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Rented: There Were Two

by Maria on October 27, 2009

in Guests

This is an anonymous post from a dear blog friend of mine.

My daughter was a miracle. I don’t mean that in the religious sense or even in a devoted parent sense. She was a scientific miracle. For a year my husband and I tried to get pregnant with her. We went to many doctors and had more tests than I can enumerate. I was diagnosed with “unexplained infertility”and put on the infertility treadmill. Nothing worked. Then six months later, while we were on vacation and had no medical intervention I got pregnant.

If you have any inclination to say anything related to relaxing, shut your fucking hole. Being relaxed doesn’t cause pregnancy.

I always knew that I was incredibly lucky to have her and that I should never take for granted how she was finally conceived. I also always knew that I wanted more than one baby. When she was six months old we started trying again. More correctly, we never actually started trying to prevent pregnancy but I jokingly said to my husband when she was about six months old that if I were to get knocked up again I probably wouldn’t slit my wrists. My ideal would have been to have two babies 18 months apart.

After another year and a half it became clear that we were not going to get pregnant on our own again and we went back to a doctor. After multiple barrages of tests I was told that I have incredibly old ovaries. While I’m only 34 my hormones and ovaries act as if I were in my late 40s. Fucking beautiful. The doctor said that while nothing is impossible he did not believe that we would be able to get pregnant without medical assistance. Being that he is a doctor I suppose I wouldn’t expect any less from him. His recommendation a year ago was jumping straight to IVF a) because of my hormone levels b) because we had been trying for so long already and c) because I had expressed my wish for MJ to have a sibling close in age. After discussing it for a month my husband and I decided we should try some less invasive techniques. IVF seemed excessive to both of us since I had already had one baby and the cost was not something we could manage easily.

Jump forward one year, 4 IUIs, and 2 miscarriages. This time when the doctor said IVF we said yes. We borrowed the money from two exceptionally generous family members and started the process. I won’t go into the details. That’s not why I’m writing. I just thought a little background was necessary.

 

 

After all we had been through, I’ll be honest, I did not expect even the IVF to work so when the doctor called me that day to let me know that my blood test had come back positive I was in shock. “The numbers are low, but the hard part is over. You’re pregnant.”

The hard part is over.

I wish that had been the case.

The next week I was on cloud nine. After everything we had been through we were finally going to have another baby. It had taken 2 ½ years but it was worth it. Another baby was on the way. I was going to be due in June. I’d figured out the day to be June 18th, although MJ had come early so who’s to say that baby #2 wouldn’t have as well. In either case, it was going to be a summer baby.

Things started going south on a Saturday. My husband had taken MJ to Ikea for the afternoon so she could play and they could look for big girl beds and get her mattress off the floor finally. A big sister needs a big girl bed. (No, we weren’t stupid enough to say anything to her about it). While they were away I developed a sharp pain in my right side. I’d been having cramping the whole week but as I had cramped on and off for a month when I was pregnant with MJ I didn’t think anything of it. This pain was different. It wasn’t uterine, it was on my right side. Just as I was starting to actually worry about it, it went away. I chalked it up as possibly intestinal. Until that night. 10:30 pm just as I was getting in bed the pain came back, worse than before. I spent a few hours lying in bed trying to breathe through it but that just wasn’t possible. Finally at about 2 am Jim convinced me to call the on call doctor at the clinic. He told me is sounded like I had a twisted ovary and I should get to the ER immediately to have it checked out. A friend came to stay in the house with MJ while we got in the car and went to the hospital. I started bleeding. A lot. I was terrified I was losing the baby.

After 7 or so hours of testing and waiting the ER doc came back and said that my blood tests were still positive, the pregnancy hormone was rising at the proper levels and that my ovary was not twisted. His best assessment was that I had an ovarian cyst that had ruptured. There was some fluid in my abdomen and that would without a doubt cause both the bleeding and the pain. I made a follow up appointment with my own doctor’s office for Monday and spent all of Sunday relieved and on bed rest.

