of a couple of different lengths depending on how dressy I want to be. I've worn it with heels, flats and flip flops. Futhermore...

IT'S LIKE NOT WEARING PANTS. THERE IS NOTHING BETTER. 

Except for winning the lottery. That would be better. Maybe world peace. That might also be better. 

BUT STILL.

I'll be happily over here in my comfy, almost pants-less cocoon.

You can find them here: Almost pants-less harmony at OldNavy.com. 

Also, I was in no was compensated by Old Navy, Gap, or anyone else for this post. I talk about not wearing pants for free. If someone wanted to pay me, that would be killer, but I think it would be more likely that they pay me to shut up. I'm open to that too. 

As always, it's hip to be square (and pantsless!) kids. 

A Little Relief and a Lot of Profanity

Please note that, before I write this, I am knocking on wood so hard that my knuckles are bleeding. 

In fact, I feel like I shouldn't even say this, but I need a little bit of good news out there in the universe. 

Doc has really been struggling with walking lately. We had been toying with sending him to physical therapy to try and figure out what we're missing, and he is going to a new neurologist for the Parkinson's on Friday. The diabetic neuropathy will always be a thing, but there had to be something we could do to help him with this. He was struggling so much. He has this shuffle when he walks where his feet just weren't moving much, and he would get so tired while walking that he would have to take breaks. We had really good days in there, sometimes. We had a lot of not good days and some truly terrifying falls. Things are better, but the walking was just so stressful to all of us. His brain is working. His body is lagging.

Being the idiot that I am, I never really brought any of this up with my mother-in-law. She's an occupational therapist, and finding solutions for this stuff is like, you know, WHAT SHE DOES. I finally called her and asked what treatments are available for neuropathy in the feet because the lack of feeling makes him scared of falling. The only option that she really had was a no go because of his pacemaker. 

I postulated that the feet are probably more important than the heart, but apparently that's unkind.

Anyway, it really looked like we were going to have to get him physical therapy so he can finally figure out how to use the cane that he has been resisting for so long. He can't keep struggling like this and work full time. Better yet, struggling blows, and he shouldn't have to at all. While my super-amazing-mother-in-law and I were talking, she said that a physical therapist will work with him on using other senses to walk and how to get a rhythm with the cane. She said that they use mantras to develop a rhythm. 

Mantras? Why can't I do that?

So, I stood the old dude up and I told him to come up with something that he can repeat to himself while he's walking that will get him on a rhythm. While he was thinking, I remembered something that seemed to always work to get a crowd riled up at a football game. It was energizing and totally profane.

One side yells, "EAT SHIT!"

And the other side responds with "FUCK YOU!"

"EAT SHIT!" "FUCK YOU!" "EAT SHIT!" "FUCK YOU!"

I knew that he wouldn't forget that. 

So, we tried it. 

You know, once we stopped laughing from the ridiculousness of a psychiatrist walking around muttering profanities to himself.

And sonofabitch, it worked. I haven't seen him walk like this in 5 years. He's upright. He's confident. He's quick. 

I feel like I just breathed for the first time in like my entire life. This obviously isn't about me but OH HOLY SHIT THANK SWEET BABY UNIVERSE AND TOM CRUISE AND THE FLYING SPAGHETTI MONSTER AND LAWWWWDDDDDD!

We're just in the beginning, and I suppose it could stop working at any point because that's kind of how Parkinson's works, but still. 

This is just so good. 

So so good.

Eat shit. Fuck you.

As always, it's hip to be square (and totally profane!), kids.

And Again

"This happens every month," I'm telling myself.

"You've done this before. Don't get your hopes up," I keep repeating. 

Over and over.

And while I'm getting more used to things that always seem like a sign even though they're the same every month, there's still that stinging moment whn you realize that this month really isn't different and we're headed back to where we started. 

And it's easier. Every month it's easier. 

In that it's not really.

I'm lucky for having months where I'm so busy that I don't have time to think about how hard moments of this can be. I am so wrapped up in everything else that's there just isn't time for feeling ALL THE SADS. 

I am so very thankful for that. 

But there is still that short period every month where it's pretty clear it's over and yet... What if this means...?

And it doesn't.

But it could. 

But it doesn't.

And that stings just a little. 

Or a lot. 

Here we go again.

It's hip to be square, kids.

I Am Not A Fire Hose

Everyone has a limit.

That place where you get to because nothing is going your way even though life ain't so bad, and you just need something, ANYTHING, to give.

I'm sitting there right now.

The eternal optimist in me is saying that everything will be just fine because it always is. It's saying that as long as you focus on being a good person who does things the right way that there is nothing your little heart should be worrying about. It's saying that there will always be bumps in the road and bad news, but that things are not as bad as the pulsing anxiety in your heart is telling you.

Though eternal, the optimist in me is not very large. She is easily overwhelmed by the pessimist who just knows that this could be the thing that finally breaks you.

My job is to worry about other people. It's to clean up messes for people.

At the end of the day, as far as my professional life goes, there is not a damn person to clean up messes for me. Not one.

And that's exhausting.

I am lucky to come home to a man who, though frequently irritated at how much of my life goes in to my work, still begrudgingly understands it and swoops in to save the day when I need him. Every time. He has never left me hanging. He never will. For all of the times that I have fallen short for him, he has never fallen short for me.

