The Plot, She is a Thickening

Well, first off, thank you SO much for all of your encouraging and wonderful comments!  Maybe the nay-sayers were intimidated by the cool kids and decided to stay in the band room during lunch, but everyone who responded basically said:  go for it!

Which prompted me to think a lot this weekend about having ‘dream’ jobs, and how few of us ever have an opportunity like that to pursue.  And how it’s sort of a new phenomenon, this wanting to follow our bliss and actually be happy at work. 

In MY day, we had jobs.  Good jobs that paid the bills and that’s all we cared about.  We were ‘happy’ with our jobs if we didn’t get our hand cut off.  Or run over.  And on the weekends we had fun things to do, only it was called the SUN and we would stare and stare until our eye balls burned out of our heads. And then, blinded, we would walk uphill — both ways — to our good jobs the following Monday and work and work and work until we dropped dead.  So there.*

But then it was hot (SO FLINGIN’ FLANGIN’ hot my brain melted and drained out my ears) and that was the end of that.) 

So, after a long discussion on Friday night (fueled by only a couple glasses of wine. Each.) we decided to go for it.  BeBop’s gut was telling him to take the job, and my instinct was saying the same thing.  So, today he contacted the person at Company B to say, "YES, I will take it!  I will give up my new job (that ohbytheway took me a year to secure) and take this chance that during the two months you will all come to love and adore me!  And if by some chance that doesn’t happen my wife will kill me.  Kill me DEAD.  And I will be forced to secure some kind of rip in the fabric of time to go back and undo this."

Okay, he didn’t say exactly that, but you get the point. 

And then? 

And then, she said, "hold on a minute there, partner…the people who interviewed you for the job job a few weeks ago still like you and might want you for THAT job.  So they don’t want me to finalize plans for the temp job yet."

So. Once again as soon as we think we have a plan in place, that perhaps we can tempt fate by getting into something resembling a calm and stable life, things get screwy! Screwy, I tell you!  Dogs and Cats Sleeping Together Screwy!

We’re in a holding pattern now, waiting to see if the people can make a decision about the ‘real’ job, which would be his preference (no duh there).  And if that doesn’t happen, hopefully the two-month gig is still an option because now that we’ve made a decision and gotten our hopes up, it would be just cruel to take that away.

You know?  Just like when you try and try to make something happen, something that you and your significant other desperately want, and you do everything in your power (and more!) to create this outcome, and then you wait and wait and wait to see if it’s working? 

Yeah. Like that.  Something we fertile-ly challenged have noooo experience with, right?

*Props to that crotchety old man character Dana Carvey used to do on SNL about a million years ago

Boy Meets Girl, The Drama Continues. And Where’s the Frigging Wine?

So, Watson and BeBop have themselves a little dilemma.  Seriously, this is from the Never a Dull Moment File.  Which?  I really want to throw out and use only the Always a Dull Moment file for a while.  Can I?  Pretty please?

So, as I’ve mentioned, BeBop has been through the ringer in terms of finding a job over the last year and quite frankly, so have I.  After a grueling search, he finally found something last month.  He started on the 26th of June at Company A, and so far, so good.  (This is Company A from the infamous Whirley Gig post.)  He doesn’t love it, doesn’t hate it either — but he’s not exactly sure how much practical knowledge he will learn in this new field. It’s okay for now.

Here’s the kicker:  this week his DREAM company called him.  This is Company B.  For back story, he’s interviewed 2-3 times over the last year at this place.  He’s either under- or over-qualified for the jobs.  Each time he interviews, they bring him back because although they seem to really like him, he doesn’t have the work experience to prove that he can succeed at these jobs.  (He was a designer when we met. After going back to school — during which time I complained each and every day that he wasn’t working and goddamn you for THAT tried to cheer him on and encourage him to follow his bliss — his ultimate dream was to work at Company B.)