Monday: I went to the office for routine blood work and an ultrasound. I was told by the on call doctor that he saw what looked like either a(n embryonic) sac or a blood clot in my uterus but that it was too early to tell either way. He was not optimistic about the ER doc’s diagnosis of a ruptured cyst and told me he was concerned that my pregnancy might be ectopic. In other words, he thought I had an embryo implanted in my right fallopian tube. He thought that was possibly the cause of my pain and the bleeding.

I was crushed but I refused to give up that easily. If the pregnancy was ectopic, why had the pain subsided and even gone away. I was told to continue bed rest until all bleeding had stopped. It never did.

Wednesday morning I woke up to heavy bleeding, just as I had had with the previous miscarriages. I knew that I was losing the baby. That’s what all the cramping and bleeding had been about. I was devastated and found it nearly impossible to get out of bed. It was only a matter of time before it was all over. After lying on my bed crying to myself for an hour or so while my husband got MJ dressed and fed, I got up and decided to carry on with my day. There was no point in lying round crying and feeling sorry for myself when there was nothing I could do. Yes, this had been my only and last hope. We had tried everything I could and it didn’t work. They couldn’t get my ovaries to produce enough eggs to have any to freeze and try again for a later cycle and there is no way it would be financially feasible for us to try again, but at least I had done everything I could. Move on. I got up and went about my day, bringing MJ to do her daily activities. By 5 pm, just as I was about to pick her up from a play group I went to the bathroom and there it was. Grey, twisted and looking very much like a fat little tadpole.

Have you ever held a 6 week old fetus in your hand? I have. And let me just say for the record: There is a HUGE difference between a 6 week old fetus and a baby. I’ve held both in my arms. I’ve loved both of them and I’d NEVER call a fetus a baby. What I went through was not a desired abortion, but it was an abortion no
netheless. It was a spontaneous abortion. It was a fetus and I wanted to to be more and I was horrified and crushed by my loss, but it wasn’t a baby. I know what it feels like to hold a baby and this was not it.

I picked up MJ with a fake smile plastered to my face. I went home and kept my shit together for the few hours that had to pass before her bedtime. Her father put her to bed. I sat on the couch feeling vacant. I called the doctor’s answering service to leave a message asking for an appointment for the next day to verify the loss of my pregnancy. I called my brother and told him it was over and that I thought MJ and I might want to fly up to visit him. I fell apart after (or maybe during) that. I was heart sore and thought I might never feel worse.

I had no idea. I had no idea there were two.

 

Just as I had the day before, I found it hard to get out of bed the next day. MJ’s dad took responsibility for dressing and feeding her but I rallied shortly after that. He offered to stay home from work and stay with me but I told him not to bother. I needed to get up. I needed to do something. If I sat around all day I’d go crazy. At least if I had to stay active for MJ I could put the happy facade back up. He went to work and MJ and I made plans for the day. We wanted to go to the park, after all there was no reason to stay on bed rest and she’d been asking me for a week to play soccer with her. We wanted to go to the library to get an Alice in Wonderland picture book. We got to the library before it opened and sat outside watching lizards.

The doctor’s office called me back at around 12:30 and asked me to come in for my appointment. I told MJ we could eat afterwards and maybe even stop off at the cafe and get a muffin. She was thrilled.

The appointment didn’t take too long. More blood taken and another ultrasound. He showed me my empty uterus, which I had expected. Then he showed me something else, which I hadn’t. There was what he believed to be a second embryonic sac and yolk. It had implanted at the juncture of my ovary and uterus. He said he couldn’t be sure, not on an ultrasound but explained that he was very worried about the placement of this possible pregnancy as if it continued to grow it would rupture not only my right fallopian tube but also my uterus. Did I have someone I could call to pick up my daughter? He wanted to schedule me for surgery that day.

Shock? Yeah, I think so. After all, I had thought it was all over the night before. All I had wanted out of this appointment was the ability to gain closure and move on with my life.

