It was cold outside. Mid January in the prairies: freezing snow being pelted into your face by freezing wind. Even though I’d long been out of the wind and snow I couldn’t quite get rid of the chill that had settled deep in my bones. And though I attributed my discomfort to the weather, I wondered if it wasn’t in part due to the strange conversation I’d had with Cynthia earlier that day. Did she really expect me to find someone willing to carry her child? I mean what was I supposed to do, just visit SurrogatesRus.com and order them a uterus to house their child? Did she honestly think it was that simple? And even if it were, the thought of her and Horrace being parents seemed a little… a little unusual for lack of a better way of putting it. More than unusual, it seemed downright disturbing. But then I wondered, perhaps Cynthia was driven to her insane work schedule and standoffish demeanor by her inability to become a mother. Perhaps her failure in one aspect of her life had left with her with a desire to overachieve in her career. Perhaps all of these things that made her seem so cold and aloof were really just manifestations of her vulnerability.
Or perhaps she was just a bitch. Perhaps I was over thinking this. Hard to say which. Either way, though, it seemed a rather ridiculous proposition. And though I commanded myself to just do as she asked and put those thoughts to rest, they seemed to keep on turning up. So I found myself up late that night drinking tea and wearing my favorite terry cloth bath robe online searching for information on surrogacy in Canada.
I walked into the office the next day, tired, but successful in my mission. Though I didn’t have actual names of potential candidates, I had the numbers of several agencies, which would at least be a starting place for Cynthia. But even as I handed her the portfolio of the various agencies, I realized that somewhere amidst my tossing and turning last night, the idea had taken hold. It had implanted itself somewhere, somehow, deep inside my brain. And I couldn’t help but think to myself: what’s forty weeks? Forty weeks and I could, potentially, be debt free once again. Forty weeks and I could give someone else the joy, the miracle, of a new life. Forty weeks, in the scheme of things, was really not that long. I’d gone to school for four years, some 208 weeks, carrying around heavy ass text books to which a six or seven pound baby paled in comparison. And labor? These days alls you had to do was get an epidural and it was all smooth sailing after that.
I gave her the file, and she perused it without even once looking at me. I debated about whether I should bring up the whole idea or just wait a little while. When she was done flipping through the pages she gave me a dismissive nod and said “thank you” while tucking the file into a drawer. It was hard to say if she was pleased or not. I almost lost my nerve. I mean, why should I be doing her any favors? I had my fingers on the doorknob when I turned around and began to speak.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Bad Day
Yesterday my friend arrived. I don't know why they call it that. Friend?? More like enemy. Arch nemesis. But what can you do?? It's just so frustrating, especially when I work in a clinic where it seems every crack smoking whore can get pregnant, but I can't. Perhaps I should start shooting meth. Argh.
But at the same time, there is a small amount of relief in knowing. I think the worst thing is not knowing if your pregnant or not, trying not to get your hopes up but at the same time avoiding alcohol and caffeine 'just in case'. So at least I know. I'm going to go out tonight with my husband and sister in law and brother. And believe you me, there will be no avoiding of alcohol or caffeine. Hopefully, this will be last month of drinking. I know its only been two months of trying (one, really), but I honestly don't think we'll try for much longer. As it stands now Gage will be ten before this hypothetical baby is born. Payton will be three and a half. We need to finish our family soon. I don't want to have another one once Payton is already four and in playschool and somewhat independent. The whole idea of having another one was to have it really close to Payton so that they could grow up together, share a room, etc. But that gap is widening and widening.
Yesterday I went on IVillage, and when I logged on it said "Hello Randine. You are thirty weeks pregnant", because I had entered my due date and that on there when I was pregnant with Reid. I obviously hadn't been back on there since I lost him. It made me so mad. I was like "I should be having this baby in ten weeks! Not sitting here doing pregnancy test after pregnancy test, all of which are negative, at best a 'weak positive'.
But such is life. Oh well. And the worst part is that I now have another month of cleaning kitty litter. At least.
And as if that wasn't enough. The damn Brick called last night. Our boxspring came in but the matress is still on back order until Wednesday. I'm beginning to think this so called bed doesn't exist. Anyways, I shall go now.
Cue "Bad Day" by Daniel Powder.
And fade to black.
But at the same time, there is a small amount of relief in knowing. I think the worst thing is not knowing if your pregnant or not, trying not to get your hopes up but at the same time avoiding alcohol and caffeine 'just in case'. So at least I know. I'm going to go out tonight with my husband and sister in law and brother. And believe you me, there will be no avoiding of alcohol or caffeine. Hopefully, this will be last month of drinking. I know its only been two months of trying (one, really), but I honestly don't think we'll try for much longer. As it stands now Gage will be ten before this hypothetical baby is born. Payton will be three and a half. We need to finish our family soon. I don't want to have another one once Payton is already four and in playschool and somewhat independent. The whole idea of having another one was to have it really close to Payton so that they could grow up together, share a room, etc. But that gap is widening and widening.
Yesterday I went on IVillage, and when I logged on it said "Hello Randine. You are thirty weeks pregnant", because I had entered my due date and that on there when I was pregnant with Reid. I obviously hadn't been back on there since I lost him. It made me so mad. I was like "I should be having this baby in ten weeks! Not sitting here doing pregnancy test after pregnancy test, all of which are negative, at best a 'weak positive'.
But such is life. Oh well. And the worst part is that I now have another month of cleaning kitty litter. At least.
And as if that wasn't enough. The damn Brick called last night. Our boxspring came in but the matress is still on back order until Wednesday. I'm beginning to think this so called bed doesn't exist. Anyways, I shall go now.
Cue "Bad Day" by Daniel Powder.
And fade to black.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
HGP4/5
Here is the next installment of my book.
PS-- the dog and I had a much better night last night. He slept really good and only woke up once to go potty. Thanks for all of your encouragement and support (ie-- does Petland have a refund policy?))
The office was closed for two weeks in December. I wasn’t particularly keen on going back to work after two weeks of relaxing, but there I was on Tuesday morning, in the office of perpetual curry, reading my emails and sipping my Vendi Latte. Our relationship with Starbucks was symbiotic: it seemed apparent that Gem Stones would crash and burn without a constant infusion of caffeine and sugar, but it was also true that Starbucks would not be staying afloat, much less thriving, without us and our little vice.
Shortly before noon I walked down the hall to her office, where I had intended on reviewing with her some of the financial documents she had requested from the last quarter. Only to be informed by her secretary, a plump lady named Delores that Cynthia was out of the office.
“Out of the office?” I asked, incredulous. Had there been some sort of a natural disaster? She was never out of the office. Not on weekends, not on holidays.
“Out of the office.” Delores repeated, typing up a document.
“When will she be in?” I asked, expecting to be informed that she was out on a lunch date or some such thing, and would be in shortly. But that was not the case.
“I don’t know when she’s planning on returning,” Delores replied curtly.
“But these documents,” I protested, shoving them under her nose.
“They’ll just have to wait,” she said, shoving them back to me.
“O-K,” I said, turning around, more than a little annoyed. Never mind that I worked my ass off over the last few days, which were supposed to be my holidays, to prepare them. She said she wanted them ‘hand delivered’ first thing in the morning. And then, conveniently, she isn’t here. Just freaking lovely.
A week later she returned to the office, pale and even more gaunt looking than before, which I had hereto now thought utterly impossible. I was summoned to her office to deliver the reports, and after waiting only half an hour in her ‘antechamber’ (half an hour! Today was my lucky day) Delores finally led me to the inner chamber.
She was sitting behind the desk, dragging on a cigarette. Though it was supposed to be forbidden in this building, she was the CEO so what was I going to say? Her eyes were sunken, with dark circles under them. Her size two power suit seemed too big on her frame. She looked, behind that grand mahogany desk, like a child playing dress up. Minus the cigarette, of course.