I am so thankful.

I am also so exhausted, worn out, and ready for something, ANYTHING, ANY ANY ANYTHING to give. I'm ready for my phone to stop ringing on weekends. I'm ready for patients to stop keeping me on the phone on my Sunday asking me the same question over and over while I try to enjoy my damn food. I'm ready for people to stop being vindictive and ready to pounce because they're addicts and all they care about is lying, cheating, stealing and drugs. I'm ready to stop getting spit on because when I say no to one of these people, I mean it.

No, I haven't actually been spit on, but it's pretty much the same thing.

I feel like my fire hose is running out of water.

I feel like this next fire might be the one that I just let burn.

Still, I know that tomorrow will be a better day.

It just has to be.


As always, it's hip to be square (I think...), kids.

You Are Not Responsible For Anyone Else's Crazy

Everyone has their own brand of crazy. If you think you don't, yours is probably worse than your store-brand neuroses. I can think through my friends and family members and come up with a list of what about them makes them the best kinds of crazy.

That being said, there are people who bring the insanity in to your life, but what they bring is not the good stuff. It's the angry, divisive, whirlwind of crazy that makes you wonder if there is something wrong with you because everyone around you doesn't understand just how crazy this is. It happens to everyone at some point.

And if it hasn't happened to you, then you may be the whirlwind. Sorry to be that guy.

Good crazy means you're funny and probably a little fearless. It means you may say offensive things, but they don't actually offend people because your friends and family know that it's just your crazy.

Bad crazy is when someone enters your life like a tornado through a trailer park.

LOOK! A FLYING COW!

.....Moooooo.....

But I digress.

Yes, these people will show up in your life. They may disguise themselves as family, in-laws, friends or neighbors. They may seem warm and inviting before ramping up the drama. They may even be someone that you feel obligated to assist because of their relation to you.

You are not responsible for their crazy.

Of course, you should assist friends and family in need if it is within your means... to a point. You are required to help your minor children when they are struggling. You may have elderly or disabled family who are beyond their own ability to help themselves. Everyone else? They better earn it.

You can only help someone who is self-destructive so many times before you are part of the problem.

You are only responsible to let someone who you did not create from your loins or legally adopt turn your life upside down and inside out to a point, and you probably passed that point months ago.

If you can look at your life and find the anxiety and stress coming out of an independent adult who is capable of taking care of his or herself, then no matter what you think your requirement to care of them is, it probably isn't.

If you're worried about your screw up brother who cannot get his life in control, but every time he shows up to yours he takes it down the tubes with him, then it's time to let him make his own mistakes and hope for the best. Similar situations can follow suit.

You can detach for the sake of your own life while still loving them regardless. Sometimes the biggest obstacle to people getting their shit together is knowing that there will be someone there for them when they screw up again.

We put up with too much. We allow people to take our lives too far off track in the name of "blood" or "obligation" that few others would recognize. If you wouldn't do it to someone else, don't let them do it to you.

I know this seems harsh and heartless, and maybe it is, but I have been at this place. It sucks. The ony way to reclaim my life was to finally put my foot down and invite those people to return only when they had gotten it together. One of them did, and our relationship is incredible now. The other didn't and probably won't. And even though that sucks, my day-to-day is so much better for it. I recently talked to a good friend who was right in the middle of a similar situation, and I hated how anxious she was just by being enveloped in someone else's bullshit.

You are only responsible for your crazy. If someone else tries to get you to adopt theirs, DO NOT SIGN. Send that shit return to sender back to Crazytown, and go back to living and enjoying your own [good] crazy life.

I'll leave you with the best advice I've ever gotten. When a family member was doing his damndest to make my universe way more complicated than necessary, my mother-in-law gave me the words that I repeat to myself daily:

"It's easier for them to be crazy than it is for you to be sane, but you have to do it anyway."

And even on days where I just don't fucking wanna, I have to find a way to not let anyone else's crazy turn my good crazy into the kind of crazy that is a padded cell's wet dream.

As always, it's hip to be square (and good crazy!), kids.


EDIT: I want to clarify what I mean by "being the whirlwind". If you have things going on in your life and you need help, I'm in NO WAY saying you're a problem. People need help sometimes. I'm talking about people who don't care what they do to other people's lives or people who know they're causing problems for someone else and don't look for a way to stop or make it better. If you need help, reach out to your friends and family. Reach out to me. I'm always around to help. If you consider someone else's thoughts and feelings before bringing them in to your own needs, then you ARE NOT the whirlwind.

Just Be Decent, Asshat

I can be kind of a loner. I don't mind spending time by myself. I usually enjoy it a whole lot. I don't have to be surrounded by people to be happy. That being said, I still have friends who I talk to, text with, and see as often as my schedule and level of exhaustion will allow. 

I recently interacted with someone who says often that she "doesn't get along with a lot of people."

Oh, hello red flag! How are you?

There is nothing wrong with only having a few friends or not often seeing the friends that you have, if that's the way you want it. You don't have to have a massive social circle to be a happily functioning person, there is a difference between not having a lot of friends or being hesitant to let people get too close, and not "getting along" with people.

