3.31.2005

Our Dogs Cannot Be Left Alone, or I'm a Dumbass
For not checking the seal on the fridge before I left for work yesterday. Sometimes it doesn't seal right, leaving the door looking like it's closed, but really, it's all lies. It was NOT CLOSED.

After work, I pull into the driveway, dreaming of the 20 minutes I'll have to sit on the couch before band. I also needed to pee on an ovulation predictor kit stick and get my sax. But those dreams were deferred when I saw Zeus working on something in the driveway. "I knew that guy liked to eat poop (yes, eww) but that's a new variety of enthusiasm, even for him," I thought. But then I thought "Hm. That looks like my leftover Thai from Monday night. HOLY SHIT! IT IS my leftover Thai from Monday night."

I rushed inside the house, ignoring my neighbor who saw me on the way in. I don't know why I rushed. The damage was done. EVERYTHING that wasn't a canned beverage had been consumed. My organic milk. Every leftover we had. My beloved easter Pashka, that my mom makes special and overnights to me. Gone. Nothing but drinks. And carrots.

Rainie was fattest, followed by Zeus. Gus and Patrick (who is mostly healed, sorry I didn't write back, Dena!) seemed to have gotten nothing. It gave me an excuse to go grocery shopping, so I guess it's not all bad. But wow. I only wish Alice was alive to enjoy the festivities.

Efficiency At It's Best
So...the wonder that is San Jose State Graduate Studies set forth this calendar, which clearly states that my Request for Candidacy Form is due April 1, 2005. Okay, cool, today is 3/31, a whole 1 day before the deadline, so I ran over to school this morning to drop it off. I'd been warned that hand delivery is the only preferred method, since they lose things over there.

I arrive in time to see the big CLOSED sign on the door. The inviting banner for Grad Studies beckons me, but no, I am barred by the locked door, which I try anyway, in case there's a Liz Doughty exception to this closed-ness.

There's not. I'm screwed and very confused. How could they set a deadline during spring break, then be closed on the day before it's due?

3.30.2005

Get Your Mormon On
Head over to the Mormon Name Generator to find out what the Great Joseph Smith would have named thou.

Yours,
Young Elizabeth Daughny

Never Gets Old
At my place of employment, more often than not, email threads go on a little too long. It's like we're all waiting for something interesting to come along, then we pounce like mad tigers and tigresses, adding our $.02 to the thread, or sometimes, far less than $.02, but an addition just the same.

In one of these threads, it seemed like the entire company was copied and finally, out of the mayhem, a lone voice said 'unsubscribe.' And Team Float laughed hysterically. And yes, we really are Team Float, not like Root Beer float (which are tasty and refreshing) but like float wherever needed.

So today, we've started another thread, Michael, Heather and I, our mighty band of groovemeisters and question-askers. And finally, I pulled the trump card: 'unsubscribe,' which was of course met with giggles from across the aisle.

That's the best part -- IMing or emailing something funny, then waiting for the inevitable giggle.

Unsubscribe.

The L Word
Yep, I'm addicted to The L Word even if it is a soap opera (or a daytime drama that just happens to show at night), even if some of the plotlines are visible from down the block, it's the only show on the TeeVee that features a whole lotta lesbians. Naturally, they're super glamourous lesbians who live in very swanky, very tidy houses, but they're dykes all the same.

Watching their glamourous, totally out and proud, strike that, out and beyond proud, they're just OUT and nobody seems to give a shit. No asshole kid at the Olive Garden spits that word under his breath as they walk by, no asshole on an opposing hockey team busts out with that, nope the L Word ladies just go about their very lesibanly bidness with nary a care in the world. Or rather, their cares are surprisingly just like everyone elses.

Will I be loved? Will I find and keep love? Does my hair look okay? What is Melissa Rivers doing with a woman anyway? Why do people find Shane so damn intriguing? All of the proverbial questions about life, love and happiness. Just the regular stuff you'd find on any daytime/nightime drama (DTNTD, as StrongBad might suggest).

Why does this matter? Why does this show touch me so? Because in my entire life I HAVE NEVER SEEN ANY PARTS OF MY LIFE AS A LESBIAN REFLECTED ON TV in such a real way. Yes, there was Ellen for a short time, reliving those not-that-fun years of coming out. But after her? Nada. Until this flock of hotties came along. And for the FIRST TIME, there is someone who (sort of, if you leave out the fact that we don't have a shitload of money, our house isn't super tidy and we're not scrawny hotties) lives a life not unlike mine.

If you're straight, every time you turn on the TV, you'll see your life reflected in some way. But if you're gay, you might see the so very stereotypical guys of Will and Grace or Queer Eye, but you won't see many Regular Dykes. So when you do see them, the only thing you can do is watch and for an hour of your week, beleive that the world is not, in fact, filled with dyke-hating assholes but instead with people who understand that we are all not so different.

3.28.2005

ClearCase: The Board Game
If I had more time on my hands, I would make a board game that represents my daily fight with ClearCase (and to be entirely accurate, the combination of scripts that prevent us from easily accessing and returning files to the repository, which is no relation to the book depository where Lee Harvey Oswald allegedly parked his ass while waiting to shoot President Kennedy). The game would be something like this:
  • Arrive at work. Open ClearCase. Forward 2 spaces.
  • Get yesterday's updated files. Forward 2 spaces and wait 20 minutes.
  • Attempt to work on a file. If you can check it out, go forward one space. If you get a weird error, back two spaces.
  • Repeat attempting to work on a file.
  • At the end of the day, attempt to put your changes back. First, run a script in one window. Then, go to a completely different window and run another script. Don't tell ClearCase that you've run the second script until a couple of minutes later or it will be confused and tell you to screw off. Back 4 spaces.
  • Try again. Get a weird error, see how to fix it but be unable to because ClearCase won't actually let you fix it that way. It just looks like you can.
  • Repeat until you want to tear your hair out, then say screw it and go home so you can try it again tomorrow.

The Foreign Language of Diplomacy
The guy who got thrown out of my game Saturday night works with me. Here at work, he's a very reasonable guy but on the ice, he's a bit more agressive. I like him, I really do, but I'm still kind of peeved about his actions at the game. He came over to tell his side of the story and though talking to him was about the last thing I wanted to do (well, know, there are a couple of people I'd like to talk to even less so it could have been worse) he sat on down.

And I listened. He felt that the guy had taken him out in a very deliberate manner, that he could have been seriously hurt thanks to that move. I know what I saw but maybe the angle I saw was off, who knows? He felt that he had to let the guy know that what he'd done was dangerous, a message that's fair enough to share. However, when I've shared that message with the Great Knee Taker Outer and the Great Goalie Runner Overs, I've usually just waited until after the game, then said something. His way of communication was to hit the guy on the head repeatedly, then stomp off the ice.

