GOOSE

Just tonight I got Facebooked by that crazy Granny Goose of mine. This is what she said.

HI, NATALIE!

I am asking myself why in the world I joined Facebook. Except for you and a few others, right now I am just too busy. Except for you, Tillie. I WILL ANSWER YOU, YOU LUCKY GIRL!

Love you lots,

GRANNY GOOSE

Well, While We Are On The Subject . . .

Last night I dreamt I started my period. Like an arterial wound, I bled and bled and bled.

When I awoke from this dream, in the bleary moments before the numbness of sleep wore off, I thought I could hear my uterus telling my brain that it should probably tell my hands to get some Midol down my throat now, because things were about to get hairy.

And then it came pass that I suffered through three hours of the most horrible, the most painful, the most despondently awful cramps of my entire life.

But honestly. Who wants to write about this? Not me. And anyway, what sort of self respecting female discusses the state of her reproductive system like this? Certainly not a lady. Should I be trying to be more like a lady? Clearly something must be done here.

Well, I did the math. In my life I have had one hundred and ninety-two periods. How's that for an over share? I know there are women whose bodies turn on them every month but that has never happened to me. It has never been anything like it was today. I thought to myself, I really thought to myself that this was it. I was dying. I was dying there on the spot because my period was going to kill me.

Thanks, Clomid!

And I thought, I should so blog about this!

However, I have been thinking about it and I think what we all need is a break from my ovular status updates. Yes. This occurred to me around about 2:00 today, when my sister texted me to find out how my uterus was doing. You know, any renters? That type of thing. And I had to stop and wonder to myself, when did this happen? When did I become the poster child for ovulatory openness?

My ovulation is something I am incredibly proud of. Who wouldn't be? Who can say they ovulate all the time? We are in a recession. Well, me, for one, I ovulate. Monthly. And now I am bragging just a bit.

But I think it would be nice to not talk about it anymore. About how it hurt, all over. This morning, I mean. And how I was a little confused by it all. And then suddenly my entire organal institution was trying to exit out and I was all Woah-woah-woah! Can't we talk this over first?

I know, I know, who has any self respect any more after reading this? Certainly not me. I drop words in here like "uterus" and "blood" and "period" like I'm talking about early American Presidents or something. I mean, my father reads this garbage! Gross! I mean, honestly, I know.

It's just that, this morning I am pretty sure I almost died. Only there was no light to greet me - no warm, glowing deal - only cold, bitter darkness. If I was nearing death it was not the angels to greet me, that's for sure. I had plugged in my curling iron, I had washed my face. I had all intentions of going on to do better things with my day, but suddenly it was hot, it was so hot, and I couldn't wear my clothes anymore. And then I couldn't stand up. And then, lying on the cold bathroom floor in my underwear, I decided I should repent. I repented of every sin known to man, just so I would be covered.

Then I texted my husband

Ohhhhhhh myyyyyyyy goooooooooooshhhhhhh

and he texted back,

Do you need to see a doctor? And can I play games with Troy and Daniel for a couple hours tonight?

After lying on the floor on my stomach for about a half hour the dogs started to get interested in my situation. This was comforting to me but also alarming. I started to wonder if my dogs were capable of eating my face? I imagined what that would look like. It wasn't pretty. I stood up and looked in the mirror. That wasn't pretty, either.

I slowly lugged my aching body back to bed. There I gave myself all manner of pep talks. YOU CAN DO IT and IT'LL BE OVER SOON and THIS CAN'T LAST FOREVER and MAYBE MY HUSBAND WILL TICKLE MY BACK TONIGHT? Finally around noon I realized I could feel my toes again and that possibly, with luck, I could stand up long enough to put on some mascara. Things brightened up considerably after that.

And now, I'm done with this topic. 

If anyone is ever pondering the status of my uterus, sparkly and splendid though it is, the answer is this: As To My Uterus And Possible Inhabitants Thereof, When It Happens I Promise I Will Let You Know.

Because I think otherwise I have just about covered it now.

Little Nattie Beale

We watched the Drew Barrymore remake of Grey Gardens tonight and i LOVED it. And then I thought about it and I realized that there truly are some pressing matters at hand which deserve full stop attention.

For example, at what time tomorrow am I going to make my daily pilgrimage for my extra large soda?

And if I decide not to pick up a soda tomorrow, will I really have any reason at all to leave my Grey Gardens?

And if I do not leave my Grey Gardens tomorrow, am I really nothing more than a tragic recluse, even if I do look smashing in the lipstick that no one will see?