I handed over the documents wordlessly. Obviously, she was in a dark mood. Now was not the time for chit chat.
She gave them a cursory glance and then, passing them back to me, instructed me to fax them to the accountant.
That was it? That was had me in a frenzy the last few days of my vacation? God damn her.
“Have you any experience in management?” she asked, right before I was going to leave.
“Management, uh, well, no. Not really,” I answered, totally caught off guard. What kind of a question is that supposed to be? Why in the name of God would I be working here making a very modest income if I had management experience? Was she going to promote me? Was that what this meeting was really about? And there I was, wearing a red turtle neck sweater with a pair of Old Navy khakis and scuffed shoes. The best look I could pull off given my scarce budget, and the fact that I had no idea that I would be having this watershed conversation with her today. No idea, in fact, that I would even encounter her at all today. Her return to work was unexpected to say the least. There were rumors that the company was going under. Rumors that she had been embezzling money into an offshore account and was now living in the Cayman somewhere, sipping on some non alcoholic drink while our paychecks bounced left right and center. And then, all of a sudden there she was. With the usual clipped remarks and hassled expression. It was as though she hadn’t been gone at all.
“I’m thinking about taking a break,” she began.
“A break?” I asked, guffawed. Was this the same woman?
“Do I stutter?” she asked, blowing a cloud of blue smoke into my face. Okay, no, this was the same woman. Clearly.
“No, sorry. I, I guess I’m just surprised to hear you say that,” I answered.
“I suppose you are. But to be honest, Kristina, things are not going well at home for me,” she began tentatively.
Oh no. Oh no. I so do not want to be having this conversation. I mean, what could I possibly be expected to say to a woman who had previously told me not to discuss personal matters with her.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” was all I could say. I certainly didn’t want to pry. Perhaps this whole pregnancy thing was unplanned. I knew she didn’t have a maternal bone in her Burns-esque body!
“As is everyone. The truth is Kristina, that Horrace and I… well for some years now we have been trying to have a child. But it seems that that is not to be,” she said, lighting another cigarette while simultaneously butting the other one.
“Oh, Geez. That’s very… sad news,” I said. Why is she telling me this? Did she think that we had struck some kind of a bond at that dreadful party? This was so uncomfortable. I pulled at the neck of my turtleneck, which suddenly seemed very itchy, though it was made of cotton, not wool.
“Yes, sad indeed. Anyways, Horrace and I are looking into some alternative methods of procuring a child, and we now have our heart set on surrogacy. It seems the fastest route to go. And the child can still be our biologically. And we certainly have the financial wherewithal to pay for any legal expenses,” she said.
Procuring a child? She was taking about it like it was akin to acquiring some exotic new vaccine.
“Certainly,” I agreed.
“Precisely. Research this for me. Discreetly. Put me in touch with any and all available candidates. Have a report ready for me by mid afternoon tomorrow. If we can work together on this, shall we say, project, there could be some incentive for you in the future.”
And that was how it began.
PS-- the dog and I had a much better night last night. He slept really good and only woke up once to go potty. Thanks for all of your encouragement and support (ie-- does Petland have a refund policy?))
The office was closed for two weeks in December. I wasn’t particularly keen on going back to work after two weeks of relaxing, but there I was on Tuesday morning, in the office of perpetual curry, reading my emails and sipping my Vendi Latte. Our relationship with Starbucks was symbiotic: it seemed apparent that Gem Stones would crash and burn without a constant infusion of caffeine and sugar, but it was also true that Starbucks would not be staying afloat, much less thriving, without us and our little vice.
Shortly before noon I walked down the hall to her office, where I had intended on reviewing with her some of the financial documents she had requested from the last quarter. Only to be informed by her secretary, a plump lady named Delores that Cynthia was out of the office.
“Out of the office?” I asked, incredulous. Had there been some sort of a natural disaster? She was never out of the office. Not on weekends, not on holidays.
“Out of the office.” Delores repeated, typing up a document.
“When will she be in?” I asked, expecting to be informed that she was out on a lunch date or some such thing, and would be in shortly. But that was not the case.
“I don’t know when she’s planning on returning,” Delores replied curtly.
“But these documents,” I protested, shoving them under her nose.
“They’ll just have to wait,” she said, shoving them back to me.
“O-K,” I said, turning around, more than a little annoyed. Never mind that I worked my ass off over the last few days, which were supposed to be my holidays, to prepare them. She said she wanted them ‘hand delivered’ first thing in the morning. And then, conveniently, she isn’t here. Just freaking lovely.
A week later she returned to the office, pale and even more gaunt looking than before, which I had hereto now thought utterly impossible. I was summoned to her office to deliver the reports, and after waiting only half an hour in her ‘antechamber’ (half an hour! Today was my lucky day) Delores finally led me to the inner chamber.
She was sitting behind the desk, dragging on a cigarette. Though it was supposed to be forbidden in this building, she was the CEO so what was I going to say? Her eyes were sunken, with dark circles under them. Her size two power suit seemed too big on her frame. She looked, behind that grand mahogany desk, like a child playing dress up. Minus the cigarette, of course.
I handed over the documents wordlessly. Obviously, she was in a dark mood. Now was not the time for chit chat.
She gave them a cursory glance and then, passing them back to me, instructed me to fax them to the accountant.
That was it? That was had me in a frenzy the last few days of my vacation? God damn her.
“Have you any experience in management?” she asked, right before I was going to leave.
“Management, uh, well, no. Not really,” I answered, totally caught off guard. What kind of a question is that supposed to be? Why in the name of God would I be working here making a very modest income if I had management experience? Was she going to promote me? Was that what this meeting was really about? And there I was, wearing a red turtle neck sweater with a pair of Old Navy khakis and scuffed shoes. The best look I could pull off given my scarce budget, and the fact that I had no idea that I would be having this watershed conversation with her today. No idea, in fact, that I would even encounter her at all today. Her return to work was unexpected to say the least. There were rumors that the company was going under. Rumors that she had been embezzling money into an offshore account and was now living in the Cayman somewhere, sipping on some non alcoholic drink while our paychecks bounced left right and center. And then, all of a sudden there she was. With the usual clipped remarks and hassled expression. It was as though she hadn’t been gone at all.
“I’m thinking about taking a break,” she began.
“A break?” I asked, guffawed. Was this the same woman?
“Do I stutter?” she asked, blowing a cloud of blue smoke into my face. Okay, no, this was the same woman. Clearly.
“No, sorry. I, I guess I’m just surprised to hear you say that,” I answered.
“I suppose you are. But to be honest, Kristina, things are not going well at home for me,” she began tentatively.
Oh no. Oh no. I so do not want to be having this conversation. I mean, what could I possibly be expected to say to a woman who had previously told me not to discuss personal matters with her.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” was all I could say. I certainly didn’t want to pry. Perhaps this whole pregnancy thing was unplanned. I knew she didn’t have a maternal bone in her Burns-esque body!
“As is everyone. The truth is Kristina, that Horrace and I… well for some years now we have been trying to have a child. But it seems that that is not to be,” she said, lighting another cigarette while simultaneously butting the other one.
“Oh, Geez. That’s very… sad news,” I said. Why is she telling me this? Did she think that we had struck some kind of a bond at that dreadful party? This was so uncomfortable. I pulled at the neck of my turtleneck, which suddenly seemed very itchy, though it was made of cotton, not wool.
“Yes, sad indeed. Anyways, Horrace and I are looking into some alternative methods of procuring a child, and we now have our heart set on surrogacy. It seems the fastest route to go. And the child can still be our biologically. And we certainly have the financial wherewithal to pay for any legal expenses,” she said.