Different strokes for different folks, I guess. I heard him out, then said "I'm sure your reaction was appropriate for you, but it wasn't appropriate for our team. Good luck with your hockey."

I could tell he wanted me to change my mind but I just won't. There are other ways of handling things, ways that are more appropriate for the A-Team than hitting a guy who's down on the head. Again, other teams handle things other ways, that's their perogative. Please go play for them.

Why Did I Not Know This Before?
I was just looking at the rink where we'll be playing in Vancouver April 15-17 and noticed that they have something called Ball Hockey. I think it's hockey played in tennis shoes, with a ball instead of a puck.

But who cares about that? What matters is that they have something called BALL HOCKEY. Another way to say it? NARD HOCKEY! Ha! Nards! I said nards! This made me laugh so hard I teared up a little. Enough to put aside the temporary sadness I felt when I saw my picture on their website from last year, when the Seals kicked some ass.

But this year, I'm taking a group of maroon and blue folks (well, actually, I'm just the administrator of this team, Ingrid is the captain. Woo, delegation!), we'll be the Belmont Thunder. Should be fun, if completely different than last year, when I had the time of my life on the ice and was sort of miserable and lonely off the ice. This year, Andrea will be there, as will Viv and a bunch of other good folks.

But to be clear, we won't be playing NARD HOCKEY.

Tribination!
Our new season at the Ice Oasis started on Saturday. We've moved from the Coco-NUTS to the Desert Tribe, which is now home to a myriad of A-Team (1 and 2) alumni from over the years, including Vern, who played with us the very first couple of seasons, Ryan and Tracy who joined right after he left, Andrea, Me and the Vivinator! It was like old home week, but sort of better somehow.

We started off a little slow but eventually I manipulated the lines so I could be out with Viv. Andrea started the season off right with a great shot from the point that Viv tipped in making it the first of what I hope is many 1-2 punches from the teeny Tribe of Burninators on the team. It was fun playing together, it was fun playing against Robyn (who got it out EVERY TIME it came to her, no matter how hard I tried to prevent it), Dan (who did great for his first playing center) and Heather (who used her Jedi mind trick to get the puck away from me and Viv more than once), and it was just stupid fun all around.

I hated to leave afterwards to go play my A-Team 1 game. We lost 2-0 and I ended up serving a penalty for one of our subs, a guy who plays well enough but seems to think that putting on hockey gear = a license to beat someone up. Someone on the other team knocked him down, so my sub guy's first instinct was to beat the guy on the head while they were laying there. Nice. When he got thrown out, he slammed the door, getting the automatic game misconduct AND the 7 minute major (running time, not stopped) which I ended up serving part of because nobody else volunteered and someone had to go. Eventually, they let us swap and Tracy was cool enough to sit for me but I'm still irked that a sub would act like that. I think he should pay me for the ice time I lost by having to sit for him! Afterwards, he stuck around to ask me if he was suspended. You think?

I've long had an intolerance for unprovoked goonish behavior on the ice. That tolerance has divided me from folks I used to play with, and though I really do respect everyone's right to play the way they feel is right, when you're playing for someone else's team, I think it's fair and reasonable to play the way the team does. So if you're subbing for a team that likes to fight or get penalties, fine. Have at it. But if you're not, if the rest of the game is penalty-free and you get thrown out, well, it's just not a good fit.

But hey, it's all good, I'm part of a Tribe!

3.27.2005

Spring Break
My third spring break as a grown up starts now. The first year, my ass was unemployed and I went to Columbus to visit my parents and sub in for a team playing in a little hockey tournament there. Now that I've accepted that I really have very few friends left in my hometown, discovering that having an activity to distract myself from the fact that I just don't have that much to say to my parents is the only way to visit.

Last year, I had just started what's turning out to be a very good job so I stayed here and enjoyed the time away from doing both school and work. Oh yeah, and I coordinated league-wide evals for our hockey league, an experience I will never repeat. The hellishness of that cannot adequately be described. This year, Spring Break is once again not a trip to a beachy paradise, it's staying home, enjoying the fact that my nights are my own for a WHOLE WEEK, only now I have the added pressure of trying to continue working on my thesis after a very intense last couple of weeks.

This time around, Spring Break bears no significance, other than that freedom from the extra 20-30 hours of my week. But you know, I'm 32 now and maybe that's enough.

Easter
Everywhere I turn, someone is excited about easter. Though I've joked about enjoying the death and resurrection of our Lord, Jesus Christ, I really think that most people are more excited about bunnies and baskets than the murder and rebirth of a hero. Think about it, when you're standing in the card aisle trying to select the perfect Easter card, what's going to get you the most mileage? The blood of our lord, or fuzzy bunnies?

The bunnies have it, every time. Yea, bunnies.

To be clear, I'm not overly religious, or even partly overly religious, but the way our culture has appropriated holidays that began as religious and morphed them into celebrations of chocolates and bunnies, or the obligatory giver of gifts, doesn't sit right with me. I just want to know how we got from martyr to bunnies.

So I spent my easter not at church or eating chocolate bunnies but in my nice bed, watching a marathon of Babies: Special Delivery, napping, eating Eggos and eventually, getting up for dinner with Bill, Susan and the babies. Andrea went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium, a place I'd exhausted a couple of years ago doing a school project, so I had a very nice, school-free, hockey-free day to myself. No Jesus, no bunnies, just the sweet giggle of babies and coming home with remnants of their dinners on my shirt.

3.25.2005

So Much To Consider
I admit it, I've grown addicted to reading the many blogs of nice folks who are trying very hard to get pregnant. It's way better than porn, I assure you. Unless you really love porn, in which case, I stand corrected.

There's so much heartache out there on the internet, so many people spending so much money, having their hearts broken over and over via miscarriages or failed fertility treatments or birthmothers changing their minds. As it turns out, I'm not the only adoptee out there preparing for parenthood.

I was unexpectedly touched by Laughter and Forgetting, adoption. I expected to see her own plan to adopt a baby after a fertility that even from a distance, seems too much to bear, but no, it was parts of her own adoption. It's something I don't talk about much here, because it's both too sensitive and too hard to talk about. And because it's not only my story, it's my parents (who, though they may bug the shit out of me at times, are still my REAL parents, thanks for not asking), my birthmother's, my little brothers', my sisters, my birthgrandparents and all the folks who have somehow, conspired without knowing it to bring me here and send me on my way.

And I guess I still won't talk about it, for those reasons and a million more. But I'll say this, no matter how nice and easy it seems on paper, adoption tears at the souls of all involved. Some tears are small, some are large, but they all happen and no number of Lifetime movies can change that.