So, Company B called this week and get this:  they offered him a job. (Yay.)  ( I can hear you now:  Where’s the but? There must be a but, Watson, or you wouldn’t be posting this sleep-inducing tripe!!)

BUT.  This job is only a two-month temporary position. (Not so yay.)  While they hope to find him a full time permanent gig at the end of the two month period, they can’t make any promises.  And of course, because sometimes the Universe just likes to bitch slap you for the sheer fun of it, he would have to leave his full time job (that took him a year to find) and take the chance that this will work out.

Wowsers.  What to do, what to do?  What makes this even trickier, and therefore even more likely to send me scurrying for the Chardonnay tonight, is that Company B really IS the end-all, be-all.  It’s a company a million people want to work for, and not in a The Devil Wears Prada kind of way.  I wish I could tell you its name, because that makes the story even better — but I promise you, it’s BeBop’s ultimate, most-awesomeness place to work EVER.

It’s the kind of company where he could work for the next ten years and love every freaking minute of it.  He would get to work on creative movies and meet the coolest people in the industry.  And if I could provide more specifics, I would, I promise.

And I mean really!  Stop pestering me for more details because I just can’t say anymore [fanning myself with a lace hanky and looking very indignant].

So, does he take the safe route and stick with his current job, hoping that something opens up in the future at Company B and that he’s a good fit at that point?  Or does he roll the dice, take a huge chance, and go for the riskiest move ever by leaving his job and taking this assignment, hoping that it pays off and turns into a permanent position?

WELL?  That was a real question, people, not all rhetorical and shit!

You ponder that, talk amongst yourselves and get back to me. 

I’m off to chill the Chardonnay. 

There is Clearly a Lot of Work To Be Done Here

A quick phone conversation between me and my sister today:

Her: "Why are you running out of the office?  What are you doing?"

Me:  "I have an appointment with my shrink."

Her:  "SHRINK?  You see a shrink??"

Me:  "Ummmmm..HAVE YOU MET OUR PARENTS??!!"

                                                                                                           

Edited later to add this update:

My Mother calls me at work and once again (and it must have been the crank I snorted on my lunch break) I pick up the call.

Her:  "Oh, hellloooo honey. How are you?  [No pause for answer] I saw the little chee last night and he said you should come back soon."

Me:  "The who?  The what?  What is a ‘little chee’ and why are you talking to it about me??"

"Oh you know…the baby chee.  The younger one!"

"Okkkaaayyyy…well, THAT clears it all up.  Seriously Mother, WHAT are you talking about?"

"You know — the healer!  The older Korean man was Old Master Chee and I just call the younger one the Little Chee."

"Oh."

"Well, he asked me about you and he said he knew you were trying to get pregnant. He KNEW !  Isn’t that amazing?"

"Well, no, not really.  I TOLD HIM THAT."

[not listening]

"Anyway, he said to me that you had a cold womb.  He gestured to his tummy and said ‘too cold, baby go brrrrrrrrrrrr and not wanting to come.’ Isn’t that a riot?" [Laughing]

"Ummmmm…a riot?  No. No, not really. It’s decidedly not a riot that The Little Chee, who’s name actually is  Master Cha, told you I had a cold womb."

"Oh. Well.  He seems to know what he’s talking about and I think you should go back again and see him for a healing."

"Okay. I’ll go back and see if he can turn my frozen tundra of a uterus into a fricking steam room.  Or a New York City subway car in August. Or like the white hot heat of a thousand suns.  How would that be?  And while he’s at it, he can do some tidying up down there too.  Like spring cleaning. It will be just like that show While You Were Out, where when one person leaves the other one totally redecorates and adds such awesome-ness you barely recognize the place.  I’ll have a white hot, inviting womb with a view by the time he’s done with me! We’ll go with a Shabby Chic decor I think."

[Sarcasm is lost]

"Alright, honey.  That sounds great. See you later!"

OH BOY. 

And I actually want to pass this insanity down to future generations?!?

Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda

WARNING:  This post is rated NC-17.  It contains adult themes, including but not limited to a detailed discussion of my cervical mucus.  Those squeamish about bodily fluids and/or those persons who have recently ingested any food products should move on. 

Seriously, move along folks…there’s nothing here for you to see.

Annnnndddd…for everyone else:  hold on to your hardhats people, because I have some Big News.  I think, think, that I am currently ovulating and Holy Hannah, it’s only CD17!!!  Now, ordinarily, this would not be anything to write home about.

In fact, that would be an odd and somewhat disturbing letter when you think about it.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I am having a really awesome time at Camp Wanamukka!!!!! I heart my new best friends  a lot a lot.  We go swimming, braid our hair and make s’mores.  And learn how to use a bow and arrow thing which is totally fun. The mosquitos are bad and the boys are icky. Oh!  I almost forgot!  I think I am ovulating now, just like the other girls.  Cool, huh?  Anyways, send me some more Bonnie Bell lip gloss and some brownies and I’ll see you in August!!! oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo, Your Daughter Watson

So, yes, normally ovulating mid-cycle would not be something to get all hot and bothered about.  BUT. I have not ovulated anywhere NEAR mid-cycle since, like, the mesozoic era.  Yes, back when I was a cave woman and the plates were moving and new species of large-fanged cats chased me every day.  Seriously, not since then!

Since I was not expecting to become among the ovulated for another week at least, I made plans to be out of town for one night this weekend. WITHOUT THE HUSBAND.  So, as you can imagine, once I noticed some egg-white consistency material being distributed by my previously-uncooperative nether regions, and then shock of all shocks saw the OPK turn positive, I  freaked out!

Freaked out like:  "For some reason I am feeling quite amorous this morning…."  "BeBop! OMG!  We mustmustmust make the sweet love DO IT NOW!!"

So after our emergency, how shall we put it? session, I was trying to relax for just a few moments before rushing off for the rest of the weekend.  Because, as any infertile will tell you, relaxing will TOTALLY help. Um, yeah.  Anyhoo, as I was trying to relax, BeBop happened to think of a little good luck mantra which he chose to share with me.

"Good luck my little seedlings…"

"BLECH!  That is so gross!  Why are you calling them seedlings??  It’s like something out of a horror movie."

"Oh!  Like in The Fly, remember?  When she gives birth at the end and you hear the baby cry, like waaaaaa  waaaaaaaaaa…..bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

"That is SO not helping."

So that’s my late great breaking news.  It must be the needles and the herbs, people, it must be.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.  Ba DA Buhm.

Assvice. Seriously, Advice About Protecting Your Backside.

Apparently, TypePad has been having some technical difficulties, and there’s a message reading "you may have lost some data if you posted an entry between 12:30 am and 10:30 am PST." 

JUST MY LUCK.

I swear, last night I posted the BBEE — The Best Blog Entry Ever.  The one that was brutally honest, heart warming, yet inspirational AND hysterically funny.  The one that would clinch that Bloggy Award thing someone does…the one that was sure to lead to a faithful following of avid readers and banner ads out the ass.

What’s that? Oh, you’re not really buying that?  Rats!  I was hoping I could use TypePad as an excuse for actually having…nothing…much…to…..zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Ooops! I fell asleep for a second there I was so bored.

Anyhoo, here’s what’s going on around these parts:

*My crazy mother sent me an e-mail the other day.  Was it about how to integrate Chinese healing into traditional Western medicine, you ask?  No.  Was it to ask how I’m doing, you know — just to check in and say ‘hello’?  No. Was it about how thrilled she is I am her oldest daughter and would I like to join her for tea this weekend?  Definitely no.

The subject heading was:

Spiders that can kill now are hiding under toilet seats! From India!

Now besides the somewhat awkwardly-worded sentence, this is disturbing on many levels.  For one, she sent this in all seriousness, as a WARNING, about these alleged spiders (from India!) that are hiding under toilet seats, just waiting to bite my nether regions. 

