Enough Already!

Are we there yet?

The first time I got pregnant, I had a friend who also got pregnant around the same time (6 weeks before I did). I really thought it would be cool for us to “share the experience”. Boy, did I turn out to be wrong on that one.

This “friend” started trying to get pregnant a few months before I had my myomectomy in April 2002. She knew that I was having the myomectomy so that I could start trying and get pregnant. I’ve always suspected her timing was just her way getting one up on me, as stupid as that sounds.

I never will forget the first month they “tried”. We were having lunch one Saturday a few weeks before I was scheduled for my surgery. She broke the news to me that she and Big Lips Barry had begun “trying”, told me how tired she felt, and confided that her period was late. I asked her if, in her delicate state, she wanted a ride back to the office and she declined. The last I saw of her that day was her walking slowly back to her office, gently cradling the baby she was sure was growing inside her abdomen.

Turns out, she was not pregnant after all. This would be the first of many false alarms. I went ahead and had my myomectomy, and after 6 weeks recovery, my husband and I started trying. I got pregnant on the first attempt, June 1, 2002. I did not break this news to my “friend” since she was still trying after five months. She kept asking me when my husband and I would start trying and I just kept telling her we were waiting until I healed. Now that I reflect on it, I’m sure she was concerned that I would get pregnant before she did.

Since I’d figured out how to use an OPK and time intercourse successfully, I began to counsel her on how to time intercourse using same. Her problem was that she had irregular cycles, so timing intercourse was impossible w/o an OPK. In the meantime, I lost my first pregnancy on July 4, 2002. Since I didn’t mention the pregnancy, I could hardly tell her about the miscarriage.

Officially, we started trying again in September 2002. I continued to counsel said friend on the fine art of getting pregnant, and after 8 months of trying, she finally got pregnant September 21, 2002. I got pregnant again 6 weeks thereafter, November 3, 2002. We were going to share this experience.

Cool right? Wrong. Immediately, there was the phone call about how she told her husband that I was pregnant and he thought that was just great. She, however, did not appreciate his enthusiasm for my good news and said so.

Then there were the conversations about how she could’ve gotten pregnant as fast as I did if she had really tried. First of all, though it took her 8 months, she only tried for 6 cycles b/c her cycles were long. Then some months they didn’t really try (though I recall the disappointment each time her cycle failed). And when I mentioned to her that the 8 weeks she had been pregnant had really flown for me, she corrected me and told me that, according to her doctor, she was in her eleventh week of pregnancy, thereby emphasizing how much more pregnant she was than I.

It was then that I really began to pick up on the competitive spirit of this woman. Somehow, this was lost on me earlier when I discovered that she’d lied about how much she made at her new firm after she disclosed she’d gotten a big raise and as it turned out, she was making less with the big raise than she’d originally claimed to be making. So here I was, in a competition of which I did not even know that I’d entered just by being her “friend”.

Well, if you’ve read this blog before, you know that I lost that competition. December 3, 2002, my ultrasound revealed a blighted ovum. I was devastated. Earlier I’d thought that seeing other pregnant women, Mimi Maternity, etc… was painful, well, I was in for a whole new level of pain.

Things became a little awkward between this pregnant friend and I. I tried to share in her happiness until she morphed into the “The Woman Who Could Not Get Enough Attention”. It was subtle at first. I remember when we had lunch in January 2003, a few weeks after my D&C. She was wearing a tight sweater which showed that she was starting to develop a tiny little bump. I know I was supposed to marvel at this but I was just too raw from the pain of my second miscarriage and I just said nothing.

Then there was lunch in February, in which she demonstrated how she could hardly button up her overcoat b/c she was so “big” and pregnant. I offered to lend her one of my good, bigger overcoats (which she never returned!). During same said lunch, I did get a huge kick out of this one acquaintance of hers who approached her and said “Are you pregnant? I heard that you were, not that I can tell. If I were a stranger I wouldn’t know you were pregnant.” I still remember how good that felt, knowing that I was not the only person who just didn’t see how “big” and pregnant she was getting.