Through the planning we've done so far, through the already very emotional discussions and decisions we've made about becoming parents, I've learned a lot about my own life, about my own soul. Nothing I've faced in my life has given me the kind of pause that deciding to become parents has. I cannot even begin to imagine how damn insightful I'll be once Murray is here.

Signs That I'm Exhausted
The back-to-back midterms this week, coupled with my mama drama made me pretty damn wiped out. Good thing I still have a ton of work to do today! Here are the signs:
  • Two nights in a row, ran the same load of wash, then forgot about it. It's still sitting there now.
  • Forgot to take my folic acid last night.
  • Went to bed at 11 pm one night.
  • Trying not to fall asleep on my desk. Because that's really obvious.
8 more weeks of classes and then I'm done attending classes. It becomes all about me and my data collection.

No Better Way
I left hellish midterm #2 a little earlier than I'd planned and realized that I had time to do a drive-by baby visit. I IMed Susan to remind her to put her pants on, she was having company, but didn't hear back. That didn't stop me, but it did make her a bit surprised when I was standing at the window, making faces at the girls as they ate.

Andrea showed up for a few minutes at the end and we all had a great time. Here's proof:
Baby Movies!
Want proof that the girls are really hysterical?
Sammi, groovin on the couch.
Sammi getting tickled while Riley checks it out.
Both girls, gunning for the camera while Auntie Liz struggles to not make our viewers at home motion sick.

Welcome Back Cheddahnator!
Jena made her triumphant return to the ice and ruled public skate! She made EVERY PERSON out there on the ice HER BITCH! She was IN. I wore my Trans-Am t-shirt to commemorate her pantalones of gold (trim). Round and round she went, in all the while. Her skating looked just like it did before, which if you consider how many freaking pins and crap are in that little ankle, is huge. Huge. In.

As she left, I stood there watching her go, singing as many of the lyrics from the Welcome Back Kotter theme song as I could remember. I'm not even sure she heard me but it didn't matter, because she's back. And she's in.

I'm In!
So there's this really interesting person who plays hockey with some of us. She's very nice and not lacking in self-confidence. This manifests itself in some interesting ways, the most recent was when she was talking to me after her last game of the season, talking about moving up a division and saying "Yep, I'm in," as if the decision to move was solely hers. She said it a number of times and to my credit, I just sort of tuned her out.

But now it's become a mantra, especially with the sudden resurgence of the A-Team 2. Cries of "I'm in!" have become commonplace and I'm thrilled to report that as of today, we have 13 skaters who are also "In!"

I'm in.

3.24.2005

Hung By The Chimney With Care
Tuesday night was my last game in net. I had ideas like I'd feel all sad about it since it (hopefully) marks the beginning end of my life as a member of the Childfree Givers of Assvice, but in the end, I just don't. It's one more thing that I tried and just didn't get much better at. Part of what made it hard is knowing that I finally don't suck at skating out -- it was hard to be bad at hockey, even if it's doing a completely alien thing.

When I first started skating, I sucked at it. Really sucked. Just ask Andrea or anyone who took the beginner class for A YEAR STRAIGHT like I did, she saw a lot of those painful days on the ice. I'd never done any sports and it was a struggle to do anything at all. I repeated that beginner class 3 times and finally sort of figured out what I was doing. Every. single. thing. I can do on the ice now is the product of A LOT of hard work. Not any kind of god-given athletic talent or natural ability. Just work.

I had this vain hope that in playing goalie, some of that work would carry over and I'd at least do a few things well. Ha! It was the same story, starting all over again. And after I hurt my shoulder, well, I just wasn't that into it. I don't think I miss it at all.

Too Little, Too Late?
The Logitech guy finally got back to me about the A-Team 2 leaving. He's offered to
  • Even the divisions out again so that EE features actual beginner teams or at least teams that don't kick our asses EVERY time. Just sometimes, which is fine.
  • Work with us on scheduling conflicts (e.g. no more late Sunday afternoons, conflicting with NCWHL slots)
  • Give us a small discount
So far, I have 6 interested returning folks who are willing to give this a shot. Think I can hit the magic 15? I'm inclined to give it a try, especially since it's so damn close to our house.

Hellish Midterm, Part 1
Yesterday, I knew the joy that was a midterm exam in Research Methods. I had studied for weeks, because, well, I'm not 18 anymore and the thought of staying up all night the day before the test just isn't that interesting anymore. But still, the test was challenging. My brain and my injured left hand were in pain afterwards, but I got through it. Knew most of the material, probably enough to get a high B. This is the one class I'm allowing myself to get less than an A in, it's just that hard.

I did get my totally redone prepropsal paper back and scored myself an A- on that one. Not too shabby! I also spent some time with Dr. Heyman afterwards, getting my official candiacy for graduation form together. It was sort of thrilling to list everything I've done and note that they do, in fact, add up to enough credits and effort to get my ass a Master's. I have to hand-deliver the thing today but then, I'll be on the Road to Masterhood.

Or whatever it is.

Today, I have my second hellish midterm in two days, but this subject matter is more interesting (ethics and sport rather than research methods, which are by and large dry, no matter how you slice it, even with a Ginsu knife, it's still boring) and more easily lends itself to the types of comparisons I'm used to writing. And of course, it has Lawrence and all his wisdom.

And then, afterwards? Skating! With Jena, who will wear black pants.

3.23.2005

The Grand Poobah
One of the more fun parts of having an old friend be your boss, and of having another old friend work in your group is that sometimes, you can be a little silly. Hence Heather and I have renamed our fearless leader Mr. Brady (since we now have 6 people on our team, which is divided into 2 distinct groups of 3 just like the Brady kids. Although, who's Tiger then, and what about Alice?) or the Grand Poobah, depending.

Every time I see an email addressed to Mr. Brady I can't help but snicker, out loud, to myself. Then pretend like I was coughing.

Broken
I am officially broken in more ways at one time than at any point in my life, including that spectacular bicycle crash at Julie Park's house when I was in first grade. Here's the summary:
  • Right shoulder impingement. Still not fully healed, yesterday's chiropractor visit helped patch her up, but really. Ow.
  • Right ankle still painful from the Minor Ankle Sprain of 2005.
  • Outside of right foot just now starting to develop bruise from puck impact Saturday night.
  • Left pinkie hurts like a bitch. I think this is from my goalie glove, which was slipping off (nothing is scarier than discovering any section of bare skin while playing goalie) so I pulled the little pinkie string during the game to keep it on. I think that worked a little too well.
  • Left wrist, connected to left pinkie, also painful.
See above for reminders about why I shouldn't play goalie.

3.22.2005

Thanks Lili!

Finally! New pics of Lili and she's doing this! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Next stop: world domination. Check with Sam and Riley for hints.