Is two dogs in a teeny house the equivalent of an enormous mansion filled with cats?

Because, you know......

Night Owls

The most wonderful thing happened tonight. I was getting ready for bed. Brandon was watching something on TV, the dogs were snoozing in peaceful little piles of fur. Suddenly Brandon muted the TV, the dogs sat up, alert. Then in our silent little house we listened intently to two owls hooting softly outside in the night.

We crept to the bedroom window closest to the field to listen in the darkness. The dogs sat patiently, heads cocked to the side, as we pressed our faces to the glass. There in my room of dreams we held our breath while the owls called out hellos from their nighttime hunts.

Oh, that spare bedroom. I call it my "room of dreams" because of all the hope that lives in those walls. Have you ever been inside a room like that? A room where peaceful feelings just jump out at you? I cannot be in that room without feeling terribly wistful, and without picturing a crib against the wall, a rocker right there in the corner . . .

It was too dark outside to see anything, but still we peered into the skies, just in case. "I wonder what they're saying to each other?" I asked. "Hoo-hoo's on first?" Brandon said. Well, that's why I married him.

I thought a little bit about my room of dreams while the owls continued their hunt. My room of dreams has waited patiently, though last month I noticed that the mess in there had become quite a jungle, and that with just five months left in Moscow, this room will probably never see any of my babies. It wasn't sad, like I thought it would be. So I moved all my clothes in last month and laid down a rug. I dusted off my dreams and polished up my hopes, so I can see them better while I'm there getting dressed. It is such a wonderful room. It is my Someday room.

Have you ever wished upon a midnight owl? I have.

I bet you know what I wished for.

A Little Beatnik Poetry (Please Snap Rhythmically While Reading)

photo from google images

today i am remembering

running errands with my mom

in the hot summer heat

of mesa, arizona.

her hair a tight perm, my saltwater sandals,

me and amanda and our two sweaty heads.

sparky diet cokes,

and soft serve ice cream cones.

the way the heat hit when you left air conditioned buildings.

being burned by seat belt 

and car seat plastic.

the hot bright sun in the light blue sky,

beating down

on bleached

white

concrete.

the aloe plant in the front yard.

cutting it open to smear

the green, green ooze

on a raw sun burn.

my dad home from work

in his dark brown suit,

today i am remembering

that i come from the sun.

today i am remembering

how i miss the desert.

photo from google images

Play Along For The Good Of Your Souls

I am not very good at quoting movie lines, is the sad truth of it. It is not my gift of the spirit.

I am watching You've Got Mail for probably the millionth time and I always misquote it. I love You've Got Mail. Of all the movies in the Universe, I should know this movie by now.  At this point a You've Got Mail viewing is a team effort. I say it first, incorrectly, and then Tom Hanks comes second, correctly. I have every nuance right, every intonation, it's just I slip in an extra "the" or forget some words altogether and it makes me feel sad. I could probably sit myself in a dark room and watch You've Got Mail on my eyelids for all it's ingrained in my brain but still I say "lovely" when Tom Hanks is saying "great." Will I never get this right?

I suppose I am meant to be an enjoyer of the entirely-movie-quote-based-conversation. I suppose I am meant to find consolation in that.

So, won't you please indulge me? Give me your favorite movie quote. I will read your comments and laugh and laugh. I'm really good at enjoying it, after all. That's a talent, right?

I'll start:

"And then one day Sheldon says to me 'You never wear Sunday.' It was all suspicious. Where was Sunday? Where had I left Sunday? And I told him, and he didn't believe me. They don't make Sunday. Because of God."

Frustrated

This morning I am feeling frustrated.

I am feeling frustrated because of the Clomid.

At first I was afraid of the Clomid because it sounded scary.

I was afraid of turning my body over to some drug that would do, who knows what it would do?

I was afraid that I was going to become some hormonal mess.

The doctor warned me of blurry vision, hot flashes, and an early, painful ovulation.

"Buy those ovulation predictor kits and start using them right away!" he said.

But the Clomid wasn't scary at all, to be honest.

At first I went looking for symptoms, calling out "Clooooo-miiid!" in a sing-song voice any time I figured I'd discovered a side-effect. But actually, there was nothing.

No early, painful ovulation.

I really wanted an early, painful ovulation!

I'm still waiting for those predictor sticks to tell me something is going on.

And now, I'm angry at the Clomid.

All of that, for nothing?

Whatever.

This is frustrating.

I am frustrated.