If people walk in and out of your life and you can't find a way to be nice and decent to them, then add me to the list of people that you don't get along with. Sure, I meet people who I don't particularly like or click with, but you will almost never find me being anything other than polite unless I'm being a dick to be funny and I know they'll get the joke. I rarely find a situation where being nice doesn't at least make the interaction easier even if the person is a douche canoe.

Having selective taste in friends doesn't mean that every other acquaintance will lead to conflict. 

Or, if it does, you may need to talk to someone about that.

I don't lead a conflict-less existence, but I can get along with most people. I am far from a social butterfly who has been well-skilled in the etiquette of Emily Post and conversational graces. I laugh harder at dick and fart jokes than anything, and sarcasm is my native tongue. 

Even with everything I lack in the social department, life is just easier when I concentrate on not being an asshole.

Unless I'm being a funny asshole. I promise you'll know, though.

Just be nice to people. To every people. To people who you know you'll never be friends with. It will come back to you when you're trying to get to your car with a screaming baby and your arms filled with life and you just need someone to smile at you and remind you that you aren't crazy.

And hold fucking doors. I promise you, it's magical. 

As always, it's hip to be square, kids. 

He Wins

So after the last post where I tried to pick a fight with my husband and was being a punk for no real reason...

That same husband showed up at my office midday just to give me a hug because he knew I needed one. 

He wins. 

And, by that token, I win. 

I get it, Universe. I get it.

And thanks. 

As always, it's hip to be square, kids. 

You Don't Get To Be Crazy

Today, I was crazy.

Today, I felt sad about things that I couldn't put my finger on. I was angry at people for no reason. I tried to pick a fight with my husband.

Then I read about a Twitter pal who recently lost a newborn son after losing twins last year. I felt such intense sadness for her. I got mad again, but this time at the universe for being so incredibly unfair to people deserve so much more.

Then I felt like a total shit.

Because no. Just fucking no.

You don't get to wallow in the self-pity of abso-fucking-lutely nothing when there are people who are going through worse and finding an occasional smile. Life is hard sometimes. Sometimes your clothes don't fit. Sometimes your day doesn't go as planned. Sometimes things are shitty.

And you have to fucking get over it.

Because things could be shittier. Life could be harder. You could be grieving or in physical pain.

Obviously, the "you" in this situation is me and no one else, and I'm not talking about biochemical illnesses that are real, treatable diseases and totally out of the control of the sufferer.

I'm talking about me being a bratty, selfish shit who has work to do and a life to live and, well,

...Ain't nobody got time for this.

 Time to put on my big girl panties and remember that there is way more in the universe than my widdle feelings.

Also, I probably need to eat something.

As always, it's hip to be sqaure (and ridiculous), kids.

Just This

I'm not ok today.

And that's ok.

It's hip to be square, kids.

Two Weeks

In the beginning of the baby-making process, the two weeks between ovulation and icky gross funtimes seems like an effing eternity.

An eternity on the lake of fire where everyone else announces their pregnancies and you secretly think really mean things about them.

Or maybe not so secretly.

"The Two-Week Wait", as it's called, is a reality for almost every who wants to get pregnant. The first two times through it, it's pretty much the worst thing ever. It's like your life is going at half speed no matter how hard you try to keep busy to make the time pass faster. Everything is a question mark. Everything is a symptom. It's like rocking in a chair and expecting to cover distance.

This month, though, has just been easier. Maybe the third time is the charm for getting used to always waiting for something. You wait for your period. Then you wait to ovulate. Then you wait to see if your period is going to show again. Then you wait to ovulate. Rinse. Repeat. Go crazy.

I'm relaxed this month. I mean, I'm never actually relaxed, but I'm not on the verge of a total spazz. I'm just waiting to see what happens. The farther I get in to this process, the more the practical side of my brain starts to wonder if two weeks is even really that long for your body to decide if it wants the rest of your whole damn life to change.

This is a list of things that are far-less life changing that we wait two weeks or WAY more for them to happen. We may not do it happily, but we do it.

Approval to buy a house

Time between buying plane tickets and going on trip

Regular shipping on mass-produced things from China bought on Ebay

Installation of new floors

Refund of money to your credit card

Appointment to see a medical specialist

Prize from contests

Test results from the above-mentioned specialist

Legalization of divorce

How long is takes your crazy cousin to get to your house when he says he'll be there in a half hour

So, is two weeks that long? In real-life terms, probably not. I may wake up tomorrow morning and count today as a moment of insanity and go back to freaking out about the whole thing, but I really don't think so. I'm just okay with it.

For now.

As always, it's hip to be square (and not spazzing for the moment), kids.

Oh, Hey There Universe!

I have this uh-dorable idea that I'm in control. I like the believe that the business is completely under my management and my life is in order the way that I want it. I imagine that nothing can change that unless I want it to.

I am so full of shit. 

The Universe likes to remind me of this.

Sometimes I appreciate it. 

The thing about it is, The Universe is one of those jerks who likes to give you good news but only after you waded through the gut-wrenching, terrifying, seemingly bad news to get to it. 

It's like someone making you eat a plate of icky vegetables before giving you the bacon that you've been waiting for.

Mmm... bacon.

Right. Anyway. On Monday, we got a certified letter from one of the companies that we work with. When I say "work with", I mean, "they are a majority of our income and that contract is really important to the business side of running this practice." Certified letters are usually contract updates, but they rarely mean anything of value. I didn't think much of it. 

SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT MORE OF IT. 

Basically, they were cutting an 1/8 of our income for the rest of the year.

*Cue instant heart attack.*

I immediately went into HOLY CRAP mode. I went from quietly eating my chicken salad to eating people's souls. It was a big effing deal.

Luckily, I had to go back to doing other work and I didn't have a lot of time to think about it that afternoon. When I got home from work, husband wanted me to go with him to pick up some chairs he bought, and that didn't leave much time for thinking about anything else. Also, the fact that I am totally exhausted by 9:30 at night meant that bedtime was shortly following the afternoon and evening shenanigans. 

Thanks for that, at least.

By the next morning, I was still worried, but then things just kind of started to make sense. It was like The Universe showed herself to remind me that she isn't a total ho bag. 

There were two different opportunities that could have been really good for us, but both were going to cost us a lot of money in salaries. I was uneasy about both of them, and I felt a little strong-armed into doing it. No one was forcing me, but both of them really needed the opportunity, and we were doing well enough as a business to make them manageable investments. 

Even so, I just didn't really want to do either. I like being comfortable. If we were trying to take over the world and please shareholders, I probably would have cared a lot more, but at the time, we were doing well enough to support our needs and well beyond.

I would like to note that the morning before we received the fateful letter, I was discussing my hesitations with my husband and said something along the lines of "The business is doing incredibly well. It's not like we can't afford it."

Why yes, I am the moron who tempted The Universe and set this whole thing in motion. 

The whole thing was the perspective change that I needed. I now saw it as an opportunity to quell my anxieties rather than something that should create more of them. I had a real way out of things that I couldn't decide what to do on because The Universe is all nice like that when she wants to be. 

Sometimes she just has to be a total butthead before to prove a point. Jerk. 

Really, really nice jerk who should love me and remember how much credit I give her and yeah. Be kind, please. Just please.

I'll shut up now.

As always, it's hip to be square (and not entirely in control), kids. 

Clap, Clap

Reason #459834598345 why I married the dude who I married.

I was lying in bed. I was comfortable. My foot was still hurting. 

I was a blanket burrito. 

Husband had turned on the light because I couldn't find the remote and, well, I didn't want to get up. So he was being nice and shit. He found it.

I was lying on it.

JUST LET THAT GO.

Anyway, he went back to his usual spot where he watches television in the loft outside of our bedroom. He lays on the floor with his neck propped up against the couch in a way that cannot be comfortable and I, in fact, know it's not comfortable because he gets pain in his neck and then thinks he's dying, BUT THAT'S NOT WHAT WE'RE TALKING ABOUT.

So, I'm lying in bed watching television and the light is on and it's bright and I'm lazy. 

Me: *Claps twice*

Nothing happens.

Me: *Claps twice again*

Still nothing

Me: *Prepares to clap twice a third time*

Husband: "You know the lights don't work like that, right?"

Me: "DAMMIT."

The only thing better than not having A Clapper? Having a husband who knows that you're trying to use your imaginary Clapper to turn the lights off. 

And yes, he did get up and turn the light off for me. And yes, he is awesome.

As always, it's hip to be square (and lazy as eff!), kids.

Really Foot? Really?

I was just getting into a routine. I was super proud if myself. I was up to almost 2 miles per day. I was running about a third of it. I was getting toward my goal. 

Then one day, I had to stop at a half mile because I had pain in the arch of my left foot. 

The next day I was fine, and I ran even farther. I forgot that I had a problem the day before. It totally didn't hurt.

The next, next day, I was miserable. Lots of pain miserable. Walking hurt miserable. 

Three days later, I still can't run.

I WAS JUST GETTING INTO A ROUTINE, UNIVERSE!!

Ugh. I look forward to running. I hate it while I'm doing it, but I love the feeling of surviving it. I was going to get in shape. 

Now my shape will remain amorphous blob until it stops hurting. It won't lose the weight I really want to lose for the cruise. This is lame lame lame. 

You better have a good justification for this, universe. For serious.

As always, it's hip to be square (and gimpy!), kids. 

The {Dryer} Bar Method

As I get busier, I spend more time looking for ways to automate and make my life easier. A huge portion of that has been the introduction of Pepper into my daily chaos. She has stream-lined my existence so very much. A personal assistance is a luxury that I am incredibly fortunate to have, but it isn't reasonable for most. I want to introduce you so 6 inches of solid make-my-life-easier happiness.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

This is the Bounce dyer bar. It's an adhesive static cling eating monster that attaches to the side of your dryer and saves you from having to use dyer sheets.

Courtesy of news.bouncefresh.com

Now I know that putting dryers sheets in the dryer is not a big deal, but they were causing...errr.. different issues in my house.

Let's start this by saying that I am cheap. Once I get into a habit of frugality, I can't stop it no matter how much sense you try to bang into my head. My mother has always torn the dryer sheets in half and only used half for every load. I, in turn, started to do the same when I got my own washer and dryer, because, as I said, cheap. They turn into fairly small sheets of cling-y-ness and get lost in the shuffle of clothing. Instead of ending up in the garbage where they should have been, they would end up attached to clothing or somewhere on the floor. They never seemed to make it into the trash bin.