Tape Delay, Part Deux
Last spring, my amazing and wonderful advisor was forced into early retirement. I think department politics played a role but maybe it really was just the part of the Guvenator's Grand Plan for Education, which from what I can see, has done absolutely nothing to improve my own educational experience. But I digress.

This amazing woman retired LAST MAY. Today, almost a year after she left our department with not so much as a teeny bit of fanfare, they are at last having a retirement reception for her. Of course, it's from 2-4:30 pm on a Tuesday, a day when many people have jobs to attend, but I will go. I have to go. She was, without a doubt, the best teacher I've ever had. And at this point, I've had quite a lot of teachers so my sample size is representative, if not stratified or random.

It will be the first time I've seen her since I walked out of her class last May. Little did I know how quickly things would get worse in the department, how easy it would be for me to lose faith in my own efforts without her there to guide me. I've been largely on my own this year and I have to say, it's really sucked.

I'll get through, at this point, I'm too close not to. But it's really not the same as if she'd been there the whole way.

Tape Delay
So, more than a month ago, I wrote to the guy who runs the league at Logitech, telling him the A-Team 2 was leaving. No response. Today, I get a question -- are both teams coming back?

Why do I bother?

Olympic Tryout!
I just got a flyer about an open Olympic Tryout for the U.S. National Hockey Team, somewhere in Southern CA in May. Wouldn't it be amazing to go and try out? Obviously, my red-pant wearing ass would last through the warmups, maybe, before being called out and politely sent home. But that's not the point. The point would be to say, for the rest of my life, "I tried out for the Olympics."

It's sort of like what I can now say, that I was on The Price Is Right. Even though Amy and I were not called down, we were, in fact ON the Price Is Right, with Bob Barker.

3.21.2005

Goalie-ing Made Easy
Yesterday, my legs were so tired from Saturday night's CocoNUTpolooza that I had a real problem standing up after I made a save. So I gave into it and just stayed lying down, angling myself toward the play. The amazing part was that it worked. The shooters tend to throw the puck right at me so as long as I was angled properly, I was good to go. And then laugh after the play stopped.

Highlights:

  • when I was laying on my stomach, feet in the net, pointed out toward the ice, I managed to read the play enough to wait for the shot, then grab the puck with my hands in front of me, barely using my stick, let alone those fancyass leg pads.
  • going down sideways for a breakaway, then rolling over so the puck was under my lovely gut, coming up from the save with great flourish, revealing the hidden puck like I was goddamn Houdidni
  • in the 3rd period, when I simply laid down and stacked my pads after the first save. I scootched down to the edge of the net where it looked like the play was going and waited. Sure enough, the shot came and I stopped it.
I guess the main thing I've leared playing goalie is patience. Other defenseman make their move early, when the opposing player crosses the blue line, but now, I wait, drawing them wide like all manuals say, then blocking the shot when they finally do take it. No, this doesn't always work, but nothing works *every* time. My way works an awful lot of the time.

I've also become a shot-blocking fool (not unlike block-rocking-beats), able to block with my feet (note to readers: blocking with the outside of your skate HURTS LIKE HELL), my shins, my skates, my hand, my stick (though this is dangerous because sticks are so narrow they often throw the angle waaay off, scaring the shit out of your goalie). Both of those things help me as a defenseman and though my goalie career isn't ending on the highest of notes, it has helped me improve my level of play when I skate out. And that's pretty rad.

One Way To Deal With My Mom
Dear Mom,
We are moving to antartica...there are no phones or internet. Do not try to contact us.
Liz

Oww
I'm about to say this, and mean it. I played too much hockey this weekend. Saturday night, we played for the Stanley Keg with a whopping 6 people. That means 1 on the bench. For the entire game. Now, I realize that for you ice time junkies, this sounds like Big Fun, but for people like me, who enjoy knowing that there will be even a moment of rest after some hard play, it sucks. Hard.

We did our best, held them to 3-0. It could have been worse. It could have been a lot worse. But it wasn't, and that's cool. I left the rink to go play another game at Logitech. And a good thing I showed, we only wound up with 10 and lost 5-1. I got my lone point of the season on an assist for that goal, though, so woo!

Sunday, I subbed for the last maroon game of the season, then played goalie right afterwards. I think it was the goalie that did me in. I was still exhausted from Saturday night's hockeypolooza, so every time I went down, down I stayed. From this position, I discovered that it's still possible to make the second save and I ended up making some very huge saves while laying down and angling myself toward the play. Who knew? Of course we lost, 2-1. The 2 were both goals I couldn't have done much about -- 1 was a player getting her own rebound after I'd gone down and the second was a deflection from my defenseman. So I don't feel all that bad.

But just as I was thinking, hey, this is almost fun, poof! my shoulder pain returns with a vengance. It's worse than it was last summer, at it's peak of pain-ness. Great, just in time for my last game as a goalie, tomorrow night. Rock on, my bad self. The Advil is helping but it still smarts.

On top of it, I'm having some continuing drama with my mom that just won't stop. Today, she accused me (and Andrea) of lying about something pretty mundane, so I hung up on her. Very calmly, I said "I'm going to hang up now, I don't need to deal with this." But it still smarts, to have her accuse me of lying, something that if she knew me better, she'd know I 1. can't pull off with any degree of confidence and 2. just don't do, as a matter of course. I'm about to maintain radio silence with her and see what happens.

What usually happens is that she'll have my dad call me instead, and after a couple of weeks, she'll get on the phone and act like nothing happened. But this time, something DID happen. She accused me of lying. That's just not okay so I'm not sure where this will go. They're scheduled for another visit in about a month, I wonder if this will prompt them to cancel. Again. It's so hard because while I enjoy having them around for a visit, their incessant need to plan every moment of their stay drives me up the wall, assuming I can get past this whole lying drama.

Because it's really a little much.

3.20.2005

Update on The Man

I spoke with our friend Sue, Eric's mom, today. It seems that he is finally on the mend. He is IV-free, walking around (not far, and not without pain, but walking just the same) asking for pizza and for his Playstation. The bad news: the infection has left him with a weakened wall in his heart, fleeting double vision and some pretty major back pain. But he's better and may get home in the next 3-5 days. Thanks to all who sent him emails, ecards and paper cards, please keep 'em coming. --liz2d2

3.18.2005

Proof That It Was Fun

Click the matey for prrroof that we had a verrrry nice time being pirates on my birrrrthday!

All I'd Hoped For
Thanks to everyone who sent emails, cards, good wishes and to the Burninators and Burninating friends who came to my birthday dinner. It was exactly the kind of mellow birthday I'd hoped for. Susan and Bill brought Riley and Sam to the dinner. The girls were soo tired but behaved like pros, charming everyone along the way. Jennie's Graham made me a wonderful picture of himself, Andrea, and I, and was also very charming. The cake featured a picture of the Burninators and we all tried to get the piece with our faces on it, though Viv's picturecake face got cut in half. It was just amazing to have everyone there, thank you thank you thank you one and all for coming to share the day with me.