Procuring a child? She was taking about it like it was akin to acquiring some exotic new vaccine.
“Certainly,” I agreed.
“Precisely. Research this for me. Discreetly. Put me in touch with any and all available candidates. Have a report ready for me by mid afternoon tomorrow. If we can work together on this, shall we say, project, there could be some incentive for you in the future.”
And that was how it began.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Sleepless in Seattle
Well, here we are. The first day down of my greuling three day work week. Yesterday, as you know, was a holiday. I took Friday off so that I could go to the lake this weekend for some much needed R&R. I am very much looking forward to that and will thank my parents in advance for their willingness to babysit.
Last night was a long night. Baxter, in his short time here, has grown to love us very much. So much that, in fact, the mere idea of us sleeping three feet away from him in a bed is very, very distressing to him. We put his kennel in our room. He cried at first, but then, he usually does and he usually quits after about ten minutes or so. Not the case last night. He carried on for quite some time. And then, when the crying stopped, we breathed a sigh of relief. Only to find out that the worst was yet to come. After the crying he went into this kind of low pitched howl. It was then that I moved his kennel into the kitchen. This proceeded for quite some time. Eventually it stopped. Only to be replaced by a high pitched howl. It was at this point that I moved his kennel into the basement. This was at about five am. I had slept nary a wink and was all too aware that the alarm clock was going to go off all too soon. When Gage (who, by the by, sleeps in the basement) woke up this morning he said that his ears hurt from plugging them all night long so hard. It would have been sad if I had the energy to feel sorry for him. So I'm not sure what we'll do tonight. If he's like that again I think we may end up with two dogs in bed with us. Poor Geoff, who never wanted this dog in the first place, was the first to say 'maybe we'd be better off if we let him sleep with us'. It would be funny in an ironic sort of way if only I had the energy to laugh.
So that's that. Never buy a dog on impulse. Just fight the urge. Not to mention the fact that I had to get up and take him outside at two, four and six o'clock. I keep telling myself that he'll be a lot better in a month or even in a few weeks. I can only hope.
And on to other news. I did another pregnancy test today and it was more of the same-- weak positive. I'll just test again on Thursday. Fun fact about HcG: it doubles every forty hours for the first ten weeks of pregnancy, at which point it stabilizes. So that is all for now. I shall go to bed and I pray to God that I can get some sleep tonight. Peace out.
Last night was a long night. Baxter, in his short time here, has grown to love us very much. So much that, in fact, the mere idea of us sleeping three feet away from him in a bed is very, very distressing to him. We put his kennel in our room. He cried at first, but then, he usually does and he usually quits after about ten minutes or so. Not the case last night. He carried on for quite some time. And then, when the crying stopped, we breathed a sigh of relief. Only to find out that the worst was yet to come. After the crying he went into this kind of low pitched howl. It was then that I moved his kennel into the kitchen. This proceeded for quite some time. Eventually it stopped. Only to be replaced by a high pitched howl. It was at this point that I moved his kennel into the basement. This was at about five am. I had slept nary a wink and was all too aware that the alarm clock was going to go off all too soon. When Gage (who, by the by, sleeps in the basement) woke up this morning he said that his ears hurt from plugging them all night long so hard. It would have been sad if I had the energy to feel sorry for him. So I'm not sure what we'll do tonight. If he's like that again I think we may end up with two dogs in bed with us. Poor Geoff, who never wanted this dog in the first place, was the first to say 'maybe we'd be better off if we let him sleep with us'. It would be funny in an ironic sort of way if only I had the energy to laugh.
So that's that. Never buy a dog on impulse. Just fight the urge. Not to mention the fact that I had to get up and take him outside at two, four and six o'clock. I keep telling myself that he'll be a lot better in a month or even in a few weeks. I can only hope.
And on to other news. I did another pregnancy test today and it was more of the same-- weak positive. I'll just test again on Thursday. Fun fact about HcG: it doubles every forty hours for the first ten weeks of pregnancy, at which point it stabilizes. So that is all for now. I shall go to bed and I pray to God that I can get some sleep tonight. Peace out.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Just call me Shleprock
For those of you wondering, the reference to Shleprock apparently dates to a nintey seventy something SNL episode (back in the day when the show was actually funny and when we as a society were not too lazy to abbreviate Saturday Night Live to SNL). Being WAY before my time, I never saw such episode. But apparently, the character was this fellow named Schleprock and everywhere he went a rain cloud was overtop of him, dousing him in rain 24/7. Anyways, I guess my dad used to joke with my uncle that they were the Schleprock brothers. It seems as though they have passed that trait down to the next generation.
I phoned the Brick today. And you absolutely won't believe this. Another delay. Shocking. Apparently, it should be in within a week or so, heavy emphasis on the word should. Its just so frustrating. If they would have told me at the outset that it was going to take this freaking long I would have just went somewhere else.
And my baby Payto has been sick. I had to take her to Emerg last night. She was running a fever. She was pale. Her lips were just cracked and dry. She was lethargic, barely more than waking up all day. But they tested her urine and did a throat swab. Nothing came back positive. So they say its just a virus that will run its course. She actually seems a bit better now.
And that cute little dog is wreaking havoc on this house. He barks a lot. He's crazy. He bites and chews. Even baby Paytons hands are all bloody now. We all have blood on our hands.
So, all in all, between the cleaning up dog doo, feeding jello to an inconsolable child and having my feet chewed to shit, it has not been a great weekend. The phone call with the Brick was just the icing on the cake. Call me Shleprock.
To cheer you up, I will attach a picture of my Payton (feeling a bit better and sporting her new sunglasses which she's quite fond of wearing, though I personally, have seen no sun). I will also attach a picture of the Bodylogic 3000, my new bed which should be coming any day now, theoretically. Perhaps by the time the kids go to college!!!
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Meet the new addition!!!
ITS A BOY!! Weighing in at three pounds, we took our new baby home yesterday. We weren't really planning on getting another dog. I took the kids to Petland to look at the dogs. Payton loves going there. She gets so excited. And we saw this little fella. He's a Pug/Boston Terrier cross. As soon as I saw him I just fell in love. We asked the 'pet counsellor' if we could hold him. He was so happy to get out of his little cage, he was going wild kissing us and wagging his tail. And I just had to have him. Just look at that little face. I was actually going to just bring him home and surprise Geoff, but then I thought he might be a tad bit angry. Escpecially when he sees the price tag. ($1088.00). So I came home, begged and pleaded until he finally relented. So now we have a new puppy.Unfortunately, I've forgotten what it's like having a new puppy. He chews everything. My hands are bloody. I had to get up at 3:30 this morning to take him outside. He sniffed every possible surface before finally choosing a spot to do his business. He's not getting along with the other animals. They hate him. We have to watch him every second so he doesn't get killed, because he doesn't realize that he's smaller than they are, he lips off to them, barking and such. But, just look at that face. They say that once out of being a puppy, he'll be a really good, low maintenance dog. They don't need much exercise, are pretty sedentary, will reach a maximum weight of fifteen pounds, and need virtually no grooming. He also loves the kids. His little tail just wags when they're around. And he can really get Payton going, giggling and giggling. So I think it will work out fine. I just hope that the kids didn't have their heart set on college. There's nothing wrong with being a janitor. It's a very noble living. Besides, law school is such a bore. We'll all be much happier this way. Right??
Friday, February 16, 2007
HGP3
After composing myself, I muttered my congratulations, which were not received very well either. She took a long drink of her ice water, and then regarded me with an icy gaze. “I do not wish to discuss such personal matters any further.”
To which I nodded my understanding, though inside I was seething with anger and frustration. Why? Why did she insist we come to these functions so that we could ‘get to know one another’ when we are not permitted to discuss personal matters? What were we supposed to do? Sit there and stare at each other?