Here lies the problem. The big dog? He thinks those things are delicious. He looks for them and eats them as quickly as possible. I cannot tell you how many times I've seem him chewing on something invisible only to open his big boxy mouth and find a piece of a dryer sheet sneaking its way down his throat.

Dear Dog: THOSE DON'T TASTE GOOD. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

Anyway, hubs begged me to use whole ones so there would be fewer pieces all over the house, but I was, you know, hard-headed about it. While walking through the store one day, I saw the dryer bar on the shelf. It was more expensive than a box of dryer sheets, but it just seemed so simple. I imagined the angels singing from the heavens about the miracle of clothes drying that this was going to be.

It was simple. I attached it to the wall of my dryer. I turned on my dryer.

I greatly reduced the chance of my dog dying of dryer sheet asphyxiation.

Furthermore, there are only two of us and we don't do that much laundry, so one bar lasts us nearly 6 months.

In case you haven't noticed, I LOVE good products. They make me the happiest. I didn't know that we were still in need of evolution in clothes drying, but this thing has definitely made the process simpler.

And less lethal to box-faced dogs with a penchant for un-digestables.

As always, it's hip to be square (and dry!), kids.

Kicking My Own Ass

Alright, late 20s. You can just fuck right off.

At some point over the last 5 years, my metabolism went on extended vacay. It was all like, "I'm peace-ing out!" It didn't leave a note. There wasn't a moving truck. That shit just hit the road and left all of its stuff behind.

Fast forward to now when I want to continue to eat like a college student but my pants are all like, "YOU'RE STRETCHING US. WE AREN'T MADE TO BEND LIKE THATTTTT!"

And yeah.

So, I guess it's time to get off my behind and get moving. A friend of mine had a brand new treadmill that she needed to get rid of. I needed to take it. For the last several days, I have been getting reacquainted with running. There was a time when I ran 5-ish miles a day.

...It will be a while before we get back to that. If ever. Fucking late 20s making things harder then they were in my early 20s. Assholes.

I did 1.1 miles of intervals this morning. I got up at 5 a.m. and hit the moving belt. It's way cooler to say "hit the streets," but the belt is just so much closer.

Now, if I could just shake this chest cold that has been with me for two weeks. That too can fuck right off.

As always, it's hip to be square (square, you hear me?!), kids.

What Your Man Is Missing

My husband gets sad when mother nature shows up and it's another month where he didn't knock me up, but I don't think he understands the roller coaster that I go through. How could he? He is obviously a very active participant in this process, but he is not physically feeling it. He isn't watching for symptoms or paying attention to every pain or pang. He's waiting for me to tell him what's next. 

Here's the best way I can explain the very emotional reaction that I get to an unsuccessful cycle. It's the most accurate way that I can liken what females go through and why it takes up so much of energy and emotion. I get irritated when my husband "just doesn't understand", but how could he? What experience could he have that he could naturally liken to this long and exhausting process?

Also, the following imagery is a little graphic, so, you know, don't puke. If you don't like talk of gross stuff, stop reading or put on your big girl panties or whatever. 

Imagine there is a promotion that you desperately want. It would change your life. It will probably take up a lot of time and energy, but it's the path that you're on and you know that you want it. There's nothing else that you want. There are moments when you think that things might be okay without it, but then something comes up and you are reminded why you need this. When the desire comes back after waning for a few days, it's stronger and sometimes can feel like desperation.  

Then you don't get the job, but instead of a phone call, email and a pat on the back, the only indication that you get is that your body starts to hurt. You start feeling physically sick. Then, you start to bleed. It's not like a little cut. It's a wound that requires multiple bandage changes over several days. There is no warning. This is just the way nature tells you that you weren't right for the job. When you stand up, you start to bleed more heavily. Every move you make is a reminder that you didn't achieve your goal. You can't blame it on politics or the interviewer not liking you. It's just luck of the draw. Your life isn't yet where you want it to be because you didn't make it happen. For several days, you get a physical reminder that you're not yet on the way to where you need to be. Sometimes it really hurts. Sometimes it's lighter. Sometimes you stain your clothes. Regardless, there is no soft let down. You go from hopeful to bleeding after two endless weeks of waiting for more information.

Does that sound like it sucks? 

Good, because it does. It sucks a whole shit ton. 

I won't say it's harder for women, but it is different. The pain is the there whether you're the potential mother or the father, but it is definitely not the same. Mine isn't worse, but I feel like it's starts out more intense because I get the physical warning. It's almost like pain that reminds that you've failed. It hurts physically and emotionally.  

If you don't get why your wife/girlfriend/partner seems to never get used the big fat negative on the pee stick, this may be why. It's not a "Don't call us. We'll call you." It's a "OHHHHHH, you'll hear from us, and it won't be pretty."

I hold on hope to the idea that it might be pretty soon. 

As always, it's hip to be square (and emotional!), kids.

"Nest"ing

Believe it or not, this post has nothing to do with babies. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

HOW RELIEVED ARE YOU? Sweet Jeebus knows I am.

Anywhoozie, at the end of last year, husband and I realized that our power bill had gone up like whoa crazy whoa. We were regularly shelling out $400 a month in the Floridian winter for utilities. In the summer, that's not totally unheard of. In winter? It's downright ridiculous.

We got one last exorbitant bill and decided something had to chance. We're both Macs, so we had heard about the Nest thermostat. Up until then, we were hesitant to purchase because the $249 price tag was a little too steep.