3.17.2005

32
As of today, I am 32 years old. What does 32 get you that 31 didn't? An increasing sense of my own mortality (woo! one year closer to the end! Hip Hip Hooray for that) and a keen awareness that this is most likely the last birthday I'll have where I'm not someone's mommy. At least, to someone without fur. I've already got the mommy to furry things down pretty well.

So far, it's also gotten me the usual: the conference call from my parents where we see my Dad's confusion with the conference part ("Okay, hold on just a second." Click. "Marts?" (that's what he calls my mom) "No, dad, still just me." "Okay, hold on..." Click. "Dear, is that you?" "No dad, still me." and on and on until finally they are both on the line) It took them so long to both get on the phone that they declined to sing Happy Birthday, which is just as well. I'd prefer the Price Is Right theme anyway.

That coversation also includes the story of my birth, which goes something like this. On Saint Patrick's Day, 1973, they were having a nice Irish dinner of Corned Beef and cabbage, realizing that after 3.5 years of waiting for a daughter, they should call Catholic Social Services and tell them that a boy would be okay, too. Even though they really wanted a boy AND a girl. For balance, I guess. And so my mom could buy hundreds of expensive dresses that even now seem superfluous to me but obviously gave her a great deal of joy to dress me in. So they ate their Irish dinner and played with their 3.5 year old son and quietly gave up hope that the world would actually give them what they wanted.

That same day, about 3 hours before that dinner, a young girl had left the home for unwed mothers where she'd been living for the last few months and headed to the hospital to deliver a healthy baby girl that she'd only meet for 30 minutes before their legal ties to one another were permanently severed. She went on with her life, holding only a few small momentoes of that day, while I went on to the big white house on Essex Road and a closet full of dresses.

Later, they'd meet again, giving that girl a sense of peace that she'd never found anywhere else. Today, they are friends, that girl has two amazing, smart and funny half-brothers, and of course, the love of the family from that big white house (along with some rather painful memories of those dresses, but that is another story).

So yes, happy birthday to me, but happy my birthday to both of my mothers, Kathy who loved me enough to bring me into this world and Marti, who, I hope, got what she wanted in a daughter, even if it meant getting me instead.

Update on The Man
Eric, our friend Sue's son, was discharged from the hospital for all of one day. He returned two days ago because he was feeling dizzy. Doctors discovered that his infection had spread to his hypothalmus (somewhere in his brain, I'm counting on Susan, our Resident Medical Expert, to comment with more info). He also feels like there's something stuck in his throat so he wants to throw up all the time. That feeling rules out eating, so between the first 12 days of the illness and this, the man now weighs in at 99 pounds. He was very tired last night, hardly talked at all, so we sat with Sue and tried to help her think about things other than her sick child across the room.

Apparently, he'd had visitors of his own earlier in the day -- the brother and sister of another girl he'd known growing up. She was 5 years older than him, also was born with HIV and had just died a few weeks ago. He was thrilled to see these young folks and had entertained them for a good long while so it makes sense that he was pooped. He rested and listened to the TV while we talked with Sue.

At one point, Eric called out for Sue and said, Mom, I'm scared. She hugged him and sat with him, then asked if she could come back to visiting with us. Eventually the doctor called her and we headed out.

He's still hoping for more cards, e-cards, email notes, funny pictures from the internet, anything he can look at in the barren room, so please please please drop me a line if you can spare a moment to send a sick kid a message.

3.16.2005

Harder Than It Looks
Today, I turn in my preproposal paper that introduces what I'll be working on for my earth-shattering, world-changing thesis. I'd been working on it for a while sort of in parallel to my thesis, expanding my list of resources as I went along. But last night, I took a good look at it and realized it needed to be completely different, much more informal than the way I'd written it so far.

So at 11:30 last night, I got started and by 1:30 a.m., it was done and, I think, right. I can only hope. I was at that fortunate point where I knew enough to change my format without too much effort and without completely fucking up the revised version. I suspect that when I go to finish the thesis itself, I'll end up being so tired of looking at it that it will all blur together. But that's where my friendly live-in editor comes in, to remind me when I'm not making sense.

The end of this will be a Master's degree and a bound thesis that sits in the SJ Library. I'll finally be published! Even if it's not the novel I've always imagined I will write, it's still going to be my first book. That's something to hold on to during the long hours in class and in front of my computer.

3.15.2005

How Nice Would It Be?
If yesterday's ruling really does pave the way for us queers to get married? Imagine not having to have our kid 'out of wedlock,' imagine being able to register at Target for the same types of silly items that we've bought for our friends over the years. Imagine being able to tell anyone who asked, and have it be really true, "Yup, I'm married."

Just thinking it brings tears to my eyes. Please, God, let this open the door that would let me get married, for real.

The Exhaustion Continues
It would be so nice if work had naptimes, where we could all get out our little mats and just rest for an hour. Or even for 20 minutes. Not sleeping well over the last week or so has left me ready to nap at a moment's notice and it's just not fair to the myriad of bugs that are counting on me to fix them.

Happy Birthday Susan!

It's a day late and a dollar short, but there it is. Happy Birthday to the mom of our favorite baby twins!

Seriously Over School
When I first started getting this degree, many things were different.
  • I had no job and a career change seemed like a good idea at the time.
  • I thought I had some degree of passion for the material.
  • I thought my department (Recreation) was the right place for studying sports. Guess what? It's not. The right place is Human Performance, but it's too late to switch so I'm stuck completing a couple of required classes or not getting a degree.
  • My advisor was also teaching in the department. She's an amazing woman, without a doubt, the best teacher I've ever had. And I assure you, I've had some terrific teachers over the years but Maureen, she's the best. She could make anything interesting and could draw even the shyest students out of their shells.
  • I drove a Passat.
I threw that last one in there because I ran out of stuff to say.

So now, all of that is different. I have senioritis, even though in the Master's world, you don't really get to be a 'senior,' you just 'finish' or 'not'. I have one real class left in my own department, the class where the good teacher (second best to my advisor, imho) was forced out because this full time faculty guy had nobody sign up for his class and he needed a way to justify getting paid. In with the snoozer, out with the person with real-world experience and a compelling stage presence. Sigh.

I know the guy means well, but when things get slow, or quiet, he defaults to talking about his own experience getting a PhD. Last night, he told us that he got paid $800 AN HOUR to do some evaluation work. Sorry if I don't buy what you're selling on that one, pal.