The details of the day are a bit fuzzy for me. My step-mother came to pick up MJ for a “play date”, my husband and father met me at the hospital. I spent the next few hours having my vitals taken, answering the same questions over and over again and looking at people strangely when they asked me “how do you feel?”. Seriously? How the fuck to you think I feel? I was mechanical, moving from room to room and person to person trying not to feel anything. I thought about MJ a lot and that thought made me smile, more often than not wistfully. I know I must have hurt my husband’s feelings because I kept telling him not to touch me. I didn’t want sympathy or understanding or any type of soft emotion. They would only make me break down. For the most part I held it together until they had me swabbed, gowned and lying in the pre-op room waiting for my surgery. Even then I only really lost self-control when a well meaning but poor thinking pre-op nurse said to me, “I know it’s hard, but everything happens for a reason.”

Everything happens for a reason? Oh really? Because, please, do tell me. What fucking reason is there for this? I’d love to hear a reasonable explanation as to why at the age of 34 after 2 ½ years and more money than I can afford instead of having a second baby I have to have a tube removed, effectively halving my already negligible chances at pregnancy. Really? What’s the fucking reason for that? Don’t give me that blind faith, God has a greater plan, bull shit. There is no reason.

No, I take that back. There is only one reason. Shit happens. That’s it, pure and simple. Shit happens, that’s the only reason. I wanted to yell all of that at the nurse but instead I turned to my husband and said, “Plain warning. The next person who says that to me gets decked.” He agreed.

The other thing I’ve been hearing a bit these past few days is “it’s unfair, but then again, no one ever said life is fair.” No kidding? Really? Life isn’t fair? Wonder why you always hated it when your mother, or anyone else for that matter, ever said that when you were younger or in pain of some sort. You hated it because it’s blatantly obvious, inane, vacuous, insensitive and thoughtless crap. No kidding life isn’t fair. Does anyone really think that’s an acceptable response to a painful event? Word of advice, if that’s all you have to say regarding someone else’s painful life experiences, take those words and shove them right up your ass because you’re helping no one and only alleviating your own sense of discomfort with empty prattle.

Today I’m sitting on my couch. My abdominal muscles are still sore but I’m getting up and down by myself again. I have no doubt that physically I’ll be healed in a day or two. I heal quickly. People keep asking me if I’m ok. I’m not. Not by a long shot but I dutifully answer “yes” because I know that’s the answer they’re looking for. I won’t be “ok” for a long time. My belly will heal and I’ll get on with my daily life but, no, I’m not “ok”, so don’t ask.

How do I feel? Angry, sad, sore, depressed and more than a little bitter. I hate fertile people. My hatred stems from a deep seated envy.

My daughter’s 3rd birthday is in less than a month. My mother asked me yesterday if it was going to be a problem for me to have guests arriving not only with my daughter’s friends but with their new babies. My only answer was, “I hope not.” I’ll put that plastic smile back on my face, compliment my friends’ babies and I’ll die a little each time one of them asks me if I plan to have another. My plans have nothing to do with it.

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Rented: Gaydar Schmaydar

by Maria on July 1, 2009

in Guests

If I weren’t my mother’s daughter, I would have seen this coming. But I am, so I didn’t.

On my way home from a shitty date with a boy who was younger and more immature than I had anticipated…..but totally hot…and with huge guns….

Sorry, I got sidetracked. So, anyway…..I’m driving home and I call my friend to tell her exactly what a failure it was. As she often does, Yajira invited me over for coffee and a chat. This was not unusual. I can’t count how many times I have stopped at her house in the evening on my way home from either work, my sister’s, or shopping and talked shit with her over café con leche. I drove the half mile out of my way and parked in the alley behind her little apartment. I went upstairs where my coffee cup awaited me.

Yajira and I have been friends for several years and while we are both social workers, we disagree on many things. The biggest being religion. Despite her crass sense of humor and her work at a local agency that is frequented by a primarily gay population…..Yajira remains true to her Catholic upbringing and will frequently spout off about those who will burn in purgatory. Including herself and most of her clients. I generally find her preaching to be comical. She generally finds my lack of belief in the trinity to be sinfully and acknowledges that, as a fellow sinner, she will see me in hell. I frequently wonder how much of that bullshit she believes. This has been the nature of our relationship for years. We agree to disagree, we joke, we drink, and we philosophize.

