Coming Up: The labyrinth of medical mysteries meets a minotaur, and boy does a full minotaur bladder harbinge havoc. Innards lain bare and barren of sphinx. Will our heroine discover secret easter eggs within that sacred space of all man's origins? Bread rent by phantom terrors and a goosepimple chill of pullulating peeps, as the Easter bunny choco-blood harvest draws nigh once more. Will the resistance prevail or will once again the innocents be culled for their chocolatey goodness? Yam cake awaits the ascendance of Papa T at the other end of an exotic spread of aliments and victuals set resplendent against a coruscant colloquy. Will any cake by left by the end of the holy day? And how many tums must a tummy take to slake the bums of too much cake??
Initial all your medical paperwork, check your office location, and dive headfirst for the sour cream confections in which the answers to all mysteries of the fertile freshness springing from a barren boreality.
The Wanting Cadbury Egg And other tales of broken bread, (in-and-out)fertility rituals, and the pitter patter of a little faster cadence
I've waxed melodic on my morning weekend ritual previously. After our lengthy languor, desultory palaver, and associated caffeinated canoodling, there is breakfast. Oh how I love breakfast. It wafts through my dreams in the evening and lures me from bed each morning with its siren serenade. Breakfast is always the same and I enjoy that. Eggs and toast for Andrew. My weird microwave egg/flax/cumin/spices/peppers/onions/parsley patty and toast for me. Coffee for all. And - because it the weekend - we eat it at the table! It's reliably restorative to share this ritual, so long as no horrible work emergency (ahem, Screwpocalypse, I'm thinking of you) elbows its way into the foreground.
Today was actually a tad atypical on the dependably consistent meal, seeing as some rift has spread through Ezekiel's holiest of whole wheats. My entire remaining loaf was split asunder, riven by forces beyond my contemplation! This made for some challenging toaster acrobatics. I attempted to prop up the detached quarter of each slice atop its foundational slab in the toasting slat, but to little avail. Fearing a fire, I kept the smaller piece untoasted, and just had a post-post-post-modern take on a breakfast polygon.
|Every piece set asunder thusly|
To celebrate the toaster-batics, Andrew and I then - as we often do - did a little jogajaunt around Padden for him and skirting-Padden-before-turning-back for me. Eighteen minutes of running, baby! I'm ready for the Olympics! Well, ready for watching reruns of the Olympics at home while icing my foot and doing more of those pesky balancing exercises my PT finds oh so amusing. I had to stop during "the run" to fix my heart rate strap (which popped like an adolescent's inadequate training bra mid-run), so I counted that as my "walk" interval. Otherwise, kind of straight running for the first time in a while! Knock on wood I might be on a path to recovery. Hopefully I manage not to trip over my own laces on the way.
Intermission for the Faint of Medical Discussion
|Happy Food says Hellooooo!|
Second Part: Ultra-sound the horns. Toot toot. I had that test I mentioned I was going to have. Well one of them. Although both the oh-so-pleasant pelvic ultrasound and the not-so-big-a-deal bone densometry tests are through the same facility, they require separate appoinments. Thought I'd get the more invasive one out of the way and scheduled that first. Aside from rushing to the entirely incorrect lab and then skeedaddling in febrile fluster all the way across town to the correct location (thank god they still took me), I survived my medical thingy with aplomb and a-hospital-gown. No sphynx cats or facehuggers were on view in the patient-view-monitor, but then again those images are obsequiously abstruse. I can see why there are professions devoted to interpreting them, although I also suspect that it is the same soothsaying skill that makes a fine radiologist as made a good reader of tea leaves or cast runes...
To my untrained eye, my innards look kind of unremarkable - blurry, cavernous, and amorphous. But apparently, I do have ovaries (deduction based on an apology for an uncomfortable positioning of little wand so as to "get a clear picture of the right ovary"), so that's a start. Would have been a shame to have misplaced them somewhere years ago. And gross. Very gross. Naturally, other than this startling "I have innards" revelation, I know nothing more except that there are towels in the bathroom and a bin to throw my towels and gown into on my way out the door. My doctor should hear the news about how I have innards "by Monday" so that's good. I'm sure he was starting to wonder if I was a simulant.
All considered, it wasn't horrible. As with almost all medical procedures, I felt a bit like I'd been captured by aliens, probed lightly, left in an observation room and then cast back amid the crop circles when my DNA proved to taste like chicken. The fact that the issue is tangled into with a complex weave of female identity - and all the societal baggage associated with that - admittedly added a certain tang in the full throes of day 12 of prometrium pounding all-pmsing-all-the-time friability. But as the fight-or-flight adrenaline terminates its turgid transudence and the cortisol kicks back in, I'm feeling more evenly keeled. I guess I'm more comfortable right now transitioning from thinking of the anovularity as a secondary side effect to other issues (being underweight for instance) into just saying fertility is something I care about and I'm currently - for whatever reason and for however long - infertile. Funny how that sounds like such a big deal, like an imprecation or a dooming prognosis or just plain pejorative - but it's just a descriptive. And, while I'm far too much of a cart-after-the-horse-thank-you kinda gal, I wouldn't own to "trying" to become impregnated in this past year, but I certainly have stopped trying not to in a way that probably would technically fit the definition. Plus basic correlation: eggs are kinda a necessary ingredient for the making of a real real boy or girl unless you've got a skill woodcrafter and a magical blue fairy.
