Project Runway Episode 8

Well...that was kind of....harsh. Not that I'm oh-so-in-love with Angela, but it's pretty heartless to put her on a plane to Paris, only to dump her and send her back home a few hours later. Also? I kind of wanted her to stick around at least long enough to see Jeffrey's aufing.

Speaking of which, would it have KILLED the judges to let Michael win this one? Not that I thought Jeffrey's outfit was bad (although way to overcompensate for your tiny, tiny little penis by calling undue attention to it with those weird studs down the zipper line) but I just hate it when such a venomous jackass gets even the slightest confirmation that he is, indeed, God's gift to the universe. Don't ENCOURAGE him! Now he'll never shut up!

And I'm sorry....Kayne may have looked like a cross between Liberace and Elvis, but I really kind of love him for it.

Speaking of things I love, let's discuss Laura a minute, shall we? I love her. A lot. Like, I would consider having her babies if a) my uterus would cooperate (you knew I couldn't resist talking about my uterus for long, right?) and b) she didn't already have a gaggle of them. With the exception of last week's design, I have loved everything she has created and last night's design, in particular, was stunning. If I could get it in a variety of colors, preferably jewel tones, I'd fill my closet with them, and then sit around my house, fetching Turtle milk and scrambled eggs in my fetching cocktail dress and cha-cha shoes. I'd be so hot I wouldn't know what to do with myself. Not that I'm not already living that fantasy. Heh.

And then there's Heidi... I know I'm always talking about how much I love The Gunn, but how cute was Heidi, shooing the little designers off to go pack and get to the airport? The woman is adorable. It's almost obnoxious how adorable she is. And did we see her at the Emmy's? Could there be a more gorgeous pregnant woman on earth? I think not.

*sigh* I love this show....

Carry on.

Because Baseball Is Life

Well, it's official. Early miscarriage it is. My blood tests came back and my hormone levels are dropping, which is a sure sign this pregnancy is not viable. Which means we are now at Uterus Alert Level Orange: Experiencing Pain; Watching For Bleeding, Nausea or Light-Headedness.

For those of you out there who are getting sick of Uterus Watch 2006, don't worry. We are nearing the end. But before we get there, I have to relay my latest theory. Well, it's not so much a theory as an analogy I was making to Mama Jo that went very, very wrong, very very quickly. See, Mama Jo has been out of town and thus has been getting her Uterus Alerts by e-mail. When I sent her the latest information, she was quite concerned about my ability to have more children. Well, like I said yesterday, the doctor is not so much concerned about this. But in explaining it to her, well....I got a little creative with the visual imagery. Here's what I told her:

We already discussed it. The "blighted ovum" and the "early miscarriage" are completely separate animals, so he sees no reason to be concerned yet. Plus, he doesn't start worrying about my ability to conceive and carry a child to term until I have three failed pregnancies. (Three strikes and I'm out, I guess... Don't know how that works, though, considering a baseball analogy makes Oscar the pitcher and me the catcher. Oh...I guess his sperm is the ball and my egg is the batter. Okay, I've got it now. It's not so much that I'M out as my eggs are out. Or my uterus. Whatever. The point is, I suppose the next time I have to clearly communicate the proper pitch to Oscar? And if the batter fouls out again, we'll have a conference on the mound. Heh. I said "mound." Ahem. Anyway.)

Yeah, so I'm twelve. Whatever. At least I've regained my sense of humor about this whole thing.

My Latest Theory

So, when all of this crap first started going down with the pains and the bleeding and the doctor appointments and the many several blood tests, I was acutely disturbed at the thought that my ability to have more children might be at risk. Oscar and I had always kind of assumed that we'd have two kids biologically. And as much as I love Turtle, I wasn't really ready to consider that I might never be able to get pregnant again. Not that Oscar and I were trying to get pregnant this time around, mind you. We have been in a bit of a holding pattern where family planning was concerned, because we have not had health insurance (which is a whole other rant, entirely.) I mean, thankfully, our health insurance kicked in right before all of this crap came up, but it certainly hasn't been in place long enough for us to even consider adding to our family.