Then there was lunch in March, in which she decided to show us (me and her friend A) her “linea nigrea” in a restaurant. “A” responded by raising her blouse and showing us that she had one as well, except for the fact that she wasn’t pregnant. “A” was having trouble conceiving so this poor pregnant woman did not get the attention she was craving from the two bitter infertiles she was lunching with. I believe “A” was becoming as annoyed with these constant ploys for attention as I was.

Then there was the lunch in April, when she “lamented” how one client hadn’t seen her since she’d become pregnant and how they would make fun of her when they did later on that day, as in “poor little pregnant me” and then made a face like “aren’t I just the cutest little pregnant woman you ever did see?” I didn’t know how to respond to her nauseating attempts to draw attention to her pregnancy. I realized that it was her first pregnancy, but p’leeeaaase, it wasn’t the first pregnancy known to mankind.

Then finally, while walking to a place to eat lunch in June, she remarked how “slow” she had become b/c of her advanced stage of pregnancy. I said “really? I didn’t notice. You seem to be doing fine to me.”

Finally, towards the end of her pregnancy, she remarked how she was sick of being pregnant and the baby kicking her. He had “cooked enough”, according to her. This really steamed me at the time b/c I wanted nothing more than to be pregnant. Was I jealous? Certainly. Envious? You bet. Annoyed by this woman? Lets just say I’d had enough already.

And now here I sit. Pregnant, 34 weeks, 6 days, and I’m calling my doctor’s office to see if I can get my August 11, C-Section moved up. Seven days ago, I was praying to just stay pregnant long enough for the babies to develop fully. Now that I’ve passed that magical 34 week mark, I’m tired of being pregnant. To which those of you still trying to get pregnant must be thinking “you ungrateful bitch”. And I understand that. I am lucky indeed. I am also very uncomfortable….

Of course, I know the amount of discomfort I’m feeling, does not compare to the agony of early morning visits to the RE, the roller coaster ride of each treatment cycle, and the devastation when it fails. I do know that for sure…

My Baby Story

In the style and tradition of the Discovery Channel, I give you, my “Baby Story”:

My husband and I met our first year as law school students at a keg party at Mr. Enough Already’s rented house. Then, he was known as the “Rooster” b/c of the picture in our law school face book in which his hair was styled in a manner that resembled the comb of a rooster. I was playing outside with his roommate’s dog, Dante, when the Rooster approached me to strike up a conversation.

Thereafter, I would waive at the Rooster when I would see him around the law school campus. He would smile, waive back, but never approach me for a conversation. What I didn’t know at the time was that the Rooster had had quite a bit to drink the night we met and he did not remember who I was. It was not exactly a love at first sight encounter.

One lonely night before spring break 1992, I called the Rooster after having had one too many glasses of wine while packing to leave for a trip. The Rooster was out with the boys at the time, so I left a message for him to call. Though the Rooster did not recognize my name, he looked me up in the “face book”, called me back and agreed to come over. The Rooster did not let on that he did not remember ever having met me before.

One thing lead to another, and we consummated our brief relationship on the first night (using a condom of course as all responsible adults should do). When I got back from my trip, the Rooster agreed to pick me up at the airport. After I met him at the Gainesville airport, we drove around to the parking lot to get my car. When we went to leave, the Rooster said “Look, I’ll distract [the parking attendant] while you blow through the gate.” It was then that I knew I’d found my soul mate.

We moved in together shortly thereafter. After a mediocre law school career for both of us, we managed to graduate December 1994. At this time, the legal market was flooded with wannabe lawyers b/c of the popularity of shows like L.A. Law and Law and Order. In Orlando, Florida, you could make more being an experienced paralegal ($32,000) than you could as a 1st year law school graduate ($28,000).

