Dear Baby Girl

It's been 6 months since you came into my life.  I should say "our" lives, but my husband is off at a yoga class with his 16 year old son right now, and you're asleep a hall away, so I mostly think of you as mine.  I wanted you ... more than anything.  I couldn't breathe anymore.  I was tired, bored, lonely, and afraid - death bed afraid - of continuing my life without you.  See, I've never done heroine or had polo ponies, but for me, I had done it ... bought and fucked it all ... and the only thing that was left was you - perfect, pudgy, stinky you. It was a hurricane, baby ... a call from social services, an interview, a meeting with your scary foster mother, and within a week, you were in my house.  My 2 year old chihuahua shook with terror when I brought you home.  I plopped you down for my first diaper change and you stared at me like I was an alien.  I was.  I didn't even like kids enough to babysit when I was younger. I had no idea what I was doing, and you knew.  6 months!  I don't know who I am anymore as I miss the yoga class I had 44 years to take and cannot believe you won't let me watch The Bachelor After The Final Rose in peace!  I love you, sweet angel.  Thank you for shaking up my miserable, perfect cage!

HOT MAC BITCHES

I went to the MAC counter last weekend ... it's probably the first time in about 5 years.  For some reason I felt like looking at the latest in peachy/brown lip gloss - still my favorite. I remember when MAC first came on the scene. I used to think I was a person who knew about cool things before other people did ... thought I had the inside track on the BEST lipsticks ever made ... back when naming shades like Uzi and Boy Toy was cutting edge.
As it skyrocketed into popularity, the MAC counter became the red light district of every mall across America. Macy's windows became the peep hole to the hottest, sluttiest looking women this side of Hot Dog on a Stick. Take one part haute couture runway waif, feed her an In N Out Burger - animal style, give her Penthouse implants, screw her a few times sideways, and put her in music video attire - and THAT was a MAC girl. Fuck, I wanted to be one! Those poor lab coat Clinique bitches! While they were talking about how to minimize pores, the MAC girls were turning sorority sisters into drag queens.
And the BEST part was the queens. I lived on the West Coast, so usually, at least one makeup artist was male ... but had just as much makeup on as the chicks. I just remember wanting one of these guys to do my eyebrows and tell me how fabulous I was.  Of course, that's when I was in my 30's when I "knew" I was as hot as them.
Last weekend was different. I gave the artists a glance. Not much has changed (although, living in a red state produces less makeup males; so, sadly: no dudes). The women are less flashy, but can still work a makeup brush. The look to me now is more little-girl-putting-on-too-much-of-mommy's-makeup and less whore/rock star. But of course, that's because I'm more forty-something-stopped-working-out-but-kept-eating-can't-bring-myself-to-put-makeup-on than skinny thirty-something-stoked-because-I-shopped-in-the-junior's-department.
Last weekend's lip gloss purchase experience felt ... conflicted. I looked at those girls, my head voice saying: "I'm one of you!" ... but I'm not. I'm not them, but I'm not the next me. I'm a fucking Britney Spears lyric plus 20 years: "I'm not a girl, not yet a woman". I'm not the them, but I don't have a me, yet.
I stood there bra-less, and paid for my 2 lip glosses (which cost about the price of one good bra!) ...riveted. I'm not the career seeker, not the looks-seeker, not the baby maker.
I'm not a whore, not yet a mother ....

The Tooth Fairy Died ...