To celebrate my minimally invasive medical procedure, Andrew took the day off work to play with a putatively adorable child (never crossed paths, but the remnants of her handiwork are strewn about our house, and if she was cute enough for Andrew to notice, we can only imagine). The child was attended by Andrew's childhood friend and a few people related to said child in unspecified ways. I did not cross paths with them either. But they were grateful to use our washer-dryer, and Andrew was happy to see them.
Apparently a single six year old girl is a little less terrifying than three boys ranging from eight to two. Apparently...
Anyways, almost Easter and the only eggs I am thinking about right now are of the Cadbury variety! Whatever the origins, I love this holiday and all its vernal fixation on death, rebirth and new life. It's been an inspiration to me in several manifestations through several selves, and continues to be. At the moment, for instance, I'm inspired to hunt and devour a Peep.
We Look for The Resurrection of The Peep and the Life of the Bunny to Come Hunker down for the "Easter grass" jokes in Washington State
It's Easter! It's also 4/20!! Which is a heeeelarious happenstance if you're a college student, or have been one in the last several years. If you live where it's legal and you're so inclined, celebrate "appropriately". That advice applies to pretty much any form of celebration today, regardless of intersection between the rites of spring (in the words of Stravinsky, DUN DUN DUN DUUUUN DUN DUN DUN) and every one's favorite stoner holiday. I'd suggest pillaging the Easter sales candy (breakneck holiday sales schedule had Easter on deep discount yesterday, so that - at least as I dreamt it last night - they could start stalking up with Halloween Candy in the Seasonal aisles) and watching Harold and Kumar whilst bunny eared. But personal preferences may vary.
If you choose (in your legal way, of course) to get high and go to church, don't blame me when you (1) are carried out of church for unruly behavior, (2) see god and have some kind of bizarre epiphanic experience. That's between you and your "appropriate" deity. I assume no liability for my exhortation to celebrate. A reasonable person would understand my frolic and banter, and consider the attendant risks and rewards of any chosen behavior for the day.
But chocolate! Whatever else, there shall be chocolate (unless it was manufactured in a factory that also processes nuts and you have some kind of allergy and maybe there's gluten involved somewhere too and it's possibly GMO or non-organic somehow and... then whatever pretend chocolate substitute thingy you enjoy, please have at it)!! Probably of the bunny-egg variety.
Easter must have been earlier last year, because I know the bike-and-chain and I weren't married yet. I do remember that I stole my mom's bunny suit and woke him up giggling like a mad woman. I'm not sure he quite understood either what was funny or what was standing over him. It took him a few minutes to even make a confused face. This year, I'm keeping the bunnies to my feet, because I'm all grown up and murried now. But really because we were kind of busy yesterday so I didn't have the idle time required to fully invest in one of my holiday caprices.
Having successfully hobbled around part of Lake Padden, I sent Andrew off to the mountains (Evohe!! To the Mountains!) and braved the terrors of Fred Meyer's. I'd lost my TASER so had to do with ear plugs and a mantra of "slowly breathe OMMMMM" to make it through the harried holidaze shopping. Upon return, I debouched again from our little cave to pop in SWAT style on my father, whose birthday was yesterday (the anniversary of the Battle of Lexington, which was the day after Paul Revere's Ride, which I thought was a really cool mnemonic when I was nine, confirming an early diagnosis of NERD NERD NERD and forfeiting all future lunch monies to bullies not otherwise specified). He was celebrating by cleaning the house.
Our delightful birthday chat devolved quickly into a Thompsonesque brood about the persecution of religious faiths through the world, genocide, and geopolitical horrors, so you can see that it was a true Papa T birthday reverie of succulent excitement. There was much putting of popped balloons into a very Useful Pot. But there were also Birthday Cake M&M's, which actually do have a slight cake flavor and are a pretty decent manifestation of the "birthday cake themed candy" that has been accomplished with more or less eclat. The choice to focus solely on flavor instead of the ubiquitous sprinkles was a sage one in this instance, although I'm always disappointed when pretty much anything lacks sprinkles.
Much of the remainder of the day was spent thumbing through old Glamours at Midas while the Pathfinder's muffler was sorted out. Of course burrowing through magazines remains a grandly bonding couples activity for us. It was perhaps a little alienating to the other people in the waiting room, especially when the odd swear word or "adult concept" was visibly caught by the little girl waiting with her father... Mr. (W)right learned to enunciate and project in drama school and he's sticking with it regardless of the theater size and acoustics.
In between there were the very torrid affairs of laundry (oooooh the way those sheets twisted and writhed in the dryer!), dishes, and staring at what turned out to be a gorgeous sunset after a torrential day.
Now, time for morning coffee with decapitated bunnies and a little Easter luncheon with Papa T and the Mariz family. There will be cake. By god there will be cake. But only after Andrew goes off on another death-cycle and I make some contribution to the holiday table (cadbury quiche?)