And though it seemed that things could not get any worse at that point, they did.
“So, Krissy, tell us about the wedding,” Constance said, apparently wanting to change the subject, a look of hopeful expectation on her face. Goes to show how close we are. The wedding was scheduled to take place four months ago.
“Well, it, uhm, was cancelled, we uh, didn’t exactly see eye to eye.” On the issues of faithfulness and monogamy, I added to myself.
“Didn’t see eye to eye? Well, by God, my dear girl. Do you think that anyone in this whole country would be married if they waited until they ‘saw eye to eye’? Marriage is all about compromise,” Horrace said with a laugh. I looked at my Chardonnay with longing. Damn you for being so close yet so far away. I wondered vaguely how much compromise there really was in the Jacobson marriage but suppressed the thought.
“Yes, I suppose,” I answered flippantly, not really wanting to get into the details. And that was pretty much the end of that. There was no more conversation: just a few strained words here and there. We ate our meals quickly and quietly, and immediately afterwards I excused myself. Never to return again.
To which I nodded my understanding, though inside I was seething with anger and frustration. Why? Why did she insist we come to these functions so that we could ‘get to know one another’ when we are not permitted to discuss personal matters? What were we supposed to do? Sit there and stare at each other?
And though it seemed that things could not get any worse at that point, they did.
“So, Krissy, tell us about the wedding,” Constance said, apparently wanting to change the subject, a look of hopeful expectation on her face. Goes to show how close we are. The wedding was scheduled to take place four months ago.
“Well, it, uhm, was cancelled, we uh, didn’t exactly see eye to eye.” On the issues of faithfulness and monogamy, I added to myself.
“Didn’t see eye to eye? Well, by God, my dear girl. Do you think that anyone in this whole country would be married if they waited until they ‘saw eye to eye’? Marriage is all about compromise,” Horrace said with a laugh. I looked at my Chardonnay with longing. Damn you for being so close yet so far away. I wondered vaguely how much compromise there really was in the Jacobson marriage but suppressed the thought.
“Yes, I suppose,” I answered flippantly, not really wanting to get into the details. And that was pretty much the end of that. There was no more conversation: just a few strained words here and there. We ate our meals quickly and quietly, and immediately afterwards I excused myself. Never to return again.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Heeeeeere's Lexi!!!!
I know-- not very cute. But she's very young at the present moment.
Wednesday
Don't get too excited. I'm not officially pregnant. But as I tried to explain to my hubby, I think it's a strong possibility. Today at work, out of boredom, I decided to do a test. My period is not due for another week or so, but I thought what the heck. And the result was probably, what I could best desscribe as a 'weak positive'. There was a slight positive, but it was really faint. And by faint I mean practically invisible. So I wasn't sure how to interpret it. So I asked for a second opinion. They guy said ''no- negative. I don't see this line you claim to see.' But the more I looked at it the more clearly I saw it. So I got a third opinion. She said she could see it. She said it was faint, to be sure, but it was there. Faint is precisely what you would expect to see at this stage. The hormone, HcG thats being tested doesn't reach the level that it needs to be at (>20units) to reach the threshold of sensitivity for the test until the first day of your missed period. Lower levels below may be detectable, but it would most certainly show as a really weak positive. So, basically, its a matter of waiting it out a bit more. I plan on testing my EMU tomorrow. (You remember that from last month- Early moring urine- the gold standard of urinalysis).
Thursday
I tested my EMU. More of the same. A very weak positive. But I asked the doc I worked with and she said she agreed with me- weak positive. She told me to retest in three days. So, I guess it's just a matter or waiting for a few more days. But now I'm already stressed out because my back is real sore right now. It could be a long pregnancy if I am indeed preggo. I plan on testing again on the weekend. Anyways, that's all for now. TTFN.
WednesdayDon't get too excited. I'm not officially pregnant. But as I tried to explain to my hubby, I think it's a strong possibility. Today at work, out of boredom, I decided to do a test. My period is not due for another week or so, but I thought what the heck. And the result was probably, what I could best desscribe as a 'weak positive'. There was a slight positive, but it was really faint. And by faint I mean practically invisible. So I wasn't sure how to interpret it. So I asked for a second opinion. They guy said ''no- negative. I don't see this line you claim to see.' But the more I looked at it the more clearly I saw it. So I got a third opinion. She said she could see it. She said it was faint, to be sure, but it was there. Faint is precisely what you would expect to see at this stage. The hormone, HcG thats being tested doesn't reach the level that it needs to be at (>20units) to reach the threshold of sensitivity for the test until the first day of your missed period. Lower levels below may be detectable, but it would most certainly show as a really weak positive. So, basically, its a matter of waiting it out a bit more. I plan on testing my EMU tomorrow. (You remember that from last month- Early moring urine- the gold standard of urinalysis).
Thursday
I tested my EMU. More of the same. A very weak positive. But I asked the doc I worked with and she said she agreed with me- weak positive. She told me to retest in three days. So, I guess it's just a matter or waiting for a few more days. But now I'm already stressed out because my back is real sore right now. It could be a long pregnancy if I am indeed preggo. I plan on testing again on the weekend. Anyways, that's all for now. TTFN.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
HGP2
Since my real life is very dull right now, here is my fictional life. This is the second page of the book. TTFN.
Cynthia had a reputation for being an ice queen. She was fairly well respected but not well liked, if that makes any sense. She was a hard worker; surely no one would deny her that. She was the first to arrive and often the last to leave. And even on her days off she was still working from home on her lap top, out making contacts or taking in exhibits to see stay abreast of what was out there. Frankly I’d always assumed that her lack of children had been a personal choice of her. Somehow her size two waist maintained by the Virginia Slim that was always dangling from her well manicured fingers, combined with the cell phone that she was forever talking to someone, or more accurately, drilling orders at someone, didn’t exactly spell maternal instincts to the average observer. And if she did have the desire to have children, it seemed unlikely that she would partake in something as primitive and banal as sexual intercourse, though it was not something I liked to think about.
The first time that I learned otherwise was at the company Christmas party, which was much dreaded because it would place us all in the same room with her for several hours. It wasn’t so much a party as a gathering. We were to go to a restaurant for dinner and drinks. Sounds easy enough. In theory.
The evening had gotten off to a ghastly, horrible start straight away when I noted that I was seated at a table with Cynthia and her husband, Horrace. What in the world I had done to deserve this was beyond me. I would have been happy to have been seated anywhere else, ANYWHERE, even with Chester from the cafeteria who looked as greasy as the Sloppy Joes he served for lunch. I looked at Chester with longing as I took my seat at the table of doom. Horrace, as it turns out, was aptly named, with teeth like a horse and a strange, high pitched laugh that left you wondering if it were intended as mock laughter or actual laughter. He was not a pretty boy, but he was rumored to be insanely wealthy. A day trader or something who had amassed a fortune from Viagra stock. Constance, the curry girl, was also seated with us, along with her partner. He was a rather soft spoken Indian gentleman (I guess that explains the curry) named Diel, which in itself seemed strange. I had to ask him three times to repeat himself to get his name straight and from there the conversation plummeted into silence. The chair next to me was painfully, obviously, vacant as dear fiancé and I had had recently ended our engagement.
Constance broke the silence by telling us a rather dull story about her daughters recent Christmas concert, but at this point I was happy to have anything other than silence and the glare of that woman sitting across from me. There’s no point in me relaying the story to you now, and in honesty, I’m not sure that I could remember it anyways, for I was only half paying attention, half trying to figure out exactly how I could extricate myself from this nightmare. The high point of the story caused Horrace to break out into laughter, which cause me to take a long swig of my wine. And then another. Cynthia shot me a rather disproving glare and I immediately replaced my glass on the table, apologizing to her, though I wasn’t so sure why I was apologizing. For drinking? At a social function? Did I miss the memo? Was this a dry event? I noticed that Constance and Diels glasses were filled with water. Water! But then what of the free bar? Was it some kind of a test? To separate the weak employees from the morally strong? And I had already failed. Five minutes into the event.