In any case, I was very concerned because this is the second pregnancy I've had go south in the last two years. The last time the bunny died, the pregnancy ended as a blighted ovum, which finally passed at the 3 month mark in a very painful, very messy way. And when the doctor started indicating that this time I would more than likely end up miscarrying, I started getting anxious that there was something wrong with my girly parts that was going to prevent me from carrying another child.

So yesterday, when I saw my doctor again (we still don't know anything for sure; we're just leaning very heavily on the side of "miscarriage"), I asked him exactly how concerned I should be. I was relieved to hear that the blighted ovum and the early miscarriage are considered two completely different beasts, which should not have any effect on my ability to conceive again or bring that pregnancy to term. Which, YAY! I mean, if it happens again, he'll be concerned...three strikes and all....but I shouldn't have anything to worry about once Oscar and I start actively trying to conceive.

I was relaying this to Snark's Mistress last night over IM, one of the many several calls/texts I fielded regarding the status of my uterus (I considered invoking a color chart on par with the Terror Alert Levels, but I wasn't sure how to mass broadcast it....maybe if Oscar has some time tonight, we'll mock one up and post it here....Uterus Alert Level Yellow: Spotting But No Sign Of Infection.) And in the process of discussing what the doctor said, I came up with a new theory, not only about how I got pregnant in the first place, but why it went south so quickly. It goes a little something like this:

See, my family has always been known for being pretty damn fertile. We're quite adept at circumventing birth control methods. So I'm thinking that my little overachieving uterus was thinking to itself "Damn her...she's not giving me ANYTHING to work with here.....How can I polish my skill set if she won't give me the tools I need to do my job???" And my little overachieving ovaries were all "Word. If that bitch would just send us one little sperm, we know we could do things with it. But does she give us anything to work with? No. We're really starting to hate her." And then one day, Oscar and I got a little careless, and a little sperm found its way up the tunnel and even though my ovaries were completely unprepared, they figured they wouldn't get another shot this decade, and pitched the first egg they could find to my uterus. Sadly, that egg wasn't ready yet. And my uterus looked at the ovaries and was like, "Oh, come ON!...the least you could do is give me some good material! I'll do what I can....but no promises." And the rest is history.

So I guess I never had anything to worry about on the fertility front. The problem was never that I am not fertile enough. The problem is that I'm TOO fertile. Go figure.

Sorry, I Haven't Posted But....

If we continue on with the theory that my uterus is a multiple choice exam, and I haven't studied, then the latest twist in our tale is that my doctor apparently forgot to bring the answer key to my last appointment. So I still don't have my grade, but the doctor's gut feeling is that I failed. But he still doesn't know for sure. So we're still waiting. (Do you need me to tell you how completely depressing this is? No? Good.)

Furthermore, on Thursday we moved Snark's Mistress from her home 15 minutes away from me to her new home 2+ hours away from me.

In short, life has not been pleasant lately, and I haven't been up to making jokes about it. I'm hoping my sense of humor returns sometime next week. If not, at least McMama will be back from the wedding she was attending somewhere in the mid-US region, and we all know she doesn't stand for irregular posting. So if nothing else, I'll be faking it. Not that I have any practice at faking it. Heh. Thanks for hanging in there. All six of you.

New Topic

Anyone else sick of hearing about the contents (or lack thereof) of my uterus? Yes? Good, let's move on.

Snark's Mistress makes her big move to Flagstaff this week. When she originally announced her intention to finish school there, I wasn't too concerned. After all, it's only a couple of hours away, not like she's moving to the east coast or something. I figured we'd see each other all the time, and I was excited about visiting her, particularly given the temperature change.

But with her moving day almost upon us? I'm not so excited. I see the boxes stacked in her room and my heart sinks a little bit. I can still muster up some enthusiasm for her. I am not completely selfish, after all. (Just mostly.) I know she needs to do this. She has a couple more years of school, at least, before she can even think of getting a job in her chosen field. And she'll be brilliant at it, so I want her to get through it all. I want her to start making her contribution and feeling that sense of fulfillment in her life. I just wish she could do all of that from the comfort of my living room.