... and so did Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.  My fiance, who has 2 boys from a previous marriage, does not want further offspring. I, on the other hand, am a late blooming 42 yr old who finally found the man of my dreams and would love more than anything to be a mother and create a new life with this man.  And, if my body wasn't up to the task, I always had  a back-up dream of Charlize Theron-izing my life, and adopting an Ethiopian baby (or Congolese, or Chinese - those details don't matter) ... but since I'm not a millionaire, that's clearly out of the question. So, he asked me how much time I needed.  Since I hadn't gotten pregnant naturally after getting off the pill and I knew enough about the first phase of fertility treatment from my best friend, I stupidly and honestly told him 6 months. So, he gave me that: 6 ..... months.  I've been menstruating for, let's see .... 42 - 12 = 30 years x 12 times a year = 360 times  ... with about a 4 day period (give or take) = 1440 days of tampon changing, worrying about leakage, cramps, bloating, bitchiness and chocolate cravings ... while all the while fully confident that one day, it would pay off and result in my amazing female ability to conceive, carry, feed and give life.  But, I got 180 days. So, I went on clomid, the most obvious and least invasive 1st step on the path of infertility treatment.
     I went through several blood tests, pelvic exams, ultrasounds and an uncomfortable fallopian tube test where they check to see if there's any blockage by first jamming your body into an MRI-like tube, and then thrusting dye into your unit, which painfully dilates your cervix, to see if, on an x-ray, if the dye goes thru the tubes.  Mine did. At first the Doc (a gorgeous OB/GYN who you just soooo want to deliver your baby) said it was my thyroid that was the problem, then said that was a false test and it was fine, then said I wasn't ovulating.  Note to the ignorant and female (like me) wanting to procreate someday: JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE GETTING YOUR PERIOD, IT DOES NOT MEAN THAT YOU ARE OVULATING. Okay, something I didn't know until a few years ago. So, he put me on clomid, which stimulates ovulation. The rule of thumb about clomid, is that if it doesn't produce a result within 6 months, it won't ever. AND, yes, you can increase the dose of clomid to up your chances of ovulation, BUT the increased dose DECREASES the vital mucus needed to get that egg successfully pierced and locked down.
     I went to every appointment alone, sitting in waiting rooms full of soon-to-be-mothers about to pop and tender couples; the woman's stomach flat as a pancake, and a supportive man, at her side.  I didn't share much about my doctor's appointments with Scott. I told him what was going on, but didn't give him the dirty details, partially because I felt like he didn't want the whole thing to be happening in the first place, but mostly to protect him.  I didn't want to rejoice in my potential to conceive and "ruin" his life.  I was so envious of the women who had supportive partners, and my tears fell inside ... and gasped for air ... of love and togetherness in creating new life - the kind I thought I would have.
     Now, I know this is all painfully boring if you're not trying to conceive, so I will cut to the chase: clomid didn't work.  My doc upped the dosage to the highest recommended for the last 3 of the 6 months and ... nothing.  It teasingly made my period late, too, which was just a cruel mind fuck.  I sat there like an idiot on my free "Women's Ovulation Calendar" app on my cell phone and counted away. I would be 5 days late (which for me, is a record! You could set the NASA countdown to my menstruation) ... and DARE to think, "What if?" ... only to get that fucking spot on my underwear.  I've never hated being a woman so much.
     Like I said, my fiance gave me 6 months to get pregnant, and the timer has gone off.  The day I got my period my last month on clomid, I got home from work, cried from 5:30 until my Advil PM kicked in, got up, went to work the next day, got home, cried, then the 3rd day, I cried in the bathroom at work every time I saw my failed-self in the mirror, got home, and didn't cry.
     My fiance might get a vasectomy, he might not .... he's not sure yet. We are on different planets when it comes to this.
    It's been 2 weeks. I started crying again .. here and there, off and on. I'm using every spiritual and self-help mantra and reasoning I possibly can help me to get through this ... but it's not going away: the want, the hurt, the pain that I can't believe doesn't kill me.  I'm back to my resentful self when I see someone with a baby, as I masochistically search for the parent's expression.  It's always the same ... on everyone:  from a 20 year old Hispanic guy, to 40 year old white woman: serene satisfaction, gentleness, and most vivid: purpose.
     I study a lot of Buddhism, and one message is always clear and foremost: happiness comes from serving others. Parenting is the ultimate form of serving another. I don't think this life created a substitute, but I guess I will have to die trying to find it.
 