So, to build my resume, I moved to St. Louis to get my Masters of Laws in Taxation and the Rooster moved in with his brother and his wife in Philadelphia to attend a Masters in Health Care Law program. After the Rooster wore out his welcome in Philadelphia, he came to live with me in St. Louis and never went back, having completed only half the credits he needed for his Masters.

After eight years of non-wedded bliss, we finally decided it was time to tie the proverbial knot. October 29, 2000 was not the perfect day of happiness and culmination of our perfect love. Oh, it appeared that way, but the truth is, it was one filled with anxiety over hair, makeup, guests, ceremonies, relatives, and a big wedding dress that would not allow me to use the bathroom without a lot of help. Since I’ve vowed that the day I need help in that department would be the day I ask to be “put down”, I started restricting my fluid intake at 2 pm.

The months of planning leading up to this event were pure hell. At some point, I got into an argument with my mother’s husband b/c he declared it to be “too Jewish”. It’s like “hello? We are Jewish, it is a Jewish wedding ceremony…” But the day finally arrived and since I’d hired a wedding planner, the flowers were beautiful, the chuppa was beautiful and the venue was beautiful. Since I’d also hired a hair stylist and make-up artist, I didn’t look half bad either.

Everything went well up until dinner was over. The band sucked ass. The one my wedding planner originally suggested played blues and Motown; but according to mother’s husband was too “south side Chicago” (I guess a Midwestern expression for “black”?). Since he was paying the bill, and he’d lost out on the goyim theme he wanted, he got his way. I regret not standing my ground to this day. No one danced, and everyone left by 10:00.

After the reception, we left for our honeymoon suite at some hotel downtown that the wedding planner had arranged. The room was old and musty and smelled like mold. We left in a huff and checked in at the Adam’s Mark Hotel. The only thing that was good about this place was that they still had room service and we had a room overlooking the Arch. My husband then had to spend about 15 minutes unbuttoning each little button down the back of my dress before I could finally relieve myself after over 8 hours time.

Now that we were married, it was time to start a family. We made a half hearted attempt in December 2000, but decided after that, neither one of us was quite ready. Then, in spring of 2001, after having what was in hindsight an anovulatory period, I panicked and decided that I was in the early stages of menopause and we needed to get on with it. It’s almost funny now at how clueless I was. Almost.

So, we bought a small house in the summer of 2001 and I made an appointment with the OB/GYN to get clearance to get pregnant. Of course, we were stopped dead in our tracks when the doctor discovered that I had a massive fibroid tumor. Well, after a 2nd opinion, surgery, 2 miscarriages, and 1 ectopic pregnancy, that’s where this blog picks up. And you know the rest: unemployment, 5 aggravating medicated cycles (of which 2 were cancelled b/4 IUI), re-employment in Cincinnati, the passing of a couple of beloved pets, donor egg IVF, pregnancy, unemployment, re-employment in St. Louis, bed rest and that pretty much catches us up to where we are today…“After 3 failed pregnancies, years of trying, infertility treatment and a high risk pregnancy, a couple await the birth of twin girls.”

I'm 34 weeks and still waiting!!!

Now for something completely different...

Recently, I’ve been following Birthmother/Lifemother blogs that I initially linked to through Chez Miscarriage.

Now I can understand that giving up a baby for adoption is a heart wrenching, selfless act on the part of the Birthmother/Lifemother. One of the reasons I never considered adoption as a way for me to build a family was that it would be painful and difficult to have a woman who has just given birth hand over her baby to me. The fact that a woman is not prepared to parent a child does not take away the pain of relinquishing that child to someone else to raise. It’s just not a win/win situation.

But I find the bitter tone and the attitude of entitlement expressed in the Birthmother/Lifemother blogs a bit outrageous and some of the statements libeless. However, since I respect the fact that their blogs are their forums to vent their frustration and aggravations, I will refrain from commenting on their blogs and express my views on my blog, which is my forum.