Last night, I was tired, grumpy, and sick to death of being one of 2 people in the class who can speak coherently about the material. So I did something new; I was quiet. Yep, fucking around on my sidekick. Yep, talking to Jena (who did her damndest to make me laugh out loud) and sending her pics of the Man Himself, but not discussing the merits of Quantitative vs. Qualitative methods (depends on your research question), the pros and cons of the Benefits-Based Planning Model (works if you use it in the right circumstances) or any other thing related to planning or evaluation of leisure stuff.

The problem was, nobody else discussed them either. My class is made up of mostly international students who come from a very different style of teaching. In their background, teachers talk and students listen. Period. That's all great when classes are large and lecture-style. But with 11 students and a teacher who defaults to talking out his ass, it makes for a seriously tedious night.

So after almost 3 hours of the Heyman Show, he asked us for a one word evaluation of the evening. The polite guy who never talks said 'useful,' the polite woman who never talks said 'interesting.' I took a deep breath. Waited for the urge to pass, but it didn't. So I said it:

'Rambling. Unfocused.'

Yep, I took 2 words when he gave us one. But screw it. I'd just wasted, WASTED 3 HOURS OF MY LIFE listening to him drone while the rest of them sat there like bumps on logs. I went on to say that normally, I talk a lot but I stayed quiet on purpose tonight so they could participate. Maybe that's pompous of me but how would you rather spend 3 hours of your night? Engaging in somewhat compelling discussion, or listening to Mr. Heyman drone on?

But he got my point, and has assigned each person to lead discussions of chapters in the reading going forward. Though my international friends will merely regurgitate the reading (4 semesters with them has proven this to be true, I'm not just guessing), at least they'll be talking instead of him. That's something.

8 more class meetings until I only have to do research and worry about trying to get pregnant.

3.14.2005

It Used To Be My Best Event
Sleep. Man, I was Liz Doughty, Master of Sleeping. But the last couple of weeks or so, I've been the Master of Laying Awake and Feeling Nauseous, alternating with Liz Doughty, Master of Waking Up at the Ass Crack of Dawn and Not Being Able to Go Back to Sleep. It's really starting to catch up with me and also, getting very old.

Please, sleep fairy, stop by my house before we are with child and get no more sleep, ever.

I swear to God, my ENTIRE LUNCH got stuck between my teeth.

Unruly Boozers
Reading Crazy Us's Bad Night Out With A Boozer reminds me why I don't drink to excess anymore, other than a very occasional, very tasty cheapass beer after a hard day of hockey. Because that shit gets expensive. And messy. And invariably, somebody gets hurt or stuck with a far-too-large portion of a gigantic bar bill. Maybe not the first time, maybe not the hundredth, but the sum total of constant excessive drinking is without fail someone (usually other than the drinker, I guess that would be the drinkee) getting hurt. And who wants to be the person who did that?

Just a PSA from your friend here at LizSpeaks.

Hanging Up The Gear
I finally sent the email I'd been both dreading and looking forward to -- the one where I told our goalie coordinator that I won't be playing goalie next season. I said I'd sub through June, but after that, I'm done. I know that there are people who love playing goalie, who have some degree of natural aptitude for it, but after a couple of years, off and on, it's time to own up: I am NOT one of those people.

Granted, my time in the net has taught me a lot about shooting and more importantly, about blocking shots while playing defense. I'm incredibly grateful for that, even when a puck hits right on the not-very-padded part of my ankle, it still didn't go into the net. But I won't miss all that pressure (yes, much of it self-induced) or knowing that I just didn't like it all that much.

I'm going to hang on to my goalie gear for a while, and I'll probably always keep my custom blocker, since it has my name on it. But yep, my days as a goalie officially end a week from tomorrow.

Hanging Up The Gear
I finally sent the email I'd been both dreading and looking forward to -- the one where I told our goalie coordinator that I won't be playing goalie next season. I said I'd sub through June, but after that, I'm done. I know that there are people who love playing goalie, who have some degree of natural aptitude for it, but after a couple of years, off and on, it's time to own up: I am NOT one of those people.

Granted, my time in the net has taught me a lot about shooting and more importantly, about blocking shots while playing defense. I'm incredibly grateful for that, even when a puck hits right on the not-very-padded part of my ankle, it still didn't go into the net. But I won't miss all that pressure (yes, much of it self-induced) or knowing that I just didn't like it all that much.

I'm going to hang on to my goalie gear for a while, and I'll probably always keep my custom blocker, since it has my name on it. But yep, my days as a goalie officially end a week from tomorrow.

3.13.2005

This House is Your House
This house ain't my house. We started to think that the upcoming journey to parenthood will mean that our already-small house is about to become smaller. As it is, we find ourselves squeezing past each other in the bathroom and crowded into parts of the house with the dogs.

So we started looking and after a whopping 2 houses, I have to say that the housing market sucks butt. House #1 seemed really cute in the picture and I'm sure it was because when we rolled up, it was a completely different house! The neighborhood was way more ghetto than our current one and the house. Wow. It had been an illegal tri-plex, with 3 separate entrances and a whole bunch of weird shit like a small deck for the entrance to the seriously janky master bedroom, a backyard divided in half by a fence (not that we're any strangers to that particular design method) and the most random spiral staircase inside to the master bedroom. The staircase sat atop a really weird white piece of raised tile, set amid a grass-green piece of carpet that was no doubt a remnant from Bubba's Ghetto Carpet Warehouse.

Parts of the house were sort of nice but it was like they ran out of paint, grout, inspiration, or all three. So that was a no and it was onto #2, which was a mere 1 mile away from our house. We'd driven by it before and the neighborhood seemed worth looking at. But once we saw the kitchen, holy crap, there is some janky-ass construction out there. The entire kitchen sloped towards the outside wall by about 3 inches. Not only was it the ugliest kitchen we'd ever seen, it had cabinets that don't open and of course the very special sloping. That whole side of the house had the special sloping, including one of the smallest bedrooms ever.

The main bathroom featured shower doors with the same type of ghetto swans we had when we lived in our ghetto apartment building in Mountain View. Imagine the excitement of seeing the very same swans in a house that listed for over a half a million dollars! Wow!

Again, with the super smallass bedroom and a weird random deck off the master bedroom. Behind the one car garage was a majorly janky little teeny room that was probably an illegal rental, sans bathroom like our garage once was. The master bathroom had two sinks but no room whatsoever to move around. Sigh. Two seen, two rejected.

When we got home, I did a few things to clean up our little house and stopped for a moment to admire how damn sturdy this house is. No weird addons, no sloping floors, just solid ground and strong construction. So cramped we will be for now, in our sturdy little house.

3.11.2005

Remember The 70's?
Thanks Tim, for this bad boy. Caution: Carol is still scrubbing her brain so you can't say you weren't warned!