In hindsight, it wasn't anywhere near steep. Everything is better when it's free, but the thing has paid for itself several times already.

Disclaimer: I have received no compensation from Nest for this post. I am just a happy consumer who likes to talk about products that have actually helped to make life easier. 

This is the Nest learning thermostat.

Nest.
This is what it looks like when it's cooling.
Image courtesy of Nest.com

It's small. It's unobtrusive. It's dark until you walk by it, and then it lights up.

Sidenote: I'm really short, so I've tried to walk past it without it waking up, and it isn't possible. That ish is sensitive to movement. Evem when I'm crouched down well below it, it still knows I'm there. It's like a worried mother waiting up for her teenager. You know, who wants to house to be nice and cool and energy efficient.

Setting up Nest was fairly easy and not nearly and confusing as I thought it would be. Hubs and I did it together, and just had to switch the wires from our old thermostat to Nest. It isn't something I would have been able to do on my own. My husband is handy and has done things like this before, so he knew what he was doing. When in doubt, ask someone who won't break your air conditioner or the $250 "toy" you bought.

The thing that I liked most about Nest was that it has an app for your iPhone that allows you to change the temperature from anywhere with data or WiFi. I ALWAYS forgot to turn the air conditioning down before I left the house, and it cost us a fortune. Futhermore, using the app, we could put in our weekly schedule and Nest would change the temperatures without us even telling it to. On top of that, if you have it scheduled, but then start manually changing the temperature around the same time or with any pattern, Nest actually picks up on the patterns and starts changing it FOR YOU. WHHAAA??

Either this thing is awesome or we're all SkyNet-ed out over here.

The iPhone scheduling app.
Image courtesy of Nest.com

Okay, now to the proof of why this thing is awesome. The bells and whistles are nice, but if we didn't get the results we needed out of it, it would just be an expensive thermometer.

Between November and December, our power bill went down $120. One hundred twenty dollars. American money. 120 of them.

I couldn't believe it.

Since, our summer power bills have been higher, but it's summer and ALWAYS stinkin' hot around here.

We have had a few minor issues with Nest, but I don't know if they were a flaw in the device or user error. They have all since been resolved and were an issue with battery power or something. Once we realized how awesome it was, we ran out and bought one for my parents house. Installing it there was more difficult because the wires on their old thermostat were labeled wrong, but that is not, by any means, a flaw of the device. Their power bills have gone down substantially as well.

Another added bonus for my parents was the display. My dad's vision isn't good, so the simple and brightly colored display has been fantastic. Oh, and he's a total iPhone nerd, so sometimes I catch him changing the temperature from his phone just because he can.  It's counterproductive for the power bill, but it makes his heart happy, so whatevs.

I love finding products that do what they say without complication or upsales. Nest does what we need it to while saving us money. There are no necessary add ons or added value products. It's just an awesome product that gives me piece of mind and lets me keep more of my hard-earned money.

And that? That I like.

As always, it's hip to be square (or round!), kids.

Oh! Hey there...

If you can't tell, I'm establishing a pattern. There's a part of every month where I'm wracked with nerves and an obsessive mess, and then another part of the month where I'm anticipating that first part. In the former, I have no desire to write even though it would probably help like a whole fuck-ton. In the latter, I write to pass the time. 

I think we've just hit the latter. 

Life is hard, yo. 

As always, it's hip to be square (and predictable!), kids.

Lazy Funday

My husband does not lay around. At least, not for days a time. He likes to be doing things. For the most part, I'm the same way. Every now and then, I just want to spend a whole weekend in bed. Forgive me for my childless indulgence, but I work hard. I don't get to be a lazy ass very often. I like laying around.

My job requires thinking. Lots of it. All the time. If you combine this with the new ventures that seems to be coming to fruition around me, there isn't a lot of turn-off-and-chill-out time. If there is one thing I am (usually) good at, it's thinking about nothing at all. I can just shut it down and space out. Usually, I end up dozing off. It ties into my never-ending ability to be able to fall asleep during a commercial break.

Anyway, husband tends to make me feel bad about being lazy because, well, I'm being lazy and he's not. He doesn't do it on purpose. It would irritate me if he was sitting around while I was busting my ass.

Not this weekend though.

I guess it's because he was out of the country for a few days and, while they were there for play, he didn't get a lot of time to be lazy. They were exploring and climbing things and doing boy stuff. So this weekend, the first one since he's been home, he has literally been in bed the whole time. He did get up this afternoon to do the lawn, but other than that, it has been a Big Bang Theory marathon and laying around.

It's been a good weekend.

I'm still ready for bed, though.

As always, it's hip to be square (and lazy!), kids.

Somebody That I Never Used To Know

I've talked about my ridiculous affection for "Glee" before. I've also talked about how I sometimes worry about the content (here). 

I got a text at 2 a.m. Sunday morning from my brother that said, "They found Cory Monteith dead in a hotel room."

It was like a punch to the stomach. It was a punch to the stomach followed by abdominal confusion as to why it stung so much.

I didn't know Cory Monteith, obviously, but I knew Finn Hudson. I knew him so well. I knew him because I spent many ugly cry moments sobbing over his relationship with Rachel and how it reminded me very much of my personal teenage heartbreak. The heartbreak is in the past, but the moments of hurt that came with it sometimes pop up. I bonded with those characters over how much I just understood their fiction. 