Now here is where I piss everybody off…

Cindy Jordan was a woman in her late thirties with two teenage sons. She gave birth to a daughter in April 2001 and placed her daughter for adoption with Susan L. Burns, a licensed psychologist, and her husband in a private adoption. On April 8, 2004, Cindy Jordan committed suicide. Prior to her taking her own life, she had expressed dissatisfaction with the open adoption process that she had engaged in with the Burns.

Exactly what the agreement between Cindy and the Burns was is unclear.

According to one source on the internet, the Burns made vague promises about future visitation with the baby. During the adoption process, they helped Cindy financially, they engaged her, and they befriended her. The Burns assured Cindy over and over that they would not disappear.

According to another source on the internet, Cindy’s memorial website, Cindy had a semi-open adoption arrangement with the Burns which included pictures and letters every six months, April and October; that Cindy would e-mail the Burns in between those months hoping to get news about her daughter; and that Cindy wished visitation were an option.
What is clear, is that Cindy desired more contact with her daughter and the adoptive parents, as she wrote: “Why is it so hard, to have me in your world, We both share this in common, our love for a little girl”

According to the memorial site for Cindy, she found out that Susan Burns was the author of a book called Fast Track Adoption; and Cindy often expressed feelings of being forgotten in the adoption process, and being used.

This sentiment has been expressed by other birthmothers, for example this one:

“I’m just tired of being the family member hidden from view. I was that family member when I was pregnant, within my own family. Within the adoption world, I was a hot commodity! Everyone wanted me. Rather, everyone wanted my child. Now that I have given birth, placed and moved forward in my life, once again, no one wants anything to do with me, though this time it’s the adoption world that once told me that I was precious.”

Well oh birthmother, the gift that you bestowed on the adoptive parents was indeed a precious one. It was not one, however, that entitles you to any standing within their family unit. When you relinquished your parental rights to your child, you gave up your right to be a parent to that child. Sorry that was lost on you in the process.

The fact that the adoptive parents were nice to you during the adoption process was not a ruse to get you to surrender your child but an expression of their gratitude for choosing them as the adoptive parents of your child. The fact that they don’t treat you as a member of their family now does not mean that you were “used” by the adoptive parents as a means to an end.

And, dare I say this, but wasn’t it you who sought out placement for your baby? Surely prospective adoptive parents did not solicit you on the street and ask you to consider relinquishing your child. For whatever reason you thought you could not parent your child, the adoptive parents did step in and take over that role for you and give your child a good home. And if you have other children, you know that everyday is not a walk in the park when it comes to raising children.

In this same vein, another author writes:

“Many a mother is grieving the loss of a child to adoption. This grieving is compounded when she has so obviously, blatantly been used as a baby-making machine and then tossed out like yesterday's garbage once her child is in possession of the adopters.”

Uhhh, wasn’t the birthmother pregnant before the prospective adoptive parents contacted her? And, generally, wasn’t the pregnancy unplanned and unwanted? And didn’t the birthmother seek out the adoption process after she got pregnant? Dare I suggest that you birthmothers examine your role in the process and own it? It’s unfortunate that you found yourself in a difficult situation and I’m sure you did the best you could to provide for your child. Now its time to get off your cross, take the wood, build a bridge and get over it.

On the websites that I visited, the Burns have been vilified and blamed for Cindy’s death and the book has been portrayed as encouraging adoptive parents to lie to birthmothers to get them to relinquish their babies. For example:

“The content of the book teaches you how to deceive an expectant mother considering adoption into trusting you and eventually placing her child with you. It includes making promises that you never intend to keep.”

I admit to not having read the Fast Track Adoption book. I have reviewed the information on the website though and one of the tips offered for prospective adoptive parents is to “Be Honest.” Dr. Burns advises that “Adoptions based on illusions and false promises violate a sacred trust and can unravel fast. Avoid offering half-truths or false impressions in an attempt to ‘sell yourself’.”