The e-mail contains an excruciatingly long discourse about two women who got very, very ill after eating in a well-known chain restaurant.  But not from food poisoning as you might presume.  No, these women suffered from fever, chills, vomiting, paralysis and finally DEATH.  Long story short (not to minimize these poor women’s deaths but people I only have so much time here), the local health department realized that the lethal Two-Striped Telamonia spider was hiding under the toilet seat. 

This spider, according to the e-mail, has immigrated from India to inflict pain, death and destruction on the American people.  They could be anywhere!  So please (and I am quoting here) before you use a public toilet, lift the seat to check for spiders!  It can save your life!  And please pass this on to everyone you care about!!

[Undertone of e-mail:  I used to be sane, until I had you little brats]

*In other news, I have now brewed two more vats of the vomitous Chinese tea since my last post.  I have to change formulas every 3 days or so, depending on where I am in my cycle, so today I started a brand new batch of dragon lips, unicorn horn, scabs and, oddly enough, essence of Two-Striped Telamonia!  Weird, huh?  Anyway, it is still disgusting but I am soldiering on.

*BeBop started his new job at Company A and it’s going pretty well. But, he still hasn’t heard back from Company B.  He interviewed two weeks ago, and when he checked back in with them yesterday, they said they’re still interviewing candidates, so it could be a while before he hears anything. So, I think he just needs to settle in at this job and wait and see what happens. It’s been hard being on pins and needles these last couple of months, every time he calls me I think did her hearIs there news?  And that gets old.

*And, finally, regarding the Great VaJayJay Vigil of 2006…I just don’t have any updates.  We haven’t decided if we’re going to try another clomid/IUI cycle nor have we seriously discussed IVF. I am in total denial.  I want to think that something, some miracle, will happen and that the acupuncture or the herbs or the fact that BeBop is finally working will make a difference.

So, for now it’s all about doing the needles, choking down the tea, trying to adjust to (and trust in) our new life and hope for the best.  Hope that things become clear and I figure out what to do next.

Oh yeah, and watch my ASS so I don’t get bitten by the lethal spider (from India!)  and you all should do the same.

Update!  From India! (Has that gotten old yet??)  People, I think these Chinese herbs are driving me crazy.  Seriously. I feel crazeeee emotional, and since it’s only CD14, I can’t figure it out.  I almost started crying at work, and even now that I’m home I feel like I’m on the brink of tears.  For no apparent reason. I am outraged (outraged, I tell you!) that I have to get my ass on a train and go up to San Francisco to meet BeBop for a Giants game.  The nerve! 

What is with me?  Have any of you Chinese medicine gals felt some emotional swings while on the herbs?

I Think I Threw Up a Little in My Mouth

So here is my pitiful tale of the Chinese herbs and YES, I do realize that many women have been through much worse, and that I’m just a little cry baby, but it’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to…

After stewing the horrible concoction because HELLO!  no one told me I should ask for the powdered version of this crap, which literally took about two hours, I screamed at BeBop to get his fucking ass downstairs and for once in his friggin life friggin HELP me with something sweetly requested the presence of my dear, supportive husband.

His ‘help’ consisted of holding my nose while I drank, not realizing that while my mouth was occupied with liquid, with a blocked nasal passage I could not BREATHE.  As I sputtered and choked out "can’tbreathecan’tbreathe" he figured out that I was quite literally drowning in Chinese herbal tea.

Then, his next retarded idea helpful suggestion was to yell at me while I’m trying to take tiny sips which is, granted, not a good idea. 

"Just pound it. One big gulp like you’re shotgunning a BEER!" On a helpful scale of 1-10, that was about a 3.  The tea tasted nothing like a cold beer, and I was having a hard time conjuring up images of being at a toga party wearing an adorable pink sheet to set off my tan, surrounded by hot frat boys, my best girl friends around me and a kicky version of Love Shack playing in the background.

Next was:  "Do it for the family. Think of Fredo."