I don't know why I'm having this reaction. We've been through these moves before. The first time Snark's Mistress moved away, she went all the way to New York, just outside the city. Then she came back. And when she was feeling restless again, she moved to Washington, DC. That was an even bigger blow, because not only did she move, she moved with Hotass. So both of my best friends were all of a sudden very, very far away. It was sucky and I was pretty miserable. But we got through it, and ultimately, both of them came back.

So I don't know why this is bothering me so much. Except that change is never easy, and particularly when that change involves the person you usually rely on to help you get through the other changes in your life. But I know she needs this. And I need this for her. So I'm very happy for her and excited for her to be achieving her goals. Now...if I just say that enough times, perhaps I'll start to believe it.

Answers? We Don't Have No Stinkin' Answers!

So. I really thought I would have news for you today. How foolish of me. When I hadn't heard from my doctor by 2:00 this afternoon, I sucked it up and called him. Naturally, I had to leave a message. If anything about this was made easy, I think I'd die of shock, and that would be a whole new set of problems. But anyway, I left a message and then waited. Mama Jo stopped by to pick up Turtle and me so we could go swimming at her house. (We may have a pool at our own house, but we don't have a Mama Jo. And there is no doubt in my mind that in Turtle's order or priorities, Mama Jo is somewhere near the top of the list and I am somewhere near the middle.)

We stopped to get Starbucks (Turtle is still stuck with decaf, much to his chagrin) and then took a few minutes to let Turtle hoover some dinosaur-shaped chicken tenders. And while Turtle was protesting that he did not WANT to be eating, and he was still NOT in the POOL, and CLEARLY I am a BAD MOMMY, I got the call. I started the call with a nervous smile on my face. I ended the call with a frustrated look of resignation.

I have had two blood tests so far. The first one showed elevated hormone levels, but not definitively elevated hormone levels. And they needed to compare the first set to the second set, anyway, to be able to tell me what was happening. Well, blood test number 2 showed elevated hormone levels, but not definitively elevated hormone levels, and not high enough over the first set to conclusively decide that I'm pregnant. So. I need to go back for blood test #3. If this test comes back with lower levels, I'm miscarrying. If the test comes back with elevated levels again, that probably, but not definitely, means I'm pregnant, unless they're really, really high, in which case, I'm definitely pregnant. Did you follow that?

So basically, my uterus is one big multiple choice exam, and I apparently didn't study. Damn you, Uterus.

Must Be This Tall To Ride...

So. For a couple days I thought I might have developed an ectopic pregnancy. I was worried about it rupturing. I was terrified of what it might mean for future attempts to conceive. Having become quite comfortable in my families' reputation for extreme fertility, I was loathe to think that my reproductive organs were "broken" and that by extension, maybe I was, too. In short, I was freaking right out. Then I went to the doctor.

After seeing him, I was no longer worried about an ectopic pregnancy. I was worried about a normal one. My "plan everything down to the last detail" personality didn't handle the idea of my uterus being hijacked by an unplanned pregnancy all that well. Every little hiccup was evidence that instead of having fertility problems, I was SuperFertileGirl! I was worried about how Oscar would feel about it, given that the last family planning conversation we had left me with the feeling that he was not at all certain if he wanted us to expand our brood. And I was ambivalent, myself, particularly since Turtle has been running me ragged lately and I couldn't even imagine how it would be with two little munchkins running me ragged. In short, I was freaking right out some more, just for different reasons.

And when I wasn't worried about being pregnant? I was worried about NOT being pregnant. I questioned if there was any possible way that pregnancy test was wrong, even though I know there is no such thing as a false positive on those things. I worried that my blood test was going to come back completely normal and that my doctor was going to end up showing it to all of his colleagues and laughing because the hormone levels CLEARLY didn't indicate pregnancy at all, and I was just a big, fat, overreacting hypochondriac. And I was scared that there might be something wrong with me that wasn't so easily explained by the plus or minus sign on the stick or the hormone levels in my blood. In short, I was freaking right out all over the damn place.