The characterization of adoptive parents by bitter birthmothers as baby stealing ingrates is unfair. Open adoption entails open communication between the adoptive parents and the birthmother. Open adoption does not mean that the birthmother should be treated as or become an integral part of the adoptive parents’ family. The degree, manner and extent of that contact should be determined by the parties involved and memorialized in writing in an adoption agreement. Each party to the agreement should be required to comply with that agreement. (Currently, adoption agreements are enforceable in some States, but not all).

And I think that should apply to both sides. A birthmother’s commitment to an adoption plan should be legally enforceable as well. Some opponents argue that a birthmother cannot make an informed decision until after the baby is born; and the law supports this position by imposing waiting periods before adoptions are finalized.

Since that is the case, then I would argue that no adoption plans should be made before the baby is born unless the birthmother can legally waive the waiting period. In that event, the birthmother should not be allowed to change her mind. If she does, the prospective adoptive parents should be entitled to recover contractual damages. After all, they have time, money, and all of their emotions invested in a long, expensive process.

Some would argue that requiring a birthmother to pay damages for her breach of an adoption agreement is coercive. I think it’s just a matter of fairness. And practically speaking, most birthmothers are probably judgment proof anyway.

Finally, one adoption opponent argues that:

“The exchange of big money between agencies, facilitators, lawyers, and those who seek to adopt must end. Only when adoption truly focuses on the needs of children - including their need to know their first mother -- rather than the needs of high-paying adults, will it be anything but inhumane.”

I agree that adoption should focus on the needs of the children. However, I am not sure how an adoption, which is a legal process, can be achieved without some payment of remuneration to the professionals required to facilitate the transaction. As a lawyer, I make my living selling my time. If the adoption process is relegated only to those who can do the work pro bono, the system would grind to a halt. There would not be enough professionals available or willing to do the work involved.

Personally, I don’t think adoption works unless the child is an orphan, has been abandoned or the parent’s rights have been terminated because of abuse. Sadly, many of these children have simply been discarded and are not the first choice for prospective adoptive parents. Understandably, many prospective parents are not eager to take on someone else’s problem to raise, especially a child that has been scarred by abuse.

The concept of open adoption, however, is a good one. I think the keys to its successful implementation, however, are: 1) open, honest communication; 2) commitment to the process; 3) being able to balance the interest of all of the parties involved, 4) realistic expectations by all parties; and 5) the ability to legally enforce those expectations.

Can Ovulation Make You Want to Vomit?

Hmmm….

When checking my stats and referring addresses, one of the referring addresses for my blog was from Ask.com. “Wow” I thought to myself, “I must really have had something important to say.” NOT.

The query that triggered the hit on my blog was “Can Ovulation Make You Want to Vomit?”

The blog entries that came up did in deed contain the word “vomit” as in “Do you have one of these people in your office (life, etc…)? What I mean is the type of person who uses you as an emotional vomit bag?” And of course, the blog is replete with references to ovulation. But the blog entries did not answer the question posed.

So, can ovulation make you want to vomit? Well, I’m no authority, but I’ll say in certain instances it can. I cite the following examples:

Courtesy of (or stolen from) barefoot and…
Saturday, April 02, 2005

What, no kiss this time?

It appears that the universe is giving another nice, big, uncomfortable ass fucking: I already ovulated. So, another month down the tube and not even the possibility of a positive pregnancy test to make me feel better about my upcoming due date. Which, in case you forgot, is April 9th.

Oh, and today is April fool's day. Last year on this date, I had another bad ultrasound; the D and C was the next day.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Or, how about this example:

Courtesy of (or stolen from) a little pregnant
01/18/2004

Day 9: I knew it was too easy

This morning's appointment went great. I was the first patient seen, and the two doctors on duty were total sweethearts, patting me and making much of my admirable work thus far. "Excellent stim," said one, squeezing my shoulder. She said she thought we'd likely trigger Tuesday night, with either four or five mature follicles in play. I left with a warm glow and a pleasantly purposeful feel in my pelvic region.