In some ways though, I knew Cory Monteith. I knew him as formerly bright-eyed kid who had been through more in his short time on this earth than most people in much longer. I knew him from the look of desperation I have seen from people who can't believe how far they've let this go and how many people they've hurt him the process. I knew him from hearing that this is someone's "last chance" because they don't think they'll live through another relapse. I see him walk into my office every day.

I know him. 

But I don't.

We don't know what took Cory Monteith from this earth to wherever he is (or isn't) now. Those answers have not come out yet. While we wait for that information, I wonder if it's any of our business?  In fact, I know it's not. The truth of could leave a now deceased public figure open to the ridicule that comes from people who think they know better. Everyone knows better than addicts. Addicts know better than addicts. If that made an ounce of difference, there would be no addicts in the world. Judging someone's choices that you can't possibly understand is like yelling at someone in Spanish when they only speak Farsi. Will we feel any different about him if we get confirmation that it was an overdose? I can't say that it will hurt more, but it will hurt differently. It will hurt in the way that makes you want to yell, "HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?! HOW COULD YOU HURT THE PEOPLE THAT LOVE YOU SO MUCH?"

But if yelling that made a difference, I would be hoarse from unrelenting attempts to get that across to people who were on the road to a similar fate.

It just doesn't work like that. You can't talk logic to an addict when he or she is behaving like an addict just like you can't poetically coerce a diabetic's body into creating insulin. You have to wait for them to want it as much as you do and hope that it happens before they're dead. 

You have to wait. 

And wait and wait.

And sometimes get a glimmer of hope. Sometimes a whole damn ray of light.

And sometimes, you find yourself waiting again.

We don't know how he went, but we know that we miss him. We don't know what took him, but we know it's still unfair. Life is unfair. Death is too. Just don't spout off about how you know better. It's not relevant. What's relevant is that if this was an overdose, it kills too many people who deserve better than a life of addiction and death at the hands of their illness.

And please, don't stop believing. 

The "P" Word

Lately, there has only been on "P" word rumbling around in my brain. It's pretty much always there, any it will change the rest of my life. It involves little feet and lots of love and late nights and excitement. The thoughts of it tend to be self-centered and rarely branch outside of myself or my husband. They're about what I want and what I need so that I can someday share with some little person. Even though it involves someone else, it's pretty much all about me.

Until today. I met another "P" word. I don't like it very much. It made me cry. In some other ways, it made me relieved. 

Parkinson's.

Doc has Parkinson's Disease. 

Doc, my best friend and dad, the person I work with every day and who has supported me through every single thought that I have ever had, has Parkinson's. 

Well, fuck.

We knew for a while something was up. He was having trouble walking and would seem to forget how to use his legs occasionally. He would sometimes walk with a cane, but he couldn't figure out how to use it. He couldn't get a rhythm going when he was trying to walk with it. A few years ago, he was put on a medication for what they called a "Parkinsonian Shuffle". (I have since found out that this is nothing like the Cupid Shuffle, in case you were wondering.) The medicine didn't help at all and, in fact, just made him very drowsy. They tried it again a few months later, and it made him spontaneously puke. (Beeteedubs, that was gross.) They're now trying it again. I wish they would try something else. but I guess we'll see what happens.

As a family, the diagnosis has not rocked us too terribly. We needed answers as to why he was having so much trouble, and this might be it. Maybe the medicine isn't right, but the diagnosis puts us in the correct direction. It has gotten to the point where I don't like to go out with my dad because everything he does stresses me out. I worry about him getting up or going to the bathroom alone. I worry about what he eats and choking on things. I would have to take complete control of the entire outing to make sure that nothing went wrong or I would be a wreck the whole time. 

Today, I breathed a little. Maybe we will get this figured out, and I won't be responsible for worrying for two, which often feels like 10. 

Maybe things are just going to be okay.

That would just be swell.

As always, it's hip to be square, kids.

Fair Trade

I know enough about obsessions to know that when obsessive people get over one, they often replace it with another. It's not usually something that is in their control. For example, someone with OCD can't say, "I don't want to obsess about being clean anymore, so I'm going to obsess about punctuation instead," but they do trade them out over time.

Well, I'm obsessive. There is no way around it. I am obsessing about babies and pregnancy and why other people get what I want. I check Facebook for pictures of friends baby bumps just to get angry at them. I mean, the anger is not my intent, but that's what happens every time. 

Basically, I'm certifiably nucking futs. 

Anyway, I felt like I wouldn't be able to get through the day by just breathing through it. It was like there wasn't enough air to survive another month. My brain came up with it's own way of handling it, and it's worked out really well for several reasons.

I have always been a clean-ish person, but not fanatical. I can't stand mess, but I don't mind things being out of place. I hate dishes in the sink, but the solution is often to just stay away from the sink. Problem solved.

The last few days? Not so much. My house is spotless. I sit at work and think about things that need to be cleaned at home. I bought a bare floor vacuum. I'm excited to go to the store and get a Swiffer and a new mop. The floors have never been this clean. The counters are scrubbed. Tonight, I will clean out the fridge. I vacuumed the stairs last night. Oh, and the rest of the house.

Again. 