Today? I'm a little more mellow. Or perhaps the word is "numb?" Whatever it is, I think I've just reached the stage where I don't have the energy for anything else. I've been so tired lately, which causes the more optimistic in my crowd to conclude that I MUST be pregnant, naturally. I had another blood draw today, which, when compared to my first results, should give us a better idea of what's happening, and I see the doctor again on Wednesday. Until then, we just don't know anything. I just have to keep doing what I'm doing, which is assuming that I'm pregnant and acting accordingly until I hear otherwise. Which means that until then, I've got an unlimited pass on this emotional rollercoaster. Get in, sit down, strap in and shut up. It's going to be a bumpy ride.

Project Runway Episode 6

Dear Heidi, Michael, Nina, and Random Guest Judge Whose Name I Don't Remember,

I really thought we understood each other. The true awesomeness of your show is certainly above the kind of blatant stunt-casting and "keeping the nutjob contestant around as long as possible" maneuvering those other reality television shows use as ratings-boosters. So pray tell, dear judges, why Vincent is staying and stinking up my screen week after week, despite being in the bottom three EVERY WEEK since the show began, while Alison, who exhibited actual talent throughout the competition, was sent packing? You showed through your deliberation process last night that you do, in fact, take into consideration the designers' whole bodies of work when considering eliminations. Alison, at least, had a few designs that were recognized as being in the top three! What the hell were you thinking? Vincent is psycho. Send him home. Who knows? Maybe in the next incarnation of his career, he'll find a way to modernize the straitjacket, which is really, if we want to be honest, his true calling in the first place.

On the other hand, giving the win to Michael instead of Jeffrey last night kind of bothered me until Jeffrey opened his big, fat mouth again and reminded me why I hate him with the white-hot intensity of a thousand burning suns. I don't know what inspired you to recognize Michael instead, but I commend you for your instincts.

Oh, and I know you're busy, but if you could let Kayne know that it's pretty damn hypocritical of him to rag on Laura for being such a judgmental bitch after he and Robert sat down with the deliberate goal of trash-talking someone, I'd appreciate it. I love Kayne, and I love Robert, but I also love Laura. And at least Laura has the big, brass balls enough to say what she thinks to someone's face instead of waiting until a dinner break to deconstruct someone behind his back.

And I know I've said this before, but if you could let Tim know that he really needs to ensure that his DNA is propagated, and offer up my services, that would be outstanding. I've never seen a man look more adorable in a hard hat, protective goggles and reflective vest in my life.

Otherwise, outstanding work, Judges. Carry on!

The Vagaries Of My Reproductive Organs

First, a word of caution: if you have a tendency towards low-level hypochondria, panic-Googling conditions for which you even vaguely believe you might have symptoms is a dangerous thing. Further, blogging about it later will only make you look like an asshole when it turns out you completely overreacted.

Ahem.

Okay. So, I went to the doctor today, who was nice enough not to call me a panicky freakshow to my face. After performing a quick ultrasound, he pretty much ruled out the ectopic pregnancy option. Not completely. Just mostly. 95%, perhaps? I just made that number up. He didn't give me any kind of odds. But while moving the ultrasound wand all around my innards and pointing out my girly parts ("And that blob right there? That's your uterus." "Hi, Uterus." "And that over there is your left ovary." "Hi, Left Ovary.") my lovely doctor noticed no abundance of fluid or blood which would indicate ectopic pregnancy. So he's pretty sure that's not the problem.

So what WAS the problem? Well, we're not quite sure. The pain was most likely a result of the lovely cyst on my right ovary. ("And right there...that black mass? That's a cyst on your ovary." "Oh. Well....Hi, Cyst. Thanks for joining us.") But the positive pregnancy test along with the bleeding? That's a little trickier. Either I'm pregnant, and I was having implantation bleeding, and I will more than likely end up with a healthy pregnancy and HOLY CRAP, I WAS NOT TRYING TO GET PREGNANT, HOW CAN I BE PREGNANT, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!?!?!?!?!?! Or I'm in the beginning stages of a miscarriage I wasn't expecting, given I am still reeling at the thought that the stick showed a plus sign instead of a minus sign. At this point, it's too early to say whether we're going for Door Number One or Door Number Two.