This was a 2.  Rarely do random quotes from The GodFather inspire me, but at least bring it with the mattresses quote, or the one about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer.  Who the fuck is Fredo and what does HE have to do with me drinking this God awful tea??

With me gagging on the tea, pathetically whining about how reallyI’mnotkiddingittastesworsethanyoucanimagine, I start to realize that in clear violation of the laws of physics, somehow the TEA WAS REPLENISHING ITSELF — each tiny sip was actually creating MORE in the cup!!!!!!!!!!!!!

BeBop’s last suggestion was to think of Fear Factor, which of course just made me think of really disgusting things those freaks eat in the hopes of making it to the next round where they can be hung by wires on the face of a 20-story building over the teeming streets of Los Angeles or swim through a cesspool populated with alligators or try to escape from a plexiglass covered body of water where it really really looks like you’re going to drown ANY SECOND. Not that I’ve actually watched that show. Please. I just read about it. In the New Yorker.  Anyway,  NOT my idea of a good time, so this did not constitute a helpful idea AT ALL.  Probably a 1.

Clearly, he was not catching on.  The idea of say, quietly cheering me on, saying how this would work, that I’d be healthy and would somehow (again,  in a clear violation of physics) be able to get pregnant, was just not on his radar.

So for the rest of the weekend I skulked into the kitchen and, hurling a barrage of insulting comments at BeBop, silently sipping my tea, a peaceful sort of calm came over me as I realized this was the first in a long line of guilt-inducing insults I could one day (fingers crossed!) fling at my offspring.

Much like what Zee mentioned in her comment, this could be the go-to martyr claim-to-fame.  My own mother had a litany of these she used as weapons against my sister and me for years.  It has almost become a fill-in-the-blank game, since she has so many statements that end with the words:

Until I had you little brats.

For example: 

I had perfect B cups, Until I had you little brats.  Or, I was always a size 10, Until I had you little brats.

So, just to carry on the family tradition, my very own collection of therapy-inducing parental statements could be something like:

I used to like tea, Until I had you little brats. 

Or,

I used to like Chinese food, Until I had you little brats.

Feel free to add your own ideas in the comments section!

From The If It’s Not One Thing It’s Another File

Okay people, my morning has NOT gotten off to a great start.

I woke up v. v. late because I managed to wrench my back somehow last weekend and by Friday night it was KILLING me.  I decided that just what the dr. would have ordered, had I called one, would be a couple glasses of wine and a Tylenol PM.  Or two. 

Fast forward like twelve hours later and I’m a groggy mess, wondering what day it is, why my hair is all matted to my forehead and WHY IN THE FRAKKIN’ HELL is the dog licking my arm with a look in his eyes that says  remember the story of the French lady who supposedly accidentally overdosed on WINE and SLEEPING PILLS and fell into such a deep sleep her dog ATE her FACE??  Remember??  Her dog was only trying to help, to make sure she was okay…chomp, chomp, chomp.  Mmmmmm….owner’s face. Yummy.

Once I finally roused myself from my slumber and wiped the dog saliva off my arm, I decided I had to start boiling the evil herbs from my new acupuncturist.  Good Lord.  They are even more disgusting than I remember.  It is seriously a brown paper bag filled with all kinds of dried berries, twigs, and completely unidentifiable objects — animal?  Vegetable?  Mineral?  I have no clue!  There is a brown object in there that looks, I swear, like something from an alien autopsy.

And the Smell.  Sweet Jesus the SMELL.

You have to boil them twice, and the whole process takes about two hours.  Like I have two hours to spend boiling up a witch’s brew of lord knows what and then drink it. I am gagging just thinking of the drinking part.  Wish me luck, I will need it.

In other news:

My new BFF has joined the wonderful world of blogging, so grab a house warming present and head on over to Bitsy (aka Zee)’s new place in the blogosphere.

Off to gag on/choke down/curse my husband for not having to deal with this  delicately sip my tea.