$1300

The bf asked me what kind of ring I would like.
Well, he didn't come out and ask over quesadillas, or anything.  It was yet another prodding convo about the institution of marriage, the A, B, and C's of the entire endeavor ... and he busted out with, "I don't even know what kind of ring you would like."
Um, what kind of ring?  Are you fucking kidding me?
The ever matrimony-phobic, perpetually hot-into his 50's single bachelor is asking me what kind of ring I want?
Um, the kind that's from you ... pretty please?!
Two years of protesting and this is what he's stumped on?
Jesus!  I mean, I'm stylishly particular ... I know right away what's me and what's not, so the whole ring thing, really isn't THE issue!
So, we decided on looking.
Well, after a mutual agreement on the following pre-requisites: no diamonds, recycled gold, and a budget of "around" $1000, I set off on my mission.
I scoured the internet .. a path I may have once found cold and random ... but now find alluringly possible amid a sea of mall-bound chains ... for all things alternative and non-traditional in the world of engagement rings and wedding bands.  Yes, I Googled it.
And to my surprise, in the midst of the cheese and the typical and the glaringly obvious, I found a ring; a sweet, tender, hand made ring, that spoke to me in pixels.  It wasn't what I had in mind ... just like the love of my life; but it was ... Me. (For those of you paying attention, I'm already using the past tense for a reason). It was a ring I would wear ...  regardless.
See, I wear one ring: always.  It's a sterling silver heart Tiffany ring my mom and dad bought me in Hawaii.  It has all the hallmarks of posh and I never take it off.  It doesn't get in the way of my life ... unless I'm playing tennis, which is never these days.  It's understated, and only tarnishes when I soak in too many hot tubs. (Christ, what a snob!)
Other than that, for "fashion", I wear a sterling silver ring with a Smokey Quartz stone on my left 2nd finger (what's that finger called?) and a spirally, sterling silver ring on my right 2nd finger ... a gift from my best friend who sells Silpada.
I wear Target $2.50 studs in my ears and no necklaces and my nose ring is the original piercing.
That's the extent of my "fine" jewelry.
So, when I found "the ring", the first thing I saw was the price: $1300 ... $300 over the "ballpark".  But here are the specs: it's recycled white gold - a plus. It's hand made, from a lovely woman in the east ... a phone call away -- huge!  The gemstone is a sapphire!  Now, for those of you who don't know, sapphires were the engagement stone of your grandmothers and great-grandmothers.  It's only in our lifetime has the diamond craze instilled itself in our minds.  Sapphires are just as durable, and ...  some argue, more rare than diamonds.
But, I HATE dark blue sapphires ... I think their blah.  This ring ... MY ring ... has a pale stone; one that looks like the water I want to be in, the water I will be in.   It's a light blue, without being pale, it's deep without darkness, sky-like, without clouds.
Anyway, I uttered the words, "I think I found a ring that I really like" ...
Then, a lot of jumbled words came out (before the price) ... alluding to the fact that diamonds were more expensive, how recycled gold was the way to go, how regardless of that, the price of gold is through the roof ... blah, blah, blah ...
Yeah; nothing would override the price. I said the words: thirteen hundred dollars .. and that's when I heard the truth.
The bf is of the belief that that is a waste of money.  He cannot understand why someone (me?) would want to waste that kind of money on something they are, "... just going to wear on their finger?".

Is he right?

December 25th ... it's just another day.

Sometimes I'm slow.  I realized today, that one of the losses involved ... felt ... with not having children ... is  memories.  I just heard an editorial on NPR from a husband and father talking about decorating the family Christmas tree .... how various ornaments symbolize years of children's ages.  He talked about how when his kids are grown and on their own, he and his wife will have the clothespin Rudolph ornament his daughter made  to remember the times when their kids were young ... brightly awaiting Santa's arrival ... all pj's and stockings.
Hmmmm ... nice.  His memories even smell like cinnamon.
Here are some of my Christmas memories I will look back on:
-Working -- because I've either always worked in the service industry or in the news.
-Tree?  Really?  Oh, you mean, single gals like Sandra Bullock or Meg Ryan living in urban sprawl, forking over $60 for a 5 foot tree that their 105 pound frames can barely maneuver down the street to their walk-up?  Cut to her slowly place baubles and tinsel onto the lonely pine while she stares forlornly into space; lonely, lost, too skinny ... in her early 30's wondering when Prince Claus will save her and deliver into suburban Illinois holiday bliss?  No, never done that. (Yes, I've seen every John Hughes film, RIP).
-Spending Christmas with the families of the men I'm currently dating, wondering if this Christmas will look like the rest of my Christmases.  And the answer so far, is  no.
-My awesome parents ... always understanding that Christmas doesn't have to be celebrated on December 25th because I usually have to work on that day.  Besides, my step-father is Jewish and my mom isn't even Christian.
-My Dad disappearing on me when I was 13 and never having another Christmas with him.


I hope all of the people I love, like, don't like, and don't know get to spend some time with those they love in the next couple of days ... that's my holiday wish.