So as I sipped my coffee and gave her the rundown of all his faults, I was taken aback by her shift in conversation. She asked if I recalled a dinner that we had at a local restaurant several years ago. Well, of course I did. We had a blast. And?…..She divulged that she had seen someone at the restaurant who she knew and the rest of us hadn’t seen her talking to this woman. (where is this conversation going? I wondered…..are you in the mob or something??). Only one of the women at the dinner, which had been mostly co-workers, had seen the interaction. Jennifer was a real live hippie all grown up……pushing thirty, holding down a “straight” job, and still smoking pot every weekend. She was younger than both Yajira and I and particularly enthralled with Yajira. Apparently she had seen this conversation and caught the gist of it and had followed Yajira to her car and asked her about it. (At this point in the story, I’m about to scream “What?! what did she see? were you putting a hit on somebody? and what does this have to do with my shitty date?…….but I waited and listened instead.). Jennifer followed her to the car and confronted her about the conversation with the stranger and Yajira admitted that this was a woman with whom she’d had a relationship.

At this point I’m confused and in hind sight, I really shouldn’t have been. It should have clicked with me instantaneously. This was why the homophobia was prevalent in an otherwise intellectual and liberal social service worker. This was why, despite the fact that she had accomplished more than all of her siblings put together, her very religious mother displayed open disdain for her. This was the missing puzzle piece that made the picture come to life. But it took me a moment to step back and focus. To make the scenery clear.

As if my lack of insight was not already as glaring as it was, she then magnified it by telling that after that dinner and the confrontation, she had slept with our mutual friend, Jennifer. This also should have been an “a-ha!” moment……but it wasn’t. And I was still trying to incorporate this information and reconcile it with the individuals I thought I knew when I heard Yajira say something to the effect of “Well, you’re coming, aren’t you?”. I couldn’t control the slight giggle as I said bluntly, “No, hon. I don’t the time or the inclination for that”. She made another statement indicating that she was expecting me to come to her bedroom with her. Stop playing girl! you know you want to come in…… No, I really don’t. Sorry. and I left.

So now she’s not answering my calls. I didn’t intend to bring it up if she didn’t want to talk about it. I only wanted to let her know that as far as I’m concerned, this changes nothing. I have plenty of friends who are lesbians or bi. I would see this as no different. I’ve had friends who were not out before……this, to me, was no different. I had no intention of outing her to anyone, hence the rented blog…….if anything, I think that the whole thing says more about me than it does about her: that I have no gaydar. Despite having numerous friends in the lgbt community…….I only know them when they plaster it on a billboard. Gaydar Schmaydar.

**obviously, names and details have been changed. otherwise I wouldn’t have posted to someone else’s blog. duh.

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Rented: One and Two

by Maria on November 24, 2008

in Guests

This is a rented post from someone that wishes to remain anonymous. If you ever want to borrow my blog for a day, just use the contact form or email me. It’s all yours.

18-1508. LEWD CONDUCT WITH MINOR CHILD UNDER SIXTEEN. Any person who shall commit any lewd or lascivious act or acts upon or with the body or any part or member thereof of a minor child under the age of sixteen (16) years… shall be guilty of a felony and shall be imprisoned in the state prison for a term of not more than life.

18-1508A. SEXUAL BATTERY OF A MINOR CHILD SIXTEEN OR SEVENTEEN YEARS OF AGE – PENALTY. (1) It is a felony for any person at least five (5) years of age older than a minor child who is sixteen (16) or seventeen (17) years of age, who, with the intent of arousing, appealing to or gratifying the lust, passion, or sexual desires of such person, minor child, or third party, to… (4) Any person guilty of a violation of the provisions of subsection (1)(a) of this section shall be imprisoned in the state prison for a period not to exceed life. (5) Any person guilty of a violation of the provisions of subsections (1)(b), (1)(c), or (1)(d) of this section shall be imprisoned in the state prison for a period not to exceed fifteen (15) years.
One count of Lewd and Lascivious.  Two counts of Sexual Battery. Like a mantra, those two sentences are marching through my head at a steady beat, marking the pace at which I need to walk.  One and Two, One and Two, over and over as if keeping time. Those are the charges against the man who molested my daughter last weekend.  Those are the charges against a man whom we have allowed to become part of our family over the last six years, the charges against a man we have grown to love and to trust.  He has been there for holidays, for birthdays, been there to help us retrieve bouncy balls sucked down bathtub drains and clotheslines needing tightened.  He has been there to help us recover from a broken marriage and a shattered life, and none of us knew, none of us had any idea, that he was both far more and far less than what he portrayed himself to be.

One and Two, One and Two…these are the spaces between heartbeats, the sound echoing over and over in this part that isn’t just shattered but gone.  It isn’t just in me, not just in my daughter, but in the entire family who learned to trust, slowly but finally, and had that thrown back in our faces a thousand-fold.   There are the counts between breaths, as each one of us tries to figure out how we are supposed to move forwad, how we can ever look at anyone the same way again, even those in our lives whom we truly love.  Because, you see, we loved him, and were horribly misled, and what if we are again?

One and Two, One and Two…I can’t get those out of my head.  They are the sounds of throbbing anger, the kind I haven’t felt in years, the kind that makes me know well that it is a good thing that he is locked up-not for his sake, but for mine.  I could kill him; I want to kill him.  I want to hurt him so badly, I want to taste his blood.  This isn’t anger, this isn’t even fury; this is a hot, burning, insane rage that wants to carry me away on a tide of red.

One and Two, One and Two…this is the sound of my breath in the night, when I wake up in a panic because I have these kids that no matter how hard I try, no matter how vigilant I am, I cannot always protect them,  I prowl through the bedrooms, watching them as they sleep, my heart breaking over and over again because unbeknownst to me, I brought someone into their lives that set out to hurt one of them.  I know it is not my fault, I know it is not my daughter’s fault, I KNOW that; but it doesn’t make me feel any less hurt and worried and afraid that soon, they have to go out into the world and face dangers every day, and there is nothing I can do to prevent that.

My daughter is okay physically; he did not get as far as he would have liked, because she is smart.  She is physically okay because she had the presence of mind to go outside where people could see them.  she was smart in that she told me; despite her fear and shame and uncertainty, she told me, and she knew I would believe her.  What a blessing that is, even now.  Because of her willingness to be forthcoming, no matter what, we have been able to prevent this, hopefully, from ever happening again.

So he is sitting in jail, and we found out on Friday that there are priors; apparently from a time before they were required to register as sexual offenders, but they are there.  This makes me feel even doubly sick, but at the same time a little better.  Less duped, I suppose, and also of course if thy will admit it in court, he will be more severely punished.

All I know at this point is that he is in jail with a $100,000 bond, and I don’t think he has the resources to come up with $10,000 cash to get out.  I know that no matter what happens, by believing my daughter and taking action, this may well prevent anything from happening to someone else, but it definitely protects my daughter from being in further danger from him.  I know that we are grateful that it wasn’t worse (though God knows it was bad enough), and that with some counseling and a lot of support, my daughter is going to be okay.  Maybe not tomorrow, or two week, or two months from now, but yes, in time she will be okay.

One and Two.  One and Two.  This is the rhythm of the week past and the weeks to come as we cobble together a way to get past this with the least amount of damage as possible. This is the rhythm of our steps as we move forward through each new phase of the process, the thoughts between hope and reality, the sounds of sobbing late at night and the dawn of grace in the mornings.

One and Two.

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Rented: The Right Choice for Me

by Maria on November 14, 2008

in Guests

This is a rented post from someone that wishes to remain anonymous. If you ever want to borrow my blog for a day, just use the contact form or email me. It’s all yours.

I had an abortion. I had an abortion that I’ve never once regretted.

I was already a mother twice over by this time. I was also separated from my husband at the time. I had accepted that I would most likely end up a single mother. But I was not willing to do that with a third child. I was not willing to bring another child into the world, enshrined in the mistakes of my marriage.

I hear so often that women regret their abortion. That women carry their abortion with them for the rest of their lives. While I understand that it may be true for a lot of women, it has not been true for me.

At the time I became pregnant, I was still married. Not so happily, but in a place where I had accepted that I would be unhappily married. For the kids.

Now my kids tell me they’re glad we’re divorced.

Adoption was not a viable option for me. I didn’t know how to keep my children feeling safe and secure in my love if they saw me give a child away. Raising a third child, on a questionable income, and even more dubious child support, was not an option. The only choice left was to terminate the pregnancy.

I regret getting pregnant, but only to a degree. Amazing how much can change in 6 weeks time.

You know what hurt? You know what was hard? The miscarriage I’d had a few years prior. I didn’t want for that pregnancy to end. I wanted that baby. I have thought about that child and who they might have been much more often than the abortion. But it wasn’t meant to be.

Quite simply, neither was the child meant to be that ended in abortion. It was the wrong time and the wrong parents. The child would’ve suffered many emotional injuries to come. It’s possible there might have been damage due to the child’s father’s drug problem.

Mostly, I had the abortion for my two living children, who still deserved the best quality of life that I could give them. Who still deserved the best mother they could get. I fear another baby may have broken me. I might not have been strong enough to end a bad marriage. I might not have been strong enough to make the best decisions possible, always with my children in mind. My abilities to provide the best for them were already limited and stretched. What would stretching those towards a third child have done to them, to me, to that child?

I don’t think I even cried or grieved during that time. I was weary, tired, and weak. And yet I know that it doesn’t make me cold-hearted to say so. I know who I am and what I can handle, and I know that there is a lot of love in my heart to give. I also know I wasn’t cut out to be a mother of three.

I post this anonymously because I’m sure I’ll be accused of being much worse than simply cold-hearted. I wish I didn’t feel like I have to hide from the world about it because of the accusations, but my point is not to start a war, or put myself up on a cross for the daggers. At the same time, I wanted to say it because (a) some other woman out there might be wondering why she isn’t beating herself up over her abortion – I wanted her to know she’s not alone, (b) the assumption is an abortion is something you’ll always regret – I want to say, “not necessarily,” (c) not every woman is cut out for motherhood (or, in my case, motherhood for a number greater than two), and (d) children don’t deserve to be neglected or abused because someone didn’t use a condom.

Very few matters in this world are right or wrong. Particularly when people are involved. You may not agree with my decision. That doesn’t mean that you can make me regret it.

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Loralee's Looney Tunes: Save to draft

by Maria on October 10, 2008

in Guests

“Loralee’s a great person; beautiful eyes and a beautiful soul. She has a contagious laugh and a warm spirit. Her blog is one that you never walk away from unaffected, and she’s having a baby! Congratulations to her!”

I think that most bloggers are familiar with the “draft” folder.  I know I am.  Currently, there are 167 blog entries that are sitting in my draft folder.  They have been accumulating since I started blogging in 2005 and like other areas in my life I am totally horrible about cleaning it out.

Bejewell posted something on her blog that started an idea churning in my head. I wonder what the hell it would be like to just make one long-ass post with all my draft blog entries?  People would probably either go, “WTF?” or assume that I finally had enough for that lobotomy I am saving up for.I also knew that I owed Maria a guest post (I am honored to be asked, btw. I LURVE the woman!) and so, dude! What better time to test it out?

So, I delved into my draft folder, brushed off the cobwebs and started poking around.

First off, I discovered that there are REASONS WHY THESE POSTS NEVER MADE IT TO THE INTERNET. Some are just so boring I had to restrain my self from taking a fork out of a drawer and sticking it in my eye.

I guess I thought that the world would fucking die of excitement over this blog post:

“I kicked ass at Mexican Train at Game Night. Check out the score of 243!”

Or how about this little gem?

“I read a thought-provoking post on eyebrows today and it really got me thinking seriously.”

July of 2006 must a been a really, REALLY slow and boring month.

Some of my drafts aren’t bad, but they just didn’t seem funny enough. Like this exchange with my husband.

“I need to come and pick up the debit card at some point today, Jonathan.“

“Ok.”

“I hope you are having a good day at work.“

“It’s fine.”

“Good. You’re my sweet Baboo.“

“Uh…Ok.”

“HEY! I will have you know that there are guys who would kill to be my Sweet Baboo, Mister!”