But then, splashing ice cold sulfuric acid all over my lovely glow, she called later with my estradiol level. It's gone from 641 on Friday — respectable and encouraging — to 490 today.

You may not know this if you haven't run the gauntlet of infertility treatment, but your estradiol level (E2) is supposed to increase until ovulation, at which point it'll go down and progesterone will begin to rise. A drop in the E2 level likely means that my uppity ovaries are ovulating, long before they have been given official leave to do so….

So, indeed, as you can see, there are times, when, yes, ovulation can make you want to vomit.

Musings of a bored, bed resting Shrew

My mother arrived on Monday. She is now living with us until she finds a place. It doesn’t really bother me to have her here in my small 3 bedroom ranch house except for the fact I can’t yell at the husband when he deserves it.

Like, when he said “is there anything to take for lunch?” Hmmmm, I don’t know. Did you buy anything?

Like when he works until 7:00 p.m., comes home, spends an hour watering the plants outside, an hour and ½ working out, and then comes into the bedroom to watch TV with me at 9:30. All conveniently orchestrated in my mind to avoid me.

Like when he made derisive remarks about the new bedding set that I ordered and said it makes our bedroom look like a Mexican bordello. Look, its Ralph Lauren. I admit I have no taste when it comes to decorating, but I have faith that the designers at Ralph Lauren do, even if one of the accent pillows does have a zebra print.

I’m like a bored, sloppy housewife, both mentally and physically. I don’t work, cook, or clean, and I spend all my days lying on the couch watching television and eating donuts. Last night I actually said to my husband “I know what’s going here, it’s just like Dr. Phil said on his show today…”

So what happened on Dr. Phil? One couple had an 80 year old house and the wife kept assigning various home improvement jobs to her husband which he never finished, or if he did, he did a half ass job. So Dr. Phil said “You want to know what I think? Well here’s what I think. This house is a war zone. It’s aggressive versus passive aggressive. He figures that if he does a bad job, you’ll quit asking him to tear up your house.”

No, my husband didn’t tear up my house. He ordered a glider WITHOUT taking the pillow to the crib bedding set to match the fabric swatch for the custom ordered glider!!! And then told me he ordered the wrong color, but suggested we paint the nursery to match the color of the glider that does not compliment the crib bedding. AND this was all done b/c I accused him of not doing anything to prepare for the babies’ arrival.

Do you see the connection here? I asked (demanded) that he show more interest in the babies and he does so by fucking up the Nursery décor scheme. “Which,” he retorted “is not as bad as that butter-up yellow paint you selected or the tawdry bedding set that you ordered.” “The black and white zebra print clashes with the yellow paint…” he continued. He was talking about our bedroom, not the nursery.

I’ve become a woman who my cleaning lady secretly thinks my husband should cheat on. Recently she posed this question to me “…she has really let herself go, put on a lot of weight, and is always telling him what to do. Don’t you think her husband should cheat on her?”

“Why no” I replied to Du’plicitous. “I don’t think any man should go outside of their marriage. If he has a problem with her, he should discuss it with her and if they can’t agree, then he should be reasonable and just do it her way.”

What can I say? You teach people how to treat you. And here is a lesson I like to pass on: Don’t fuck with me.

32 weeks down, 2 more to go.

Its that time of year again...

July 4th weekend. July 4th 2002, went to Chevy’s, a Mexican restaurant in St. Louis, woke up around 2 a.m. the next morning with very bad indigestion from the Mexican food, so I thought. I was having a cramping backache so I went into the extra bedroom and watched All in the Family on TV Land. Shortly, my first miscarriage ensued. I have since concluded both are bad luck for a pregnancy and cannot watch All in the Family.