Enjoy the Silence

Here is a sentence I never thought I'd write: I just spent 2 days at a Buddhist Monastery. But, I did ... and I meant to. It's not like it was a Turkish prison ... it was earned bliss. My sig and I found a Zen monastery that offers Introductory retreats to dorky, over-educated, bored-with-ski-passes white folk like us; who are longing for something different, simple ... real. Actually, we've been studying Tibetan Buddhism for the last year and a half and wanted to know what Zen was all about. I found out. And it's beautiful.We arrived on a Friday afternoon, received our room assignments, and promptly attended orientation. We were given the down and dirty on respect within the monastic community (after all, we were living in their world) and an itinerary; which was strictly followed. A tour of the magical grounds ensued, followed by our first meal as a monk... which required utter silence. Now, eating in silence is something that I'm used to, after living alone for so many years, but eating without the company of bad cable is quite another thing. 99 cent udon from Trader Joe's takes on higher decadence with the soundtrack to A&E's "Intervention" in the background. Once I got over my nervousness from the first dinner, I was in love with the meal service. Each item is passed from person to person, with hands clasped in a prayer shape with each pass, thanking for giving, and thanking for receiving; until everyone has taken their share. Once everyone has their soup, bread and pear, we lift our abundant plates skyward, in a symbolic offering to eht Buddha, and eat. We all wait until everyone is done, and then, clear our plates. It is then asked that some of us help clean up in the massive kitchen, doing dishes, cleaning stoves, and washing sinks.From there, we were introduced to the Meditation Hall, where we set up our "stoops" for meditation. This was where we chose our cushion, mat, bench, and/or chair, of choice. Personally, I'd like to meditation on a feather bed in heaven with a box of Oreo's and a flatscreen TV, but that option wasn't available. In Zen, we meditate facing a wall. We were given screens to stare at and I chose a mat and padded bench as my mode of torture. We then submitted to a 20 minute meditation ... and were subsequentl asked to keep a Noble Silence until lights out at 9pm. At 5:30am, a satanic individual rang a large brass bell violently up and down the hall; signifying morning. We had half an hour to make our way to Meditation Hall, where we assumed our positions, and sat for 20 minutes, did 5 minutes of walking meditation, and sat for another 20 minutes. I'm not gonna lie: it was tough. I've been meditating, and working on developing some semblance of a "practice", but contemplating stillness at 6 in the morning was like Buddhism Boot Camp Gone Wild! And I have to admit, I masochistically loved it!The rest of the retreat continued with a similar routine of mealtime, work, dharma talks, ceremony, and meditation. I had the fortune of whispering to my sweetie and holding his hand between events, but the weekend was mostly spent apart, and in silence.It's amazing how much does not need to be said. And it's amazing how little we need to live. The Zen Monks were kind, warm, giving, and knowledgeable. They invited us-- complete strangers; into their homes and showered us with respect and grace. I did my best to keep the wash of the retreat over me once we got home. It's been difficult ... work being the biggest test. I can't help but keep thinking about my shaved headed, new teachers and friends, and am constantly dreaming about when I can go back ... and dip into their stillness.

I'm Baaaaack!!!!

I used to write a blog. Now I'm just a person who used to write a blog. It's been a while, but my feeling is that "updates" are overrated, writing for writing's sake is just bad writing, and blogging just to look diligent and "connected" is contrived. And, let's face it, no one's life is that interesting. Even Kim Kardashian had to have a $20 million wedding to look interesting.

So, I got a job. Glare at a computer for 10 hours a day and sit on my soon-to-be cellulite ass for 2 hours a day commuting to said job. I get home, raid the fridge like a 15 year old bulimic. catch up with the sig-other for about an hour, scrape the day's makeup off my face, collapse into bed, take half a pill, "read" about a page and surrender.

I have to be at work at 7am. I live in Reno and work in Truckee. Here are the bad things about that:

-Getting dressed by the light of your cell phone so you don't wake up the house; SUX.

-Leaving the warmest, most cozy body on the planet without saying goodbye for the day; SUX.

-Sharing I-80 with nothing but semis and NHP SUX.

-It's so dark and early and cold, even my dog blows me off that early.

-Any chance of getting my meditation done in the morning is SHOT because my mind is still trying to grasp the fact that it's supposed to be awake.

Here are the most awesome things about that:

-Chasing the Moon west, telling it goodnight, and wishing I could wrap my arms around its glowing, guiding self; ROX.

-The heater in my car works; that ROX.

-Listening to miraculous teachings on my IPod, thanks to the same miraculous technology that I simultaneous curse, I have to admit; ROX.

I drive, I work; fear, sleep, long for sleep, love, yet long for love, seek, save, spend, question. I'm here, now.