This is What Childless Couples Talk About

Since we don’t have kids to distract us, nor are we pregnant or have a plan in place to GET us pregnant, this is the kind of drivel that occupies our minds:

BeBop:  If a seeing eye dog was going blind, what kind of seeing eye animal would he have?

Me:  Is this a riddle?

Him:  No, seriously.  Would he have like a seeing eye squirrel leading him around while he led a blind person around?

Me:  I don’t think so, no.  Think about the dog-human relationship. What’s the equivalent of a loyal dog to a dog?  Maybe a bunny rabbit…or a beaver.

Him:  {Scratching of head} Hmmmmmmmmm….

OR

The following e-mail from BeBop this morning, with the subject heading of:

You Should Never Doubt Me

Him:  Hey remember when I told you that Anthony Michael Hall’s character in Sixteen Candles was named Farmer Ted? And you didn’t believe me??  Well I looked it up on IMDB.com and guess what sucka…

Sixteen Candles (1984) …. Farmer Ted, ‘The Geek’

How does it feel?  Huh??

Me:  I can barely remember that conversation because it was SO inane. YOU are inane.  And only a total geek would know that or care.  AND that’s NOT EVEN A REAL NAME.  Who even says that in the movie?

Him:  Actually if I’m not mistaken (and I’m not) he refers to himself as ‘Farmer Ted’ at least two different times! 

Me:  What, his first name is ‘Farmer’ and his last name is ‘Ted’?  That’s ridiculous.

Him:  Suck it!!

Yes. We are a paragon of maturity. 

GAWD.

It Must be Lunchtime Around Here

I have been having nightmares the last few nights. I think I have post-traumatic stress disorder.

Okay, so that’s a touch melodramatic. But really, what’s a blog without the melodrama, right?!

The short version of the story is: 

Who am I kidding?  There is no short version. 

But here’s the medium-sized version:

Boy meets girl in San Francisco, they fall in lovelovelovelalala and decide to move in together.  Girl is all:  DUDE.  I do NOT want to live together for freakingever without getting engaged.  Boy is all:  Doy.  I know that. It’s all good.

But Boy has issues with wanting to be a good provider and all that.  He wants a successful career underway, with a good salary, before he gets married. (Cue music that says:  FORESHADOWING.  This  will be IMPORTANT later in the story!!!)

Girl says:  Whatever. I can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. (Even though it was Fakin’ Bacon because she was a vegetarian at the time, but now she’s not and mmmmmmm…bacon!  WHAT was I thinking, foregoing bacon???  I’m hungry. Maybe I should have a BLT for lunch.  Mmmmmm lunch.) 

Where was I?  Oh yeah, the story.

So anyway.  Boy gets GREAT new job, it’s a big promotion with a big raise and Boy and Girl celebrate with champagne and pizza.  Not long after, Boy proposes by stuffing ring in a box of cracker jacks and surprising Girl on Christmas morning.  (Which?  Is weird, the whole Cracker Jack thing on Christmas morning thing, and she doesn’t get the holiday connection–why not candy canes for example– but it’s really sweet and she says YES and off they go to plan a wedding.)

And then.  Then, just before Valentine’s Day, the Boy gets laid off, along with half the adult population of the Bay Area, thanks to the Great Dot Com Implosion of 2000-2001.

The Boy uses this opportunity to be very introspective, which is good, and realizes that instead of getting a JOB, he will go back to school and switch fields and basically not earn another penny for the next five years, which is not so good.

So the girl, former partner in bacon-bringing and -frying, becomes the sole breadwinner of the family.  (WHY OH WHY SO MUCH FOOD?!?  Mmmmmm….bread.)

