Yo-Yo

(An ovary with a big fat follicle. I found this on google image. Don't you wish that WAS my follicle though?)

Today I saw my follicle. It was really flipping cool.

We reviewed it all together in his office as he asked me a battery of questions. Do you smoke? Have you had surgery? Do you ovulate? How are your cramps? Do you have fibroids? Me, I had all the right answers. No. No. Yes. Mild. No.

Well, you're ovulating, the doctor announced. This should be easy.

He told me to stop taking supplements, my body was doing okay, no intervention needed.

Your body is working beautifully, he said, and I wanted to believe him.

You know, the body is this weird thing. You inhabit it; it's all around you. As you grow, it grows. And at the same time it is so weird. These things happen and you can't see them,  most of the time you can't even feel them. All inside you are millions of biological processes you don't even think about, aren't even aware of. Complicated, nuanced little waltzes, and here you are worried about whether or not you should wear those shoes with that top. I mean, it's bizarre, right?

For a year I have been looking for a problem. There has to be one! Otherwise, why? And when? And, no really, why?? I stopped eating from plastic, I went all organic. I stopped exercising, and started again. I stopped being careful with what I ate even when I knew my body would feel better if I were more strict; I gained five pounds, I lost five pounds, I had my hormones checked, and then supplemented, and then checked again, and all this time I have been distrusting my body, ignoring what I have been told time and time again:

I am working beautifully.

I want to believe it. 

The California Edition

This is the bedroom in which we are staying.

The cubby in which I keep my hormones.

This is the Volvo in which I am driving.
Thank you, Holli!




This is what California looks like.











This is the husband with which I will be having the secret sex so the kids don't hear.



This is the state of affairs between the dogs.











This is the kind of thing you do in California, for fun.

(It's a long story.)

Also, this: I've finally figured it out. You know what Sundays are for? Well, for napping even though you haven't really done anything to warrant exhaustion, but no, for eating. Sundays are for eating. You know how you can fast all day and then you can pound down roast beef and a baked potato and green bean casserole, and then twenty minutes later after you've sworn you'll never eat again you can suddenly stomach an entire brownie sundae, and even though you are in pain for a full two hours after that, suddenly you really want a granola bar? (Make that two?)  That's the thing about Sundays. Sundays are for suffering the first half of the day by sitting through church and regretting what you chose to wear and then stuffing an entire day's worth of food into about three hours. I'm pretty certain, anyway.

Related: Today after breaking our fast, we exchanged the Amen High Five. It is highly satisfying. You should try it.

I LOVE MOSCOW THUNDERSTORMS

When Petey gets frightened he likes to put his bum on things.

Thanks, Moscow. See you in August.

THE OTHER DAY

June Gloom is a real thing, it turns out.

Imperial Something Or Another

this boy.

for this boy iwould go to the ends of the earth.
(and i have, if San Jose counts.)



for this boy I would buy mayonnaise and ranch dressing, even though it squicks me out.



For this boy I'd have skinny, blonde babies, if that's what it takes.



i like him enough for skinny babies



even if he is about as mature as my nephews.