Holy Crap
I just searched MLS listings for houses in our zip code and have confirmed what we suspected: we can't afford to buy a bigger house in our own neigborhood. That people are willing to fork out over a half of a million dineros for our dogs-a-barking, police-stopping-by-at-least-once-a-week, mariachi-band-music-playing-outdoors, drug-dealers-down-the-street, neighbors-on-both-sides-convicted-criminals neighborhood astounds me. I guess it means we could get a bigger house in someone else's neighborhood. So weird.

More Disney Pics

Note that I am doing the official Cheer of Burnination. Tsss.

StrongBad Has Outdone Himself!
Just when you thought Dangeresque or Trogdor were StrongBad's best work, I offer you this: Rock Opera.

The sheer genius of that guy never stops amazing me.

3.10.2005

You Don't Know This Heartache
And really, I don't either. I was just a passer-by to this world but it affected me deeply enough to share. Our friend Sue has a son, he is almost 18. A very sweet, polite young man who has known far too much pain in his short life. He was born HIV positive and has spent the past almost 18 years first being adopted by our friend and her now-ex partner, then enduring a lifetime of needle pricks to monitor the disease's (lack of, to date) progress on his scrawny body.

About two weeks ago, this guy caught some sort of viral infection that has started ravaging his body. His brain, some internal organ that I can't remember offhand and now, possibly, his heart have been impacted. He's been in the hospital ever since, his first lengthy stay ever. I went to visit him last night, to bring my little DVD player and a handful of movies for him. It was nothing like visiting little miss Sammi the night of her one-time-only seizure.

I'd heard he was feeling better, so I had high hopes that he'd be sitting up, giving everyone a hard time. When I asked at the nurses' station where his room was, in the time it took her to walk the 3 steps to gesture in the direction of his room, about 5 doctors and nurses had rushed in there.

Thanks for showing me the way but a simple wave of the arm would have been far preferable to that kind of commotion! The man was having a hard time breathing. I waved at his mom and waited in the hallway. Eventually they all left, having hooked up a big oxygen mask. The man was curled up in his bed, looking smaller than ever, hovering near the oxygen thingie. He did his best to perk up for my visit, told me about how he plays roller hockey in the driveway, how he can't remember what he was studying in school, but they were playing football in PE.

Later, a nurse, (not Pam, who is apparently the expert in such matters) came in to draw blood. The man HATES having blood drawn. He's acutely aware of how many of his veins no longer cooperate and watching him hold his weary arm up to the light to look for a potential vein broke my heart. It took a number of tries, eventually the vein he found was the one that worked. But kids shouldn't need to know where to look for a tappable vein, they just shouldn't.

I stayed until way too late, but I think it meant something to the man and his mom, to have someone new to talk to. He finally fell asleep, after many visits from doctors and nurses who all wanted to do some prodding or poking of some sort. Drugs were administered, IV's were checked and re-tubed, breathing treatments given, and all the while, the man stayed cool, chatting as much as possible, groaning when not.

When he needed some privacy, I stepped into the hallyway to wait. As I stood there, surrounded by the steady beeping of monitors, the hiss of oxygen flowing around me, I prayed to a God that I'm not sure I know that our baby be spared that kind of life, that he be healthy and perfect from the start.

And instantly, I felt guilty for asking. But I asked just the same.

I heard this morning that the man had a better night so I'm hopeful that he's on the mend. In the meantime, if you'd like to send a great young guy you may never meet a card or an email (his mom has taken apart the phone in his hospital room and is dialing up from her laptop. She can print out any ecards he gets, or even just email well-wishes from kind strangers like you) please email me and I'll put you in touch with his mom.

You Don't Know This Heartache
And really, I don't either. I was just a passer-by to this world but it affected me deeply enough to share. Our friend Sue has a son, he is almost 18. A very sweet, polite young man who has known far too much pain in his short life. He was born HIV positive and has spent the past almost 18 years first being adopted by our friend and her now-ex partner, then enduring a lifetime of needle pricks to monitor the disease's (lack of, to date) progress on his scrawny body.

About two weeks ago, this guy caught some sort of viral infection that has started ravaging his body. His brain, some internal organ that I can't remember offhand and now, possibly, his heart have been impacted. He's been in the hospital ever since, his first lengthy stay ever. I went to visit him last night, to bring my little DVD player and a handful of movies for him. It was nothing like visiting little miss Sammi the night of her one-time-only seizure.

I'd heard he was feeling better, so I had high hopes that he'd be sitting up, giving everyone a hard time. When I asked at the nurses' station where his room was, in the time it took her to walk the 3 steps to gesture in the direction of his room, about 5 doctors and nurses had rushed in there.

Thanks for showing me the way but a simple wave of the arm would have been far preferable to that kind of commotion! The man was having a hard time breathing. I waved at his mom and waited in the hallway. Eventually they all left, having hooked up a big oxygen mask. The man was curled up in his bed, looking smaller than ever, hovering near the oxygen thingie. He did his best to perk up for my visit, told me about how he plays roller hockey in the driveway, how he can't remember what he was studying in school, but they were playing football in PE.

Later, a nurse, (not Pam, who is apparently the expert in such matters) came in to draw blood. The man HATES having blood drawn. He's acutely aware of how many of his veins no longer cooperate and watching him hold his weary arm up to the light to look for a potential vein broke my heart. It took a number of tries, eventually the vein he found was the one that worked. But kids shouldn't need to know where to look for a tappable vein, they just shouldn't.

I stayed until way too late, but I think it meant something to the man and his mom, to have someone new to talk to. He finally fell asleep, after many visits from doctors and nurses who all wanted to do some prodding or poking of some sort. Drugs were administered, IV's were checked and re-tubed, breathing treatments given, and all the while, the man stayed cool, chatting as much as possible, groaning when not.

When he needed some privacy, I stepped into the hallyway to wait. As I stood there, surrounded by the steady beeping of monitors, the hiss of oxygen flowing around me, I prayed to a God that I'm not sure I know that our baby be spared that kind of life, that he be healthy and perfect from the start.

And instantly, I felt guilty for asking. But I asked just the same.

I heard this morning that the man had a better night so I'm hopeful that he's on the mend. In the meantime, if you'd like to send a great young guy you may never meet a card or an email (his mom has taken apart the phone in his hospital room and is dialing up from her laptop. She can print out any ecards he gets, or even just email well-wishes from kind strangers like you) please email me and I'll put you in touch with his mom.

You Don't Know This Heartache
And really, I don't either. I was just a passer-by to this world but it affected me deeply enough to share. Our friend Sue has a son, he is almost 18. A very sweet, polite young man who has known far too much pain in his short life. He was born HIV positive and has spent the past almost 18 years first being adopted by our friend and her now-ex partner, then enduring a lifetime of needle pricks to monitor the disease's (lack of, to date) progress on his scrawny body.