So. We're in for another week or so, at most, of uncertainty. In the meantime I'm supposed to keep taking my prenatal vitamins (which assumes, of course, that I was taking them to begin with) and let my doctor know if there are any changes. And try desperately not to panic. Heh. As if.

Note To Self: Never Make Promises Involving Blog Posts

So....I think I said something about getting back to our regularly scheduled programming today. I did, didn't I? Yeah, well, that assumed, of course, that I wouldn't wake up yesterday morning with this nagging pain on my right side, which corresponded nicely with some odd bleeding that decided to happen outside of my regularly scheduled menstrual cycle. And it also assumed that this pain wouldn't be so bad that it wouldn't respond to regular drugs. It then further assumed that the pain wouldn't continue on through the night and into the morning. Even better, it assumed that the pain wouldn't increase in intensity today until I started panic-Googling things like "ectopic pregnancy" even though I had just had my regular menstrual cycle a week and a half ago. And then it assumed that I wouldn't panic-call Snark's Mistress and ask her to bring over a pregnancy test, just so I could rule that out. And just to mock me, it assumed that the pregnancy test wouldn't come out positive.

All of which happened.

So. Today was spent in full-on freak-out mode, which is never conducive to blogging. And tomorrow will be spent shuttling the Turtle back and forth so I can get myself in to see my doctor, who is as perplexed as I am that I had my period a week and a half ago and yet have a positive pregnancy test sitting on my table, not to mention the bleeding and the nagging pain on my right side. It's all fun and games in the Cymber household.

Updates to follow.

Nope, Not Dead

Yeah, I know. It's been quiet around here lately. Not only has my Muse gone off on a bender, I have been felled by a nasty cold. Or sinus infection. Or something else that managed to fill my head full of snot and make my brain pound unsympathetically. I'm sorry that has meant I've been conspicuously absent from my little corner of the blogosphere, particularly since McMama has been on my ass about updating with "real" content. But regular posting will resume no later than Monday. Thanks for hanging in there. I'll be back shortly.

Just Filling Some Space

A recent conversation between Snark's Mistress and me about our mutual lack of creative genius lately led to the following exchange:

Me: Know what makes me sad?
Her: What?
Me: I haven't updated my blog in 3 days, and I don't even have the slightest glimmer of material to form into a cohesive post
Her: That is a little sad. And as someone with a muse that likes to run off for long weekends in Vegas at the drop of hat, I feel for you.
Her: Especially since she inevitably gets drunk while she's there, and ends up hooking up with these random guys and ending up in cheesy little chapels on the strip dressed in Austin Scarlett-like wedding ensembles getting married by Elvis impersonators.
Her: My muse is such a slut.
Me: Well, my muse ends up on coked-up benders in sleazy motels in West Hollywood, waking up with vomit caked on her clothes and no idea how she ended up with her panties in her hair.
Me: I think you got the better end of the deal
Her: I don't know about that. Do you know how much it costs to take care of all those annulments to her quickie marriages?
Me: She makes you pay for all of that shit? Bitch. Can you exchange her?
Her: I would, but she's still got hold of four JAG fics and an SG-1 fic. I couldn't in good conscience let her hand off poor Harm and Mac and Sam and Teal'c and Jack to some loser shrub.
Me: Seriously. The last thing you need is to end up with MY muse....with her coke habit, the next thing you know, Harm would start pimping Mac out to make extra money for when they finally run off together, and Sam and Teal'c and Jack would wind up in some hovel doing blow, and plotting to kill Daniel one or two more times in order to claim his life insurance policy to pay for more drugs
Me: It's really not worth the aggravation. I see that now.
Her: It's really not.
Me: Damn Muses.
Her: Word.

We may not be feeling creative enough to post anything, but we're feeling creative enough to come up with damn good excuses why we're not feeling creative enough to post anything.

College Fund? No. Therapy Fund.

I don't suppose it will come as any great surprise that I am not the world's most diligent house keeper. My shelves are dusty, my bathroom is...well, let's not even discuss it...and my floors are more often than not littered with Turtle's various and assorted toys. I also don't suppose it will come as any great surprise that, having come from a family in which my mother is perfectly content to take a bath in front of me while my dad walks past me with Mr. Happy flying freely, I'm a little short on modesty, myself. Add these two things together and what do you get? You get a house in which Turtle can often be found carrying, playing with, or otherwise getting exploring things that maybe he shouldn't have his hands on.