Anyhoo, they continue planning their wedding and eventually get married and face some difficult times ahead, including but not limited to the following:

  • Adjusting to the idea of being a one-income family in the freaking Bay Area
  • The Boy’s adjustment to not only NOT being a provider, but relying solely on his new wife to support him
  • Canceling their dream wedding that was planned for Sept. 14th, 2001 (thank YOU family "psychic" who confirmed that, astrologically speaking, that was a blessed day to get married but OOOPS! didn’t catch the whole terrorist attacks thing)
  • Instead of said dream wedding with 100 family and friends present, getting married with 17 people and feeling horribly depressed the entire time
  • And, let’s not forget…the JOY of struggling to get pregnant soon after all THAT

But. Life moves on and so did the Boy and the Girl.  They got a dog.  They got another dog.  The Boy studied hard in school and finally graduated, and the pain was not QUITE over thankyouverymuch and he spent a year looking for a job.

And today, the Boy has a job offer and another interview today, which I talked about in the whirley-gig post a few weeks back.  So the Girl (OK, it’s ME) should be happy and relieved. 

But I’m not.  I find I am having flashbacks to the last time BeBop was gainfully employed and how that all came crashing down around us. His getting laid off was a turning point in our lives that set us down a path neither could have predicted.  And much of it?  Neither of us particularly wanted.

So while I try to have faith that things are different now, that we sacrificed and he followed his dream and now everything will finally, finally be okay, it’s hard to believe that.

I don’t want to walk through life waiting for the other shoe to drop, but sometimes it’s hard to trust that history will not repeat itself.  That we’ve done the right things, made the right decisions and now we’re set to create the beautiful, wonderful life that we both want.

I have nightmares of these jobs not working out, and being back at square one. And I HATED square one, people, hated it!  And so I’m NOT going back there, I’m not I’m not I’m not.

Oy.  The stress of growing up and being an adult, of all things.  That BLT is suddenly looking very good to me…maybe I’ll have four one for lunch.

Now With More Newt Eyes, Bunny Fur, Horse Hooves and Human Entrails!!

GAWD, what kind of Google searches will find me with that title!

But seriously, you know the woman who stands in line (or on line for the non-American readers. Welcome, by the way!) at the deli counter for like 20 minutes and still can’t decide what she wants when it’s her turn?  Or the friend who keeps changing her order because she can’t make a final decision?  The salmon. No, the skirt steak.  Hmmmmm…maybe a salad

ARRRGGG!

It would appear that I am one of those annoyingly indecisive types, and it’s already probably super irritating that I keep whining about this psychic healer and that holistic doctor.

But really, this is all just a prelude to reporting today’s news which is that I went to…wait for it…ANOTHER acupuncturist today!  I know!  Twice in one week! 

FREAK.

But, I just wasn’t comfortable with Dr. Pain.  He was all wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, if you know what I mean.  The appointment was anxiety-producing, and part of my new plan is to relaaaaxxxx, man.  So Dr. P. was not helping.

So I tried this woman who really really like totally specializes in fertility issues (please note the absence of the dreaded I word.  That word is banned from now on — trying to stay positive people!) and apparently has some cool story about trekking in Nepal and seeing some kind of medicine woman and being told that one of her life missions is to ‘help women get pregnant.’  Since I LOVE crap like that, I made her promise to tell me the actual story next time.  So, it feels much better to go to her.  And I won’t get my herbs until next week, so I have a bit of a reprieve.  Which is awesome.

Incidentally, I have my own Nepal stories which do NOT revolve around seeing a medicine woman and being told my life’s purpose.  No.  My stories?  They all revolve around one or more of the following:

Getting horribly sick at 10,000 ft., spending three days and nights in a tent in the fricking freezing cold, vomit, diarrhea (which I had to look up, by the way, because I couldn’t spell it!), fevers, suppositories, more vomit, still more diarrhea, hallucinating and then eventually getting better, trekking a frajillion miles all over hell and back and, finally, going to the lake region and picking up a cute Canadian boy with the line:  Didn’t I see you in Kathmandu??

Those were the days. 

Minus the vomiting and diarrhea (which?  I can now totally spell!) and the freezing cold. 

And the suppositories.