About two weeks ago, this guy caught some sort of viral infection that has started ravaging his body. His brain, some internal organ that I can't remember offhand and now, possibly, his heart have been impacted. He's been in the hospital ever since, his first lengthy stay ever. I went to visit him last night, to bring my little DVD player and a handful of movies for him. It was nothing like visiting little miss Sammi the night of her one-time-only seizure.

I'd heard he was feeling better, so I had high hopes that he'd be sitting up, giving everyone a hard time. When I asked at the nurses' station where his room was, in the time it took her to walk the 3 steps to gesture in the direction of his room, about 5 doctors and nurses had rushed in there.

Thanks for showing me the way but a simple wave of the arm would have been far preferable to that kind of commotion! The man was having a hard time breathing. I waved at his mom and waited in the hallway. Eventually they all left, having hooked up a big oxygen mask. The man was curled up in his bed, looking smaller than ever, hovering near the oxygen thingie. He did his best to perk up for my visit, told me about how he plays roller hockey in the driveway, how he can't remember what he was studying in school, but they were playing football in PE.

Later, a nurse, (not Pam, who is apparently the expert in such matters) came in to draw blood. The man HATES having blood drawn. He's acutely aware of how many of his veins no longer cooperate and watching him hold his weary arm up to the light to look for a potential vein broke my heart. It took a number of tries, eventually the vein he found was the one that worked. But kids shouldn't need to know where to look for a tappable vein, they just shouldn't.

I stayed until way too late, but I think it meant something to the man and his mom, to have someone new to talk to. He finally fell asleep, after many visits from doctors and nurses who all wanted to do some prodding or poking of some sort. Drugs were administered, IV's were checked and re-tubed, breathing treatments given, and all the while, the man stayed cool, chatting as much as possible, groaning when not.

When he needed some privacy, I stepped into the hallyway to wait. As I stood there, surrounded by the steady beeping of monitors, the hiss of oxygen flowing around me, I prayed to a God that I'm not sure I know that our baby be spared that kind of life, that he be healthy and perfect from the start.

And instantly, I felt guilty for asking. But I asked just the same.

I heard this morning that the man had a better night so I'm hopeful that he's on the mend. In the meantime, if you'd like to send a great young guy you may never meet a card or an email (his mom has taken apart the phone in his hospital room and is dialing up from her laptop. She can print out any ecards he gets, or even just email well-wishes from kind strangers like you) please email me and I'll put you in touch with his mom.

3.09.2005

Pickup! Woo!
My red team played last night, working their way to a 4-4 tie, even with overtime. One of our subs scored the most amazing goal, running across the top of the crease, shooting it in as she leapt into the air, scoring with great style. Amazing stuff.

I stayed afterwards to play the pickup game and it was big fun as always. Yep, I am invariably one of the few slowest folks out there, but I still have some finesse, which I'm not afraid to show. Totally fun, even if I am completely exhausted today.

In other news, I had a dream that Andrea and I were held hostage by someone who's been quite mean to me in real life. We escaped when I realized that she wasn't very good at keeping hostages (I said this out loud in the dream, "So-and-so isn't very good at keeping hostages, let's get outta here.). I guess my subconcious would like me to move on, to free myself from the thing that this woman and I have in common. Maybe I should listen. I so wish I could share the sordid details of how it's gone with this particular woman, for she has indeed caused me a great amount of stress, but, well, the internet is small and connections are just a little too close. So that's all ye get, ye lubbers.

3.08.2005

More On That
After careful consideration of that last post, I realize it could come off as a little snotty. Which, considering the interactions that inspired it, isn't unwarranted but for the record, what I mean is that I do not stand there, mouth agape, in shock when you tell me about your weekends whoring and smoking crack so please don't do the same to me when I mention our plans to become parents. I really don't think it's too much to ask.

My Favorite Kind of Assvice
Isn't exactly assvice. It's more the incredulity from the people whose lives are in a very different plane than mine/ours are, people who are nowhere near being able to imagine themselves being settled enough to own a house nor ready to be parents. They are always STUNNED that two dykes could have their shit together enough to pull off all of the above and stand there, saying to to me over and over something like "wow, YOU?" as if I'm some kind of free-wheeling playboy who hits the clubs every weekend and has a thousand ladies on speed dial. They may also equate us with their gay aquaintences who had a kid, then broke up, no doubt due to the kid rather than with pre-existing issues with their relationship. This same logic is not extended to their straight friends with kids who got divorced.

Let's call a spade a spade here, instead of saying that (and a whole earful of additional stunned comments) to me, say it to yourself. That's who you're talking about anyway. Because in the end, you don't know anything about me and it's not my requirement to justify how ready we are or are not for this.

Love ya, but could you please keep your opinions to yourself and trust that we have some degree of rationality and control about our situation? Just be happy for us, okay?

It Is Time
I've been half-heartedly trying to switch from Blogger to Moveable Type but I keep confusing myself with the installation process. But Blogger just ate a post for the second time today and I'm getting pissed. The world needs to know what's in my brain! Blogger, you are holding me back!

What's Going On...
Nothing. Not much. Just the same ol' stuff. Work, school, sleep, wake up to take my temp, repeat, with the occasional hockey game thrown in. The weather's getting better, which means that you can now start the countdown until I start wearing shorts EVERY DAY. Because I can.

School is grooving along. Last night's class included a mere 5 heymans and me doing my best to lead the discussion when it got a bit too windbag-ish. I presented the survey I did about our women's league's semi-annual try hockey day and was met with a flurry of questions from my class, most notable were the vast number of ways they asked if we could raise fees, without giving me any concrete reason why. That was weird and yes, I'll ask for clarification from them when I go back next week because it remains a mystery to me still. We've all sort of accepted that we're merely unpaid interns for the event we're working with and that's okay because it will let me phone in my performance this semester, at least for that event. I'm always surprised at how much I've managed to process about what we read, and how little many of my classmates seem to know. Most discussions are just me, the teacher and this one other nerd like me. If I wanted to have that small of a discussion, I'd take us all out for coffee. But there it is.

Here's a question: do you know what jas means in internet-speak? I didn't until today, when Heather M, the Founder of the Internet, told me.

3.07.2005

Note to Self
The file completion feature that I adore about UNIX does NOT work when talking about UNIX paths in Outlook.

My big birthday party is rapidly approaching and it seems that we've already outgrown the original location: Buca De Beppos. With 23 people, that's just too many for that joint so we're looking for plan B. Viv's excellent suggestion: SoopahVivinator: shall we just rