a much needed break

I took a "life hiatus", so to speak. In those times where the world seems to pile on the trouble, and bad news rains down relentlessly, there's nothing like mom's love to pull one through. I've been in Madison for 9 days now, on what has been a wonderful opportunity to clear my head, reclaim my life, and remember joy. Nothing like a daylong Michigan Avenue shopping excursion or a 34/0 Packer win over the Vikings to bring a smile to my face.

It's been fun, and it will also be wonderful to see J's smiling face again. And of course, the kiddos. I hear Henry, Griffin, Ralph, and George are getting lonely, and knowing I'll be greeted at home by four happy fuzzy faces will make it easier to board the southbound plane back home on Monday.

Here's me, mom, and mom's very good friend enjoying our day at Lambeau Field....

i like tv

Last night was the first time I've seen an accurate, heartfelt portrayal of miscarriage on television. Usually, when the unthinkable happens, the victim takes a spill down the stairs, or some other very obvious unrealistic thing happens to cause the loss. (Remember Gabby on Desperate Housewives? Stairs = falling = miscarriage. Ask any soap viewer or my grandmother.) Anyway, then the mother-not-to-be mourns for 2.5 seconds and is back to normal. Last night, on Brothers & Sisters, they showed a loss that hit all too close to home. One of the main characters, Kitty, found out last week that she was pregnant. She was excited, she immediately started planning, and her whole family knew in minutes. Silently I cursed her, rolling my eyes at yet another overly simplistic pregnancy plot in the making and making a mental note to remove B&S from the DVR recording list. I'll pass on another super-authentic TV pregnancy - positive test, bulging belly, and a newborn in time for finale season. Bing bang boom! It's that easy! The more realistic-minded TV writers add in a puking scene or two, and that's it. Everything else must be sunshine, happiness, and tacky shower games. Last night, I watched Kitty go through exactly what I (and so many of my newfound friends) did back in May. Laid back on that table, big old smile, with high hopes her ultrasound begins......and suddenly the doctor is shutting off the machine and looking sadly at her patient as she prepares to smash her happy little world to pieces. Her baby had no heartbeat. She was devastated, her family was devastated. As I wailed on the couch, hurting for this lady in pretend-land, I felt very thankful to whoever came up with this storyline. I really feel like people don't realize how common this is, and how achingly tragic it is, until they or someone they love experiences a miscarriage. I think so many women take pregnancy for granted. They think miscarriage is something that happens to other people. Good example- a work aquaintance who told me how happy she is that she doesn't have "those problems". Mind you, the aquaintance in question has had one healthy pregnancy and apparently has a crystal ball stashed in her closet (right next to the bottle full of ignorance) to make her oh so sure that she'll never experience this. And before this happend to ME, before it became MY reality...I probably didn't get it, either. I didn't go so far as to exlude myself from the realm of possibility, but it wasn't something I sincerely worried about or spent more than a moment considering. And don't get me wrong- never in a zillion years would I wish this upon anyone. Not even Britney Feed-The-Baby-Coca Cola Spears or Nicole-Smoke-While-Pregnant Richie. Not for a minute. All I'm trying to say here is that I applaud whoever came up with the "Kitty has a miscarriage" story and brought a very common occurance to light in a very public way. As tough as it was to watch, it made me feel less like a circus sideshow to watch someone on primetime TV go through nearly exactly what I did. No stairs involved.

Off to work. Here's hoping it's a stroller-free kind of day.

it's here

Well, it's here. November. The focus of much dread, it has arrived. And so far, it's not been as bad as I anticipated. ((Disclaimer: it's only day 3. I reserve the right to hate November at a later date if I do so choose. Stay tuned.)) It certainly helps that my doctor's appointment went better than I could have imagined and left me feeling much more hopeful about life in general, and seeing with my own two eyes that I have things called follicles and they are fantastic ones, indeed. These people know what they're doing, and I have no doubts that it will be the place to change our fortune. It also helps that I've decided to keep my eyes on the prize- 2008. (Well, and Christmas, but mainly 2008.) 2007, in a word, sucked. Sure, it brought our house, our ever-expanding kitty George, and a little piece of television genious called Kid Nation. But moreso, it brought misery, doubt, and sorrow. And medical bills. (Have I mentioned those? Have I mentioned how entirely awesome it is to pay the equivalent of a new couch and roughly 7 pairs of fantastic shoes plus a great handbag or two to lose your babies?) BUT- back to the point at hand- 2007 is almost finito! 57 days until we're on to better times. 57 days until the 2007 is officially the past, aka, "so last year". Here's hoping my hunch is right, and 2008 is happy happy happy. There's already so much I'm looking forward to in '08. Both of the siblings have graduation, my most favorite cousin marries in June, a trip to California is in the works for February, J's new position has been promised to him at the start of the year, and I'll be 27. For some reason, 27 sounds like an awfully good age to me. It sounds officially grown up, but not so close to 30 that I need to fret about an impending mid life crisis. Anyway, long story short, I've chosen to focus on getting through November and on to happier times. God knows we deserve them.

I'm giving TV-stardom a second chance, despite the rocky start. I got a call yesterday from the FNL casting people. (That's Friday Night Lights for those of you with so little taste in television that you're not watching this awesomely addictive show.) Actually, I missed the call and got the message. They offered me what's called a "Lead Extra" role. Had I actually been by the phone and received this call OR called back quickly enough, I would have had the superfun opportunity to play the wife of a guy car shopping. I guess the couple is on a car lot buying a car from one of the lead actors on the show, so I would have been face to face with one of the stars AND nearly guaranteed a chance to see my face on prime time NBC. And actual hair and makeup and wardrobe! Alas, I was too slow in returning the call, and they'd filled the role. Damn! Instead, my big break will be the role of.....drumroll...."Applebees Customer". Not quite "lead extra" status, but surely it will be better than freezing my buns off with 200 other extras in a football stadium. And I might even get a free meal out of the deal. I was promised a better role soon, and you better believe I'll be keeping the cell phone closer from now on.

And on a totally unrelated and absolutely meaningless topic: I heard yesterday that Lance Armstrong has been spotted making out with....Ashley Olson. Yes, that's right, Michelle Tanner and the bike guy. Is that even legal? Even if it is, it seems a bit pedophilic to me to date the little girl who coined the phrase "you got it, dude" and started the ongoing playground debate over whether she was one person with an obscenely long name (Mary Kate Ashley Olson) or twins. This has nothing to do with anything, but I'm so flabbergasted at the thought of it that I figured it deserved a mention. Ew. And as the fabulous L said last night over wine "but...but...he only has one nut!" Touche.

Thankful for: a chat with Jenny yesterday, who I swear reads my mind and from whom I know I'll never have to suffer through the sight of a mini van or anything Pooh related, fall weather in Texas, Dr. S & company making me feel all better, my puppies despite their lackluster behavior of late, a sweet card from Auntie K, Bee Movie this afternoon with J & J & G.

i never liked turkeys anyway

In lieu of diving right into my usual self-indulgent nonsensery, I want to share a few clips that make me giggle. J saw these at a dealership training seminar. Dad also seems to get a kick out of them, since every time we talk I hear a badger impression.









Okay, back to all things me-related. (That's what blogs are for, right?) This morning was not among my finer risings. I woke up and as usual, spent a minute figuring out what day it was, what the date was, and what I had to do today. Then tried with all my might to sink down into the mattress and disappear for 33 days or so when I realized this is the week November begins. November, the month that was supposed to bring with it our first baby. Instead, it is likely to bring a whole lot of sad emotions. Not only am I not having our Turkey baby, not only am I not finding out the sex of our April baby, but I'm still waiting for my body to decide to function normally. Two MONTHS since miscarriage #2 began, and I'm still not "normal". (I'll omit any detailed explanations in the rare chance that this is being read by my husband, my father, my brother, or any member of the male species.) This is getting o-l-d. Or, I should say, it got o-l-d about 3 weeks ago. Now, it's verging on ridiculousness, as I prepare to head back to the doctor's office tomorrow to investigate this newest reproductive system malfunction. Yep, back to the OBGYN. Perfect. I'm sure the sight of 100 or so bulging bellies in the waiting room will affect me positively. But back to the point, I wish that I could rip out the November page from my calander and crumple it up and have that be that. I'd like to go Rip Van Winkle awhile, wake up on December 1, past the dreaded date, past the turkeys, past the risk of a mental breakdown. Or, you know, just wake up with a uterus that aims to please rather than infuriate. I just want it to be '08 already. I know there are no guarantees, but I'd bet my lucky scrunchie that it will be better than '07. (No, I don't have a lucky scrunchie. If you didn't catch the Legally Blonde reference I'm embarassed for you.)

Here's what saves the day: tonight, The Bachelor is partaking in the "most dramatic rose ceremony ever". Well, probably not, but he is making the home date rounds. AKA, the best episode of the whole season. We're DVRing so I can half-watch the Packer game, and because it's much more enjoyable to watch a recorded commercial-free version.

That's all for now. Here's hoping for good news tomorrow.

there's been a mistake

Sitting here on the couch tonight, listening to J snore softly as I half watched TV and half perused the internet looking at things I'd buy if that backyard money tree would start sprouting (a Pottery Barn couch and leather side chair, a Coach bangle, a home on Lake Austin next to Sandra Bullock's) my father's voice was suddenly in my head. I know, creepy. I flashed back to something he said many moons ago. Specifically, the summer of 2005. It was July. He and my mom had gone to Minneapolis early that week to be with my Grandma Rita as the doctors performed surgery to remove her cancer. Needless to say, that didn't work out so well. The cancer had spread, the surgery would not save her, there was nothing more they could do for her. Seconds after getting the call from my dad, tears choking his every word, my brother and sister and I threw bags into the car and drove to Minneapolis. To do what, I don't know. To hold up our daddy, to hold our grandma's wonderfully strong hand, to see in person that this was real and really happening, I suppose. The specific moment I flashed to tonight took place very late in the evening of our arrival. Dad, mom, brother, sister, and I, along with my very favorite cousin M, left the hospital and wandered wearily along a busy Minneapolis street. We found a restaurant with tables scattered about on the outdoor patio, twinkly white lights strung in the treetops above. We ordered drinks- the stronger the better- Long Island Teas for all, keep 'em coming. My heart broke looking down that table at my usually strong and stoic dad. The lines by his eyes, the endearing ones that mirrored Grandma's more with each hearty laugh, were deeper that night. I'd only seen this sadness in my dad once before, the first time Grandma had cancer, when I was all of 8 or 9 and was mercifully spared the details of why her hair was gone. We were all so very sad that night in Minneapolis, Teas in hand, so out of place on this festive avenue, revelry all around, our six-some a dark cloud in the midst. And dad says to us that he doesn't believe for one minute that God doesn't give you more than you can handle. How he thought that people who said that were wrong, that it simply wasn't true because this, losing his mother, was clearly more than he could handle. And something about how every single day, people went through incomprehensible agony that was most definitely more than was handle-able. Back then, just two years ago, I didn't think too much about what he said. Just tucked that thought away to think about another day.

But you know, now, I get it, and I agree. I do feel that God got this wrong, and he's given us more than we can handle, there's been a mistake on heaven's part. I hear so often these days how strong I am for handling this mix up of God's. How strong we are. I don't understand this. I'm not strong! Do I appear to be because I'm among the living, because I'm not crying at that moment, because I pretend to laugh and smile when inside I'm sad and mad? Is that what makes people believe I'm strong? But what is my alternative, what would make me not strong? If I crawled into bed, between my cool cotton sheets, and hid? If I didn't fake that smile or pretend I'm enjoying myself from time to time? If I spoke my mind and responded to the gas station attendant's "how are you, ma'am" with "well, I was a whole hell of a lot better before we had two dead babies and a new soul and wallet depleting medical bill in our mailbox each morning, and now I feel like an empty ugly broken shell of my old self, with nothing but 10 extra pounds to show for all this physical and emotional assault, but thanks for asking, and I'll take $40 of regular unleaded on pump 12, thanks". ::exhale:: I wonder if people tell us we're 'strong' and that 'God wouldn't give us more than we can handle' because they don't know what else to say. Because "I'm sorry" gets old. Because they don't want to deal with the ugliness of grief and Hallmark doesn't sell a card that says "you lost a baby or two, it sucks, it's okay to be pissed at the world" that they can stick in the mail and feel they've successfully played and completed the role of supportive loved one. Because they want to believe that God is carefully dosing out the misery, deliberate in his attempt to not make anyone's load too heavy, protecting them from such sadness. I don't know. I don't even know that this all makes sense to anyone residing outside of my mind. I just know that suddenly tonight, it hit me that I understood why my dad thought that sentiment was bullshit. I get it. I'm 1500 miles away from that table and that moment with my nearest and dearest Auses....but for a moment, I was back there, nodding along with dad, now burdened by an all too heavy load of my own. Now if only the waiter would just appear with that wonderfully mind numbing Tea.....

I hope the days come easy and moments pass slow,

and each road leads you where you wanna go,

and if you're faced with a choice,

and you have to choose,

I hope you choose the one that means the most to you.

And if one door opens to another door closed,

I hope you keep on walkin' till you find the window,

if it's cold outside,

show the world the warmth of your smile,

But more than anything,

more than anything,

My wish,

for you,

is that this life becomes all that you want it to,

your dreams stay big,

your worries stay small,

You never need to carry more than you can hold,

and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,

I hope you know somebody loves you,

and wants the same things too,

Yeah, this, is my wish.

fast forward

I'm pretty sure by now, with all my talk of TV shows, it's clear that I enjoy a love affair with my DVR. Last night, while watching an old recorded episode of Sex and the City, ever-powerful DVR remote in hand....it hit me. What I need is DVR for my life. Yeah, yeah, I know our days here are numbered anyway and it's foolish to wish even a second away and blabitty bla bla bla and just watch that Click movie if you want proof that this is a tricky plan...but too bad, after the past 7 months- I want it. Or specifically, I want the fast forward button (and the mute would be good, too). As Miranda and Steve bickered about their baby, the perfect healthy one they became pregnant with and weren't sure they wanted so Miranda spent that entire pregnancy whining and bitching about being fat and uncomfortable....I was able to speed right through it! Right on to the fun bits! I NEED this. I could go to the mall and fast forward through any belly and/or stroller encounters! Hit pause on those days where the sun is shining, the dog-kids behaving, I don't think of the m-word, and my hair looks pretty. Then speed on through any moments inducing pain or frustration (which are aplenty). Hell, I could just fast forward right on through this entire life turbulance event and hit play again when I see myself weighing 25 extra pounds (in the right place- if it's in my butt, I'll just keep fast forwarding), smiling placidly like the lady on the cover of WTEWYE and painting a wall in pastel baby-friendly shades. Then *voila* rejoin my previously scheduled life!

And after that disgustingly cold Monday (which I did, indeed, survive) I guess fall is here. I'm so confused by seasons at this point. It was 90 and summery, then it was 40 and dark by 7. No gradual, pretty, flowing transition into the hell that is winter up north. Down here, you're on the boat workin' your tan one day, and frantically searching for your "cold weather clothes" box in the garage the next. But boy, am I loving this fall thing. I was able to walk Henry yesterday without even a trickle of back sweat! How special is that?

c-c-c-cold

Brrrrr. I've become one of "them". A big midwestern-grown sell out. One of the southern folks whose blood threatens to freeze at 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Yes, the girl who grew up doing THIS for fun....... ....deemed this mornings' chilly, wet, windy 50-degree conditions "too cold to go outside" and urged dear J to take his big coat with him to work. Immediately disappointed in my feebleness, I tried to redeem myself by taking Henry out for a walk. Let's just say his "walk" consisted of three layers of clothing, a jaunt to the end of the block and back, and a smelly wet dog. A week back home in Wisconsin over Christmas should cure this insanity. Because, as all northeners know, you're not cold until at least one extremity is numb. Until then, I'll be the one in the Uggs searching fervently for that FUPA-inducing pink snowsuit of mine.

The weekend passed with a fairly low amount of our "new normal" chaos and drama. J's still frustrated with work, I'm still frustrated with my recovery, I had an emotional Saturday afternoon that I just prefer not to get into in an attempt to avoid an emotional Monday...but all in all, we managed a decent (if lazy) weekend. I did wreak havoc on the condiment aisle at the grocery store, so there's that. While reaching for a bottle of horseradish, I took down a few containers of ketchup with my elbow. Since they're plastic, one would assume they would bounce to the ground and land safely, right? HA! Not at the hands of Mandie! One smashed into the concrete floor with so much force that it exploded. An explosion aimed, naturally, at yours truly. My shorts-clad legs were splattered with enough ketchup for at least 5 burgers- enough to make me look as if I'd been shot right there in the grocery store aisle or was experiencing some sort of explosive period. And I wasn't the only target. The merchandise on the opposite side of the aisle received an even coating of ketchup, too. So there I stood on a busy Sunday afternoon, an obese old woman rolling up beside me in her motor-scooter gawking, a lady with (of course) a baby glaring at me as if I'd set out to attack her precious bambino. Move along people, nothing to see here. I flagged down a pimply teenage employee, made a lame attempt to help, and finally just took his paper towel offering and bolted.

I need to go find socks. My toes are numbing.