“My wife and I are pregnant, so we do appreciate an alcohol free environment,” Horrace explained, smiling his big, equine smile. Pregnant? How was it possible? The fact that she seemed to subsist off of cigarettes and latte seemed to preclude pregnancy, but then what did I know? And what was this ‘alcohol free environment’? First of all, was it even remotely possible that the alcohol that was being consumed three feet away from her was going to in some way become air borne and then get sucked into her vasculature? Am I the only one who thinks that that is absolutely absurd? Apparently so, because the four of them are looking at me with a lock of combined shock and disgust. Secondly, how is it okay for her to fill her lungs with nicotine but it was not okay for me to indulge in a glass of wine? At Christmas? But I said nothing and instead apologized again, as though I had done something truly atrocious like fart at the table rather than take a sip of wine.
Cynthia had a reputation for being an ice queen. She was fairly well respected but not well liked, if that makes any sense. She was a hard worker; surely no one would deny her that. She was the first to arrive and often the last to leave. And even on her days off she was still working from home on her lap top, out making contacts or taking in exhibits to see stay abreast of what was out there. Frankly I’d always assumed that her lack of children had been a personal choice of her. Somehow her size two waist maintained by the Virginia Slim that was always dangling from her well manicured fingers, combined with the cell phone that she was forever talking to someone, or more accurately, drilling orders at someone, didn’t exactly spell maternal instincts to the average observer. And if she did have the desire to have children, it seemed unlikely that she would partake in something as primitive and banal as sexual intercourse, though it was not something I liked to think about.
The first time that I learned otherwise was at the company Christmas party, which was much dreaded because it would place us all in the same room with her for several hours. It wasn’t so much a party as a gathering. We were to go to a restaurant for dinner and drinks. Sounds easy enough. In theory.
The evening had gotten off to a ghastly, horrible start straight away when I noted that I was seated at a table with Cynthia and her husband, Horrace. What in the world I had done to deserve this was beyond me. I would have been happy to have been seated anywhere else, ANYWHERE, even with Chester from the cafeteria who looked as greasy as the Sloppy Joes he served for lunch. I looked at Chester with longing as I took my seat at the table of doom. Horrace, as it turns out, was aptly named, with teeth like a horse and a strange, high pitched laugh that left you wondering if it were intended as mock laughter or actual laughter. He was not a pretty boy, but he was rumored to be insanely wealthy. A day trader or something who had amassed a fortune from Viagra stock. Constance, the curry girl, was also seated with us, along with her partner. He was a rather soft spoken Indian gentleman (I guess that explains the curry) named Diel, which in itself seemed strange. I had to ask him three times to repeat himself to get his name straight and from there the conversation plummeted into silence. The chair next to me was painfully, obviously, vacant as dear fiancé and I had had recently ended our engagement.
Constance broke the silence by telling us a rather dull story about her daughters recent Christmas concert, but at this point I was happy to have anything other than silence and the glare of that woman sitting across from me. There’s no point in me relaying the story to you now, and in honesty, I’m not sure that I could remember it anyways, for I was only half paying attention, half trying to figure out exactly how I could extricate myself from this nightmare. The high point of the story caused Horrace to break out into laughter, which cause me to take a long swig of my wine. And then another. Cynthia shot me a rather disproving glare and I immediately replaced my glass on the table, apologizing to her, though I wasn’t so sure why I was apologizing. For drinking? At a social function? Did I miss the memo? Was this a dry event? I noticed that Constance and Diels glasses were filled with water. Water! But then what of the free bar? Was it some kind of a test? To separate the weak employees from the morally strong? And I had already failed. Five minutes into the event.
“My wife and I are pregnant, so we do appreciate an alcohol free environment,” Horrace explained, smiling his big, equine smile. Pregnant? How was it possible? The fact that she seemed to subsist off of cigarettes and latte seemed to preclude pregnancy, but then what did I know? And what was this ‘alcohol free environment’? First of all, was it even remotely possible that the alcohol that was being consumed three feet away from her was going to in some way become air borne and then get sucked into her vasculature? Am I the only one who thinks that that is absolutely absurd? Apparently so, because the four of them are looking at me with a lock of combined shock and disgust. Secondly, how is it okay for her to fill her lungs with nicotine but it was not okay for me to indulge in a glass of wine? At Christmas? But I said nothing and instead apologized again, as though I had done something truly atrocious like fart at the table rather than take a sip of wine.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Is it cold enough for you?
I just couldn't resist but to talk about the weather. I usually try to avoid this, because I don't want to be one of those annoying people who say "Is it cold enough out there for you out there?" because it's like 'well, let me see. Only minus forty four?? Actually, I could stand another few degrees colder." To talk about the weather is futile. We choose to live in this crazy province, so I guess we should just shut up, get out our shovels and mits and keep the car plugged in at night. But seeing as its been minus fifty three for the last ten days I'm getting a little tired of it. And I've decided to speak out on it.
I spent the weekend inside. The car was a no go (that's what happens when you don't plug it in at night, and also when you drive a ninety four vehicle). I did a variety of things from washing floors to playing with play dough, to watching countless hours of Treehouse on the telly. While I'm sure it sounds fantastic, let me tell you: it's not all its cracked up to be. I found myself strangely happy to be at work this morning and doing something other than scrubbing dried up ketchup off the table. I just want to go outside. I can handle a day or two of cold weather. But this is crazy. I'm getting bloody sick and tired of peing penned up. I feel like a caged animal. The only break I get from the house work is work work. The only break I get from work work is house work. What is that saying about all work and no play?? I can't remember but I think that the gist of it is that its not good for you.
And a funny thing happened. The more irritated I become with the kids, the less I continued to think I was pregnant. At this point I am quite sure that I'm not pregnant. And I'm quite content to not do any testing. I'll just wait and see. If I am, fine. If I'm not then I guess thats cool, too. I started to think about it and think like 'if I don't get pregnant again maybe I can take a vacation'. I guess it seems kind of crazy to trade a kid for some sun, but right now I'd gladly trade the two I have for a little bit of 'me' time, even without the sun. They are circling me right now with empty toilet paper rolls singing some kind of a tribal war song by the sounds of it. Anyhoo, you may have noticed that I made this blog private. I just don't have Jens email adress so if someone could email it to me I can invite her, too. That is all for today. Lets all pray to our higher power that the weather will turn around soon.
I spent the weekend inside. The car was a no go (that's what happens when you don't plug it in at night, and also when you drive a ninety four vehicle). I did a variety of things from washing floors to playing with play dough, to watching countless hours of Treehouse on the telly. While I'm sure it sounds fantastic, let me tell you: it's not all its cracked up to be. I found myself strangely happy to be at work this morning and doing something other than scrubbing dried up ketchup off the table. I just want to go outside. I can handle a day or two of cold weather. But this is crazy. I'm getting bloody sick and tired of peing penned up. I feel like a caged animal. The only break I get from the house work is work work. The only break I get from work work is house work. What is that saying about all work and no play?? I can't remember but I think that the gist of it is that its not good for you.
And a funny thing happened. The more irritated I become with the kids, the less I continued to think I was pregnant. At this point I am quite sure that I'm not pregnant. And I'm quite content to not do any testing. I'll just wait and see. If I am, fine. If I'm not then I guess thats cool, too. I started to think about it and think like 'if I don't get pregnant again maybe I can take a vacation'. I guess it seems kind of crazy to trade a kid for some sun, but right now I'd gladly trade the two I have for a little bit of 'me' time, even without the sun. They are circling me right now with empty toilet paper rolls singing some kind of a tribal war song by the sounds of it. Anyhoo, you may have noticed that I made this blog private. I just don't have Jens email adress so if someone could email it to me I can invite her, too. That is all for today. Lets all pray to our higher power that the weather will turn around soon.