When he would surprise me in the kitchen, waving tampons around like swords, that was one thing. But the day he attacked me with one of my sex toys? Well....that was a little more awkward. And the day he walked into the closet while I was doing laundry and put one of said sex toys in his mouth? Well, I'm slightly embarrassed to say that my first thought was not, "Oh dear GOD, I hope that's clean!" No, my first thought was, "Where the HELL is my CAMERA???"

In any case, since those episodes, I have tried to be a little more responsible about putting those kinds of things away. Not that I that I'M particularly embarrassed or disturbed that Turtle always manages to find these things and play with them. I just don't want to end up being responsible for his therapy bills later. But then I got this in the mail:



We all remember Ducky, right? Well, Ducky doesn't have a permanent home yet, so he spends most of his time sitting on my bedside table. Turtle has noticed him sitting there and has often pointed to him and said "Guck!" in a very excited manner. But since we're not usually in the bedroom for too long, Turtle gets easily distracted by something else and we move on with our day. I should have known that wouldn't last.

Yesterday, I was in the bedroom doing laundry and sorting Turtle's old clothes. Turtle wanted to watch "Buzz," so I set him up on the bed and put "Toy Story 2" in the dvd player. He sat down for a moment and then got up and traipsed across the bed. He started jumping up and down, which is certainly not unusual for him. But then he started pointing and yelling "Guck!" I groaned inwardly, but asked him, "Do you want to play with the duck?" The answer was a resounding yes. Knowing that Turtle doesn't quite know how to activate Ducky yet, I figured there wasn't any harm in letting him play with it for a little while, so I passed it over and got back to the business of folding clothes.

Turtle went back to his place on the bed and started settling in. When five minutes had gone by and he was still squirming and moving around, I looked up to figure out what was causing the ants in his pants. Turns out, Turtle was tucking himself and Ducky into bed, but since Ducky is smaller than he is, he was having a bit of trouble getting the sheet to cover Ducky up just right. It would either cover him up just right, but cover Ducky up too much. Or it would cover Ducky up just right but not cover him enough. It was quite a dilemma for a boy who tends a little too much towards the OCD side of life. I wanted to tell him, "Buddy, if you knew where Ducky has been, you would know that he's had bigger problems than the sheet covering his beak," but I think his therapy bills are going to be bad enough as it is.

Project Runway Episode 4

Are you kidding me, Keith? You're a cheater. You cheated. You didn't "bend" the rules. You flat-out broke them. Acting like you didn't do anything wrong, and the whole kerfluffle was an overreaction on the part of your roommates and the producers, and was contrived to get rid of you, as you are clearly the superior designer and would have won the whole thing if not for those pesky rule things, is NOT the way to get me to shed a tear over your departure. You big, fat, cheating TOOL! Good riddance.

Also? You're telling me Angela won? ANGELA? No. Michael and Laura won. That their superior taste and design talents contributed to Angela getting immunity, meaning that she is on my screen for at least two more weeks, makes me feel violated in a weird way.

AND WHERE HAS MICHAEL KORS BEEN???? Not that I don't like Vera, but she wasn't the one that made the "barefoot Appalachian Li'l Abner Barbie" comment last season. I am so glad he's back next week, because his....unique....point of view has been sorely missed.

And this is nothing new, but I love Tim Gunn and would gladly have his babies if he had any interest in the inner workings of my girl parts. That is all.

Carry on.

Missing

If anyone has seen my Muse, can you please let her know that it's really rude to disappear without a word? And while you're on the subject, could you please tell her that good manners dictate she at least call if she's not going to be around for dinner? I don't mind the leftovers, but I hate keeping a meal warm while waiting to see if someone is simply late or has decided not to show at all. Oh, and since you're chatting anyway, could you please remind her that she owes me $20 for the new shoes? Thanks. I'm sure I'll find a way to make it up to you.