Dishes? Done. Floor? Cleaned. Except I didn't have a mop, so I used a rag. My husband is in neatfreak heaven. Rather than sitting on the couch and let negative thoughts creep in, I make sure there ain't shit creeping through my house. I know that I'm redirecting the fact that I feel like I don't have control onto a situation that I can control, but, uh, okay. I really like it when my house is clean. I am enjoying having the motivation to do it. It's exercise that actually feels productive. The dogs are kind of confused as to why mom is scrubbing without dad nagging her to do it, but they'll figure it out. 

Also, the little dog chased the vacuum around the floor last night and it was hella funny. 

So, I traded up. I traded lack of control for total control and shiny new appliances for dusting and mopping and becoming Suzy homemaker. The only parts I haven't gotten to yet are the bathrooms. I really don't think that needs elaboration. Bathrooms are gross, and my husband doesn't mind cleaning them. Boom. 

I'm obsessive, not an idiot.

As always, it's hip to be square (and off the deep end!), kids. 

Things No One Tells You About Baby Making

If you got pregnant on your honeymoon or totally by accident, this post is not for you.

Also, I hate you.

Okay. Not really.

But kind of.

If you've never thought of having kids, this might be for you. If you are thinking about it, but you aren't sure, this might be for you. If you are actually going through the process, this might be for you.

If you're the Duggars, this is in no way, at all, ever, for you. Ever.

The acts required to make babies in a heterosexual relationship are supposed to be fun. They are awesome. They are supremely enjoyable.

If you are specifically doing the sex to make-a the babies, some of the recreation gets sucked out of it. What you're told in health class is that this shit is easy and happens to everyone all of the time.

To quote Mean Girls, "If you have sex, you will get pregnant and die. Here, take some rubbers."

And while I guess it can work like that, that's not been my experience. It has also not been the experience of a lot of the people I know.

Making babies is hard work, yo. They don't tell you that.

The following is the list of other things that certainly never occurred to me when we set out on this journey. I though it was "insert sperm, receive baby" all instantaneous like.

It isn't. It can be, but it often isn't. 

Obviously, these are my observations of things that I didn't know would happen. Maybe these only apply to me, but I like to believe that I am a representative of the entire world, and for that, I should be revered. 

You know, or some shit.

1- If you want to have a kid, you will spontaneously live your life by the calendar. You will pay attention to dates and number of days in your cycle and your fertile days and a bunch of other stuff that doesn't come up in health class. You'll know when they best days to get frisky are and when you're actually just doing it to have fun. If you want your sex life to seem at all unplanned, you're going to have to plan ahead to know what the best days to not plan your sex life are. It makes absolutely no sense unless you have been there, but I promise you that's how it works. 

2- That calendar that you now live by? It changes all the time. It can be off by a day or a week. You won't get warning that things are changing. They just will. Can you imagine if the regular calendar changed like that? One week has 10 days and another had 4 and another has 14 and just, fuck. You don't know how many days you work or how long the weekend is and does this change the day that Iron Man comes out because now I'm just confused? That's your life. You THINK your most fertile day is Tuesday but it actually turns out to be Friday. Why? 'Cause the universe said so and SCIENCE.

3- You have to deal with gooey substances even before you have a booger eater creating them. Just trust me. It's gross in a way that you totally get used to.

4- You will be disappointed. A ton. It blows. You will be disappointed because the night you should have sex, you're too tired or you had a cold. You will be disappointed because it takes longer to be successful than you want. You will be disappointed because your boobs hurt but they don't hurt because you're incubating a human. They hurt because your body is being a mother fucker. Your mind and body will play tricks on you because you want everything to mean that your pee stick will be positive. 

5- You will feel like a crazy person. You might even become a crazy person if you didn't start out that way.

6- You will be scared to eat and drink if you have the tendency to eat and drink as terribly as I do. I like soda. And cake. And I think vegetables are gross. You'll wonder if you're having too much sugar for a fetus who might not even exist yet. You'll wonder if you're creating a hyperactive nutter of a nonexistent child based on your caffeine intake. 

7- You will cry at movies with adorable kids. You'll swear it's because you're hormonal and knocked up. It could just be that kids are cute (sometimes). 

8- You'll hate some days. You'll get through them, too.

9- You will find a list of thousands of things that you are doing wrong that make this hard. You aren't doing anything wrong. This process is just fucking hard. 

10- You'll wonder if it is just better to get a puppy. I wonder that all the time. 

11- You will fight the urge to look at baby clothes and room decor. FIGHT IT. FIGHT IT WITH A PASSION.

12- You might get angry at the people around you who are successful as fetal incubating. It's cool. Just don't be a dick about it. They'll understand.

13- You will feel old. There aren't that many people who can be "on" for sex all of the time. Sometimes you have a long day at work and you can't muster the energy. Sometimes, you're just closed for business because your hoohaa is taking a holiday. Sometimes your husband is out mowing the lawn and wastes all of his energy on the shrubberies. If you are a grown ass adult, there will be days that just aren't good days. If you don't have those days, please tell me your secret. 

14- YOU WILL FEEL LIKE YOU ARE BEING FUCKED WITH ALL OF THE TIME AND NOT IN THE FUN WAY.

What things did you learn about baby making that no one told you?

As always, it's hip to be square, kids.