Friday, February 9, 2007
HGP1
The title, if you're confused, is a code. It stands for Having Grace, page 1.
This is the first page of the book. I am posting it on here at great peril to myself (imprisonment and the subsequent beating/sodomy/bland food). I can only hope that no one steals this book from me. I don't think that that will happen, but then again, people that get their identies stolen obviously don't think that's going to happen to them, either. Anyways, I'm thinking that I might start either: A) Emailing the pages to you or B) Making my blog private. These are some ideas that I have hashed out during a recent meeting of minds with my editor in chief, Lorrie S. Let me know which one you would prefer. But for now I'll just leave things as they are.
Have a nice weekend!!
The Proposition
-2-
It wasn’t like she just came out and asked me. I mean, it’s just not socially acceptable to approach someone and say “I’m in a bit of a jam here, my uterus is the shits and you look young and fertile, so why don’t I just implant my embryo in your uterus and pay you a large sum of money for your trouble and then we all live happily ever after.” The proposition was, in some ways, a lot like the pregnancy itself. It started out as a tiny seedling of an idea. It was fed oxygen and nutrients and in time it grew into a bigger idea, and then several months later, it came to fruition, kicking and screaming and taking over every aspect of my life.
So how do you ask someone to carry a child for you? Well, quite simply, you don’t. At least not in so many words anyways. I’d been working for Cynthia Jacobson for nearly a year, and we’d probably spoken about a word to each other for every week that we worked together. And I use the word ‘together’ loosely. She was the CEO of the company. Very black suit, cat eye glasses, hurried pace and hassled expression every time you tried to ask her a question. Her bleached blonde hair was cut in a severe looking page boy, leaving her face looking as pinched as her size two Versace waistline. I worked in Accounts Payable, which was a short distance down the hall from her office but virtually in another galaxy, judging by the infrequency of her visits and the vastly different appearance of our offices. Her office was a posh, professionally designed sprawling space adorned with antiques and oil paintings. She had her own private secretary and waiting room in what she called the ‘antechamber’. I, on the other hand, shared my dingy office with three other underlings. There was a small window that looked directly into the building next door and virtually no ventilation, which was especially bad given my one coworkers propensity towards lunches that reeked of curry. The walls were some kind of mustard yellow. I don’t know if she chose that color because it motivates people at some unconscious level to work like slaves, or if they were having some sort of a selling out sale at Benjamin Moore. Either way, it was quite nauseating. The combination of the color on the wall and the perpetual smell of curry in the air gave one the vague sensation of actually being in the intestines.
Being that I work in accounts payable, you would think that my job was important, if not essential, to the continued survival of her company. But you would be sadly mistaken, at least if you asked Cynthia. She treated me as no more significant than the teenage, unfortunately acne prone, Starbucks attendant that works in the building, whom, incidentally, was also essential to the survival of her company though admittedly in a far less direct way. Her company, called Gem Stones, was a small but profitable company that specialized in appraising rare, valuable pieces of jewelry, mostly for insurance purposes, but also sometimes for auction companies and the like. My job entailed billing the appropriate parties for the services rendered and ensuring that payments were made in due time. It was fairly simple, in theory, especially given that the company was so small. I had few other responsibilities, preparing spreadsheets and whatever financial documents were necessary. But in truth, between you and me, I actually spent a lot of time on Google and MSN. And Ebay. And various other websites that I visited regularly. But anyways, I do go on…
This is the first page of the book. I am posting it on here at great peril to myself (imprisonment and the subsequent beating/sodomy/bland food). I can only hope that no one steals this book from me. I don't think that that will happen, but then again, people that get their identies stolen obviously don't think that's going to happen to them, either. Anyways, I'm thinking that I might start either: A) Emailing the pages to you or B) Making my blog private. These are some ideas that I have hashed out during a recent meeting of minds with my editor in chief, Lorrie S. Let me know which one you would prefer. But for now I'll just leave things as they are.
Have a nice weekend!!
The Proposition
-2-
It wasn’t like she just came out and asked me. I mean, it’s just not socially acceptable to approach someone and say “I’m in a bit of a jam here, my uterus is the shits and you look young and fertile, so why don’t I just implant my embryo in your uterus and pay you a large sum of money for your trouble and then we all live happily ever after.” The proposition was, in some ways, a lot like the pregnancy itself. It started out as a tiny seedling of an idea. It was fed oxygen and nutrients and in time it grew into a bigger idea, and then several months later, it came to fruition, kicking and screaming and taking over every aspect of my life.
So how do you ask someone to carry a child for you? Well, quite simply, you don’t. At least not in so many words anyways. I’d been working for Cynthia Jacobson for nearly a year, and we’d probably spoken about a word to each other for every week that we worked together. And I use the word ‘together’ loosely. She was the CEO of the company. Very black suit, cat eye glasses, hurried pace and hassled expression every time you tried to ask her a question. Her bleached blonde hair was cut in a severe looking page boy, leaving her face looking as pinched as her size two Versace waistline. I worked in Accounts Payable, which was a short distance down the hall from her office but virtually in another galaxy, judging by the infrequency of her visits and the vastly different appearance of our offices. Her office was a posh, professionally designed sprawling space adorned with antiques and oil paintings. She had her own private secretary and waiting room in what she called the ‘antechamber’. I, on the other hand, shared my dingy office with three other underlings. There was a small window that looked directly into the building next door and virtually no ventilation, which was especially bad given my one coworkers propensity towards lunches that reeked of curry. The walls were some kind of mustard yellow. I don’t know if she chose that color because it motivates people at some unconscious level to work like slaves, or if they were having some sort of a selling out sale at Benjamin Moore. Either way, it was quite nauseating. The combination of the color on the wall and the perpetual smell of curry in the air gave one the vague sensation of actually being in the intestines.
Being that I work in accounts payable, you would think that my job was important, if not essential, to the continued survival of her company. But you would be sadly mistaken, at least if you asked Cynthia. She treated me as no more significant than the teenage, unfortunately acne prone, Starbucks attendant that works in the building, whom, incidentally, was also essential to the survival of her company though admittedly in a far less direct way. Her company, called Gem Stones, was a small but profitable company that specialized in appraising rare, valuable pieces of jewelry, mostly for insurance purposes, but also sometimes for auction companies and the like. My job entailed billing the appropriate parties for the services rendered and ensuring that payments were made in due time. It was fairly simple, in theory, especially given that the company was so small. I had few other responsibilities, preparing spreadsheets and whatever financial documents were necessary. But in truth, between you and me, I actually spent a lot of time on Google and MSN. And Ebay. And various other websites that I visited regularly. But anyways, I do go on…
Thursday, February 8, 2007
The Eagle Has Landed
So, today's the day. Things went according to plan last night, after a minor setback, and here I sit today, possibly, probably, most definitely pregnant. The set back? I went to bed at 10:00 only to find my dear husband asleep. Now, he knows that we are on a STRICT schedule and cannot afford any delay. There was only one say to get his, shall we say "attention", which involves a very vile act, and keeping in mind that my main audience is my mom and my aunt, I will not say what it is. It is, however, an act that I reserve only for the most dire of occasions. Last night was one of those times. But it paid off, because after that the mission went off without a hitch. I don't even need to do a pregnancy test this month. Thats how confident I am. I already know I'm pregnant. Its going to be a girl. We will call her Lexi Rhaia Makepeace but I shall her Lex for short. Geoff is not really on board with the name, but I the way I figure it, I have months to work on him. And even if he doesn't really agree, I can probably fill out the form while he's out on a smoke break. You snooze, you lose. Am I right, or am I right?