July 4th 2003, my husband had recently been downsized from his job after 5 years; yet we continued to try and make a baby. This was my 5th round of clomid and my RE had added estrogen to the mix at my request b/c clomid dried out my cm. What I discovered later was that estrogen would delay ovulation. Finally, I detected my LH surge and then after fighting with husband over baby making sex, we consumed 2 bottles of champagne and got busy. I ended up with an ectopic pregnancy from that encounter.

July 4th 2004, there was a monsoon in St. Louis which knocked all the power out for days. Since July 4th was on a Sunday that weekend, the actual holiday was on Monday, July 5. I had a real estate closing on Tuesday, July 6, for one of our biggest clients. I had intended to spend a slow evening posting “sign here” tags on my closing documents. Instead, I spent it alone, in the dark, readying a book by candlelight. The next day was rough going as I attended said closing, only to return home that evening to find the power was still out. The rest of that wonderful evening is detailed here.

Relatively speaking, July 4th weekend 2004 was only a minor tragedy. I did close the transaction after all. It just seemed like a nightmarish hell at the time.

Here we are again, July 4th weekend 2005. I’m hoping to just cruise through this July 4th holiday weekend without anything bad happening, including: 1) premature rupture of membranes - water breaking; 2) labor; 3) premature delivery; or 4) uterine rupture.

Hoping to break the curse. Wish me luck. (31 weeks, 4 days, and counting).

Everything, but nothing in particular

Names. We’ve come up with a few. My husband’s top picks are: Raquel and Ariella. We love the name Raquel. Ariella is nice but a mouth full; and I’m afraid it will be shortened to “Ari” or worse, “Ella” when she’s older. For a while, we switched to Leah, which means “Weary” in Hebrew. But when my friend A told me she loved Ariella, I switched back. Then my mother told me she loved the name Leah. So now we have Ariella Leah and Raquel Rose, and Hebrew names of Eliana and Channah respectively. I love the name Eliana b/c it means “G-d has answered me”. My husband hates that name b/c? who the fuck knows?

Women’s Clothing Sizes. Why the fuck can’t women’s clothing sizes be uniform? I have to get an Extra Large T-Shirt from Motherhood Maternity (their cotton clothing shrinks when you dry them). So I ordered and extra large set of PJ’s from Land’s End and they are humongous. I have 45 inch waist and I can barely keep the bottoms from falling down they are so big. AND, Land’s End cotton clothing does not shrink b/c their stuff is pre-shrunk. So here is the rule of thumb: cheap cotton clothing – buy a size larger; quality cotton clothing, buy the right size.

My Husband’s Cell Phone. Why does my husband own a cell phone? No, more importantly, why does that son of a bitch never pick it up when I call? He picks it up for his parents, his brother, car dealers from whom he’s solicited offers, everyone but me. Do you think it has to do with the message I left on his phone? Like “I don’t know why you even have a cell phone you son of a bitch, give me a fuckin’ call”. Think that has something to do with it?

So I spoke to said husband about his cell phone and played the guilt card “well, it’s a good thing I didn’t have an emergency or I would have been fucked now wouldn’t I?” My word, I can be a manipulative bitch, but really, what if I did have an emergency? I’m not just sittin’ here coolin’ my heels for nothing. So what did I need? More ice cream of course!

Splat! On a lighter note, while I was waiting for my husband to pull around and pick me up in front of the hospital entrance, these two guys walked by, one with a shirt that said “Been there, Drank that”, which kind of brought me back to my own drinking days so I could relate. It reminded me of the time in law school when I had an empty wine bottle collection, which my husband aptly pointed out was only evidence that I was probably on my way to developing full blown alcoholism. And as the guys passed me on their way out of the hospital exit, the one with the T-shirt ran straight into the closed glass door – SPLAT. I laughed out loud, and then I thought he should probably throw that T-shirt away for the same reason I got rid of my empty wine bottle collection. Why bring attention to what your problem is? Let other people figure it out on their own.