“Yah, but since you don’t know any straight guys, they’re probably gay, right?”

“Maybe.“

Then there are the times where I don’t publish something because of a technical issue. Like the time my browser read in German for a whole week.  I was new to Word Press and so I didn’t know what to push to publish the post I wrote about it. (Obviously, I got the problem fixed.)

“After all my computer SNAFU’S, you would suppose that I would not be surprised at anything that happens when I turn on a computer, walk by a computer, breathe in the same room as a computer, or even THINK about doing any of the above.

Sadly, I was completely unprepared to log into WordPress and discover that MY ENTIRE ACCOUNT IS NOW IN FREAKING GERMAN!I did NOTHING to bring this about. I hit my bookmarked and logged in. That is IT. End of story. No tweaking, fussing, hitting buttons, zilch!

This German-thing is a problem.
I have had two years of German DICTION. I have only had 2 quarters of practical German where you learn about congegating, verbage, and how to string a sentence together n’ stuff.

My German basically boils down to being able to say things like Pamina’s virginal bosoms are heaving and that some Duke’s maid is really his tuberculosis-ridden courtesan lover in disguise. (Gotta love Opera-speak).

What the hell does all that mean, you ask?

It means that my German sucks and I want to shoot Blogger or myself in the head right now.

And honestly? I wouldn’t care which one at the moment. My computer just wants it fixed too because I am sure it is tired of me going all “Don Music” on the keyboard and repeatedly banging my forehead on it in tortured frustration.”

Then there are the posts I started writing that quickly became irrelevant because I was lazy and didn’t finish them in a timely manner.

“Alright, alright! It is no secret that I live in Utah and am an inactive Mormon. Even though I love politics, I hate talking about them on the internet. However, since I get at least one email daily asking about my opinion of Mitt Romney and questions about the whole Mormon thing, I am just going to state my opinion so people will stop asking me about it!”

(HA! Did you think I was going to finish that thought? Like I would really publish what my opinion is of that NOW!!!!)

This one also didn’t make the cut because I didn’t immediately publish and now I have no frickin’ idea what episode I was even talking about.

“I have come to a difficult conclusion. I don’t think I can watch Law & Order:SVU anymore. This weeks episode about made me hurl in the toilet. I’m not a prude, but this show is getting to the point that I can’t stomach it. This sucks because Detective Stabler is my boyfriend.”

That last thing is totally true. Elliot and I are meant to be and I will totally bitch-fight anyone who stands in the way of our love.

Some things in my draft folder actually show some promise and I may finish them one day.

“I am not a detail oriented person. Seriously, I’m just not.To clarify, there are times when I completely throw myself into a problem and I am VERY into the minutia of the thing. Every.small.thing.has.to.be.perfect.

Obviously, no one without severe OCD can maintain this for very long, and mine lasts exactly 13.45 seconds after the task/project/relationship/whatever is finished and then I’m done. Kaput. Fini.Translation? I run out of steam and the discipline and order go out the freaking window.

This frustrates me. I am the hare that yearns to be the tortoise. It sucks to know that my personality is the “Example” portion of a fable, my friends.  It sucks six ways from Sunday.”

I also have lots of post “Ideas” in my draft folders.  I wanted to find photos of dogs and animals and compare them to celebrities.  I actually think this would have been rad if I had finished it because DUDE, David Caruso TOTALLY looks like a Chinese Shar Pei.

David Caruso- Chinese Shar Pei

Amy Winehouse-Schitzu with crazy puffed hair on top.

John Travolta-Black Pappilon

Dog Chapman-mangled mutt wearing a spiked collar.

Liza menilli or Cher at oscars -ostrich/emu?

And finally, there are those posts that just make me scratch my head and go, “WTF?!!!!”

“I want cheese! I want cheese!! I want CHEESE!!!”

What can I say? I am a completely odd person.

Anyway, there you are. A peek into my unfinished mind. I’d like to thank Ms. Maria for allowing me to write on her blog.  She rocks the house, yo.  It was lovely meeting you all.  Drop by and say hello if you feel the inclination (or if you’re just effing bored with nothing else to do.)

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