So, in summation, congragulations are in order. And to top it all off, I haven't even heard the jobshop.ca commercial today!! Its like the cosmos has shifted and my world is suddenly all sunshine and lollypops.
Cue "Up" by Shania Twain.
And fade to black.
So, in summation, congragulations are in order. And to top it all off, I haven't even heard the jobshop.ca commercial today!! Its like the cosmos has shifted and my world is suddenly all sunshine and lollypops.
Cue "Up" by Shania Twain.
And fade to black.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
More Bad News
Some of you have been asking if I've done a pregnancy test yet. Very funny. Even Geoff, yesterday when I came home from work said "So-- was it positive?" I was like 'screw you' and he was like 'oh, now you're just too emberassed to admit to it." But truthfully, I don't think I'm pregnant yet. I think tonights the night. Day 15 is more important for me than day 13 because I tend to have a thirty day cycle, so its at the midpoint right now, which is a crucial juncture. I'm pretty sure that I'll be pregnant tomorrow night at this time, although it will be too early to confirm with a test. Speaking of which, I was looking at my lab stats for the last six months. On average, I do about 13 pregnancy tests a month at the clinic, plus or minus two. Last month I did 22. I was actually a little nervous about turning the stats in to the lab supervisor but then I was like "what is she going to accuse me of-- selling them on the black market??" I looked back and I was like 'ah, 22 that's not so bad. I did 24 back in August." But then I remembered that August also happened to be the month that I found out I was pregnant with Reid. Coincidence? Maybe.
So there's something that has been bothering me A LOT lately. I try to keep my feelings hidden, but I know that its not good to keep things bottled up. I don't know if it's just my jaded perception of the world or if it is, in fact, reality, but it seems to me that that STUPID Jobshop.ca add plays WAY TOO MUCH. I swear to you I hear it every flipping day, and sometimes twice a day. I honestly can't figure out how its a free service with the amount of money they must spend on advertising?!? Every time I hear it coming I start to cringe. I would take anything, any crap song over that commercial. Even a marathon of Trooper hits. Once I actually changed the station, only to discover that it was on the OTHER station as well. It was like it was following me, haunting me everywhere I went and there was nowhere to go except perhaps NewsTalkRadio but I'm not really ready for that yet, maturity speaking.
And speaking of paranoid. I've been enjoying posting my new book on the blog for others to look at. But today it occured to me: what if some Joe Schmoe out there reads it, submits it to some Hollywood big wig, makes a million dollars while I sit at home, blissfully unaware, listening to ads for Jobshop.ca. And then I try to submit it and they're like 'thats plagiarism', 'that's a criminal offence under section XYZ of the criminal code' and then they haul my ass into jail where I can only wish I could hear the jobshop.ca commercial one more time. So now I'm worried. Even more so than the tapeworm scare of January '07, which by the way, I think has passed.
And lastly, the subject of this post. More bad news from the bastards at the Brick (try saying that three times fast). They phoned last night to tell us that our bed was on a shipping delay and wasn't expected to arrive until Feb 15th at the earliest. Argh. Needless to say, I was not very happy. But whatever. It will come eventually. At least I hope so. But I'd better go and watch Criminal Minds. Peace out.
So there's something that has been bothering me A LOT lately. I try to keep my feelings hidden, but I know that its not good to keep things bottled up. I don't know if it's just my jaded perception of the world or if it is, in fact, reality, but it seems to me that that STUPID Jobshop.ca add plays WAY TOO MUCH. I swear to you I hear it every flipping day, and sometimes twice a day. I honestly can't figure out how its a free service with the amount of money they must spend on advertising?!? Every time I hear it coming I start to cringe. I would take anything, any crap song over that commercial. Even a marathon of Trooper hits. Once I actually changed the station, only to discover that it was on the OTHER station as well. It was like it was following me, haunting me everywhere I went and there was nowhere to go except perhaps NewsTalkRadio but I'm not really ready for that yet, maturity speaking.
And speaking of paranoid. I've been enjoying posting my new book on the blog for others to look at. But today it occured to me: what if some Joe Schmoe out there reads it, submits it to some Hollywood big wig, makes a million dollars while I sit at home, blissfully unaware, listening to ads for Jobshop.ca. And then I try to submit it and they're like 'thats plagiarism', 'that's a criminal offence under section XYZ of the criminal code' and then they haul my ass into jail where I can only wish I could hear the jobshop.ca commercial one more time. So now I'm worried. Even more so than the tapeworm scare of January '07, which by the way, I think has passed.
And lastly, the subject of this post. More bad news from the bastards at the Brick (try saying that three times fast). They phoned last night to tell us that our bed was on a shipping delay and wasn't expected to arrive until Feb 15th at the earliest. Argh. Needless to say, I was not very happy. But whatever. It will come eventually. At least I hope so. But I'd better go and watch Criminal Minds. Peace out.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Having Grace-- Prologue
-1-
Bills, I thought with disdain as I chucked them onto the kitchen counter, unopened, where they were usurped by a pile of other such bills. The ones without a return address looked especially ominous. As if to say: if we actually put our name on the envelope there’s not a freaking hope inhell you would dare to open it.
Just what, exactly, had I been expecting, I wondered. A letter from Ed McMahon saying that I’d won the million dollar jackpot? That was wishful thinking, if not full out delusional, especially in light of the fact that I hadn’t even entered the stupid sweepstake. But I digress. Anyways, the point is that the bills were really starting to stack up.
At first I was optimistic about it. I thought if I work hard, really hard, I can get rid of these bills. Slowly, one at a time. But it seemed like for every bill I paid off I got three more in the mail the very next day. It was like the damn things reproduced when I turned my back, though I know that strictly speaking that’s not really possible. And I was working as hard as I could, scrimping, saving, cutting coupons, living off of soup. And not even good soup, like beef barley, for example. The stuff I ate was bought by the caseload for five bucks. Generic cream of tomato and mushroom. Made with water, not milk.
But again I digress. I’m not telling you this to try to garner your sympathy. I don’t want your pity. What I do want is a little understanding. You see, I’m not normally the type of person to do this kind of thing. In fact, a year ago I would have been outraged at the mere moral reprehensibility of what I’m about to do, not to mention the practicalities of it. But then I was a different person a year ago. Engaged and just finishing my college degree, the world was full of opportunity. And then three months before the wedding is scheduled to go down, I find Prince Charming going down on my maid of honor. My maid of honor, no less! Would I have been happier if it were some stranger off the street? I don’t know. But the fact that it was my so called best friend just poured salt on the wound. Salt and hair spray and hydrochloric acid.
Needless to say, the wedding didn’t happen and I was left alone with a pile of bills and a taffeta dress that I paid a small fortune for while Prince Charming rides off into the sunset with Slutterella. Do I sound bitter? Sorry. I try not to be, but can you really blame me?
Anyways, I’m just saying that times were tough. And when this whole thing came up with Cynthia, it seemed like the perfect solution to both of our problems. But now I see it for it really was.
A deal with the devil.
Bills, I thought with disdain as I chucked them onto the kitchen counter, unopened, where they were usurped by a pile of other such bills. The ones without a return address looked especially ominous. As if to say: if we actually put our name on the envelope there’s not a freaking hope inhell you would dare to open it.
Just what, exactly, had I been expecting, I wondered. A letter from Ed McMahon saying that I’d won the million dollar jackpot? That was wishful thinking, if not full out delusional, especially in light of the fact that I hadn’t even entered the stupid sweepstake. But I digress. Anyways, the point is that the bills were really starting to stack up.