Passing of the Peeps and the Spring-a-Hop to Summer Lindt Ball Challenge Piled in Bunnies
It is Easter Monday! If you're more traditionally religious or less from the US than us hereabouts, that probably means a little more than "the Monday in which our bellies roil and rumble from the great Peep and Cadbury repast of the preceding day". Today is probably best marked in the United States as "the day that a bunch of people try to offload their excessive diet-killing-insulin-bursting-oh-so-not-gluten-or-anything-free confections of the prior day's bacchanalia on unsuspecting office mates, before eating it all themselves from whatever common area they left said confections!" And or "the day of tired returns from family trips that seemed like a good idea at the time."
Here in (W)rightlandia, it's mostly just Monday. I've confiscated the Easter pelf, of which we received more than our share yesterday afternoon at our Easter get-together. It is hiding and shall be judiciously meted and woven into Mr. (W)right's lunches over the course of a few weeks. This is the course of holiday candies. Andrew still gets Halloween candy that was leftover from an overly optimistic bulk purchase from 2013.
After his long weekend and rousing romps with old friends and cute children, the bike and chain is back at Screwpocalypse 2014. Apparently the client is concerned enough about some of their current setbacks that they are sending out managerial type representatives to "check on" the progress. I'm being optimistic and telling him that the guy coming to babysit him today will be a really nifty guy, who will be totally reassured by Andrew's competence and creativity and they'll end the day by playing ball in the parking lot and exchanging a slow motion high five at the end of an Eye-of-the-Tiger engineering montage. Or maybe he'll just ask a lot of questions and make it a little harder for Andrew to concentrate on his redesign tasks. But I prefer my version.
I'm in denial about what the week holds for me. Other than Easter leftovers and a pilates class later in the day, that is. Those can stay. We had a delightful linner with my dad and our family friends, George and Linda. I brought an Adella can't stop futzing and adding to this until everything she likes it mixed together in an aromatic olio of grain, green, and garlic" salad with kamut, black rice, wild rice, hemp seeds, peppers, craisins, avocados, mushrooms, lemon juice, cherry juice, garlic, onion, parsley, apple cider vinegar, liquified peeps, blood of a virginal phoenix two days after resurrection... ok you get the idea salad. My dad discovered "kalerabi", which he claims to be a broccoli-kale hybrid. It tasted quite fine steamed over a vinaigrette. There was also wild rice in grapeseed oil, some kind of indulgent fish dish, a loaf of perfectly crunchy and soft Great Harvest bread. And there was, of course, YAM CAKE.
Yam cake, in this incarnation is a variation on carrot cake with garnet sweet potatoes instead of carrots. The base-cake is laden with cream cheese and a small tree's worth of pecans. It weighs more than a baby and is ten times sweeter. It's my dad's annual birthday present from Linda. And he will always salivate as April approaches in anticipation of this thoroughly indulgent treat.
Despite loving it as fanatically as my father, Andrew exercised restraint and only ate a few slabs. Possibly because he'd already eaten two bowls of nuts, a few hunks of well-buttered bread, two gluten free pastries from Dutch Mothers, some vanilla coconut ice cream, some caramel chocolate gelato, and two plates of the other previously mentioned entrees. In fairness to his appetite, he spent Easter morning on a three hour road ride...
The Paschal season signifies the official end of my prior Lindt Ball challenge. I have to admit I never fully formed the parameters, but the general idea of "giving something up for forty days to increase mindfulness" coalesced around my symbiosis with the wide wired world. I took two affirmative steps. The first was turning off notifications on my phone. This was so easy to do. I manually muted notifications for email and things like that, and then I turned on block-mode to keep the little blue light from hassling me. The second step was adding an extra hour of unwired time to every day.
Turning on block for notifications is great. I don't think I'll go back. It's just as easy to check my phone on my own time. If something's crucially time-sensitive, I will receive a call. I will likely see any texts, emails, etc. in a 24 hour time period and this is more than sufficient for most purposes. I feel far less easily sucked into the smart-phone vortex, and less anxious generally about "people who might be trying to contact me."
The extra hour of unwired time wasn't always easy and I might have fudged it on Good Friday due to some scheduling complications. Typically, I've been turning my phone off right after work and not booting up any phone/computer devices for at least an hour. This isn't generally that hard. Although having my phone off at the grocery store sometimes requires me to wrestle with my weak arithmetic skills in the absence of a handy calculator when I want to compare unit prices. With Andrew's work schedule heating up earlier in the month, it was a bit harder to coordinate dinner without the possibility of constant chat updates as to just how sideways the day was going. But I managed to breathe through those times and things worked out. I'm not sure I'll continue to turn it all entirely off or full a full hour, but I think it's a nice ritual to shut the phone off as I leave work.
I'm still a little bit more of a manic multi-tasker than I'd like to be at work, but I am still trying to pull out tabs for singular focus when it matters.
Like work. I'm about to work. I think I'll separate out my work tabs and ignore the rest except for more focused and interspersed breaks!
And then I shall focus, by god... on the tragedy of the bunnypocalypse and the diabetic sugar rush of treacly tumid todayness that comes on its heels.