At first I was optimistic about it. I thought if I work hard, really hard, I can get rid of these bills. Slowly, one at a time. But it seemed like for every bill I paid off I got three more in the mail the very next day. It was like the damn things reproduced when I turned my back, though I know that strictly speaking that’s not really possible. And I was working as hard as I could, scrimping, saving, cutting coupons, living off of soup. And not even good soup, like beef barley, for example. The stuff I ate was bought by the caseload for five bucks. Generic cream of tomato and mushroom. Made with water, not milk.
But again I digress. I’m not telling you this to try to garner your sympathy. I don’t want your pity. What I do want is a little understanding. You see, I’m not normally the type of person to do this kind of thing. In fact, a year ago I would have been outraged at the mere moral reprehensibility of what I’m about to do, not to mention the practicalities of it. But then I was a different person a year ago. Engaged and just finishing my college degree, the world was full of opportunity. And then three months before the wedding is scheduled to go down, I find Prince Charming going down on my maid of honor. My maid of honor, no less! Would I have been happier if it were some stranger off the street? I don’t know. But the fact that it was my so called best friend just poured salt on the wound. Salt and hair spray and hydrochloric acid.
Needless to say, the wedding didn’t happen and I was left alone with a pile of bills and a taffeta dress that I paid a small fortune for while Prince Charming rides off into the sunset with Slutterella. Do I sound bitter? Sorry. I try not to be, but can you really blame me?
Anyways, I’m just saying that times were tough. And when this whole thing came up with Cynthia, it seemed like the perfect solution to both of our problems. But now I see it for it really was.
A deal with the devil.
Monday, February 5, 2007
Having Grace- Synopsis
Here is the rough synopsis for the book I am writing.
Meet Kristina Hoffman. 24 years old, bright, young and fertile. Desperate to get out of debt fast, she signs a deal with the devil. The deal: simple. Carry a child for forty weeks and walk away with six figures in the bank account. Or so it had seemed simple, once upon a time. What she hadn’t bargained for was the demands of an impossible, and slightly irrational, mom to be: a full out ban on coffee, strict bed rest, random urine tests and a “natural” childbirth. Kristina must navigate all of this this whilst also dealing with a budding new romance, an evil ex and family conflict, having grace all along. Or trying to, anyways.
Meet Kristina Hoffman. 24 years old, bright, young and fertile. Desperate to get out of debt fast, she signs a deal with the devil. The deal: simple. Carry a child for forty weeks and walk away with six figures in the bank account. Or so it had seemed simple, once upon a time. What she hadn’t bargained for was the demands of an impossible, and slightly irrational, mom to be: a full out ban on coffee, strict bed rest, random urine tests and a “natural” childbirth. Kristina must navigate all of this this whilst also dealing with a budding new romance, an evil ex and family conflict, having grace all along. Or trying to, anyways.
The Best Laid Plans
The following was written at 1235hours
Things are not quite on track over here on Vanier cresent. First of all, and most disapointingly, our bed is not in. The stupid Prick has screwed us over once again. The bed is on backorder. They do not know when it will be in. We're supposed to call again this weekend and see. I hate that place. This is the last time we will shop there. Next time we will DEFINITELY be going to Leons. I would strongly advise you to do the same.
Also, as you know, I am fertile this week (in theory). But we have not gotten around to doing the deed yet, and it seems that it is not going to happen any time soon. My husband went to a Superbowl game last night. The game was at five o'clock. He came home at seven. AM. Needless to say, we are not speaking right now and therefor not even close to being on 'you-know-what'ing terms. So whatever. I honestly feel sometimes that I'm married to a sixteen year old. A big, balding sixteen year old with the metabolism of a forty year old. And I don't understand his reasoning. He's like "I didn't want to call you and wake you up". So apparently he was being considerate. But doesn't he realize that when he's 9 hours late coming home I'm probably going to be awake anyways?? I tried calling his cell, no answer, no answer. I was honestly mere minutes away from calling the hospitals when he came home. And then he just blows it off like I'm being irrational for being on the verge of calling the hospitals. And then I have to get up and go to work, whilst he plops on the couch and remains there for the entire day. And whats worse is that men are so STUPID. I mean, its not impossible for him to bounce back into my good graces by doing a little- well, maybe a lot, of schmoozing. If he bought me flowers and a card. Or even just cleaned the house and made a meal for me. Or did something, ANYTHING, to try to woo me back. But instead he lays on the couch and snores his freaking head off. I am honestly reconsidering reproducing with him again all together. Perhaps I should take the two we have and run. Head for the hills.
The following was written at 1851hours
I guess I spoke too soon. I came home from work to discover a clean house and dinner on the table. Chicken fetttucince, no less. So perhaps he's not as bad as I thought. Maybe he's learned a thing or two in these three years of marriage. Or perhaps he really does read my blog. Whatever the case, I shall have to forgive him. And you know what that means... Makeup sex instead of just regular 'hurry up and get it over with' sex.
You may have noticed that I am no longer posting every day. I have decided that if I can write a blog for thirty minutes daily then I should channel that energy into some of my other writing. Over the weekend I wrote ten pages in a new novel I'm working on. A little something called Having Grace. The synopsis is posted as well. I will still post things on here from time to time to keep you, well, posted, I suppose. And at other times I will post excerpts from the book I'm working on. If you have any suggestions I welcome your feedback. Anyways, must go. The kids beckon.
Things are not quite on track over here on Vanier cresent. First of all, and most disapointingly, our bed is not in. The stupid Prick has screwed us over once again. The bed is on backorder. They do not know when it will be in. We're supposed to call again this weekend and see. I hate that place. This is the last time we will shop there. Next time we will DEFINITELY be going to Leons. I would strongly advise you to do the same.
Also, as you know, I am fertile this week (in theory). But we have not gotten around to doing the deed yet, and it seems that it is not going to happen any time soon. My husband went to a Superbowl game last night. The game was at five o'clock. He came home at seven. AM. Needless to say, we are not speaking right now and therefor not even close to being on 'you-know-what'ing terms. So whatever. I honestly feel sometimes that I'm married to a sixteen year old. A big, balding sixteen year old with the metabolism of a forty year old. And I don't understand his reasoning. He's like "I didn't want to call you and wake you up". So apparently he was being considerate. But doesn't he realize that when he's 9 hours late coming home I'm probably going to be awake anyways?? I tried calling his cell, no answer, no answer. I was honestly mere minutes away from calling the hospitals when he came home. And then he just blows it off like I'm being irrational for being on the verge of calling the hospitals. And then I have to get up and go to work, whilst he plops on the couch and remains there for the entire day. And whats worse is that men are so STUPID. I mean, its not impossible for him to bounce back into my good graces by doing a little- well, maybe a lot, of schmoozing. If he bought me flowers and a card. Or even just cleaned the house and made a meal for me. Or did something, ANYTHING, to try to woo me back. But instead he lays on the couch and snores his freaking head off. I am honestly reconsidering reproducing with him again all together. Perhaps I should take the two we have and run. Head for the hills.
The following was written at 1851hours
I guess I spoke too soon. I came home from work to discover a clean house and dinner on the table. Chicken fetttucince, no less. So perhaps he's not as bad as I thought. Maybe he's learned a thing or two in these three years of marriage. Or perhaps he really does read my blog. Whatever the case, I shall have to forgive him. And you know what that means... Makeup sex instead of just regular 'hurry up and get it over with' sex.
You may have noticed that I am no longer posting every day. I have decided that if I can write a blog for thirty minutes daily then I should channel that energy into some of my other writing. Over the weekend I wrote ten pages in a new novel I'm working on. A little something called Having Grace. The synopsis is posted as well. I will still post things on here from time to time to keep you, well, posted, I suppose. And at other times I will post excerpts from the book I'm working on. If you have any suggestions I welcome your feedback. Anyways, must go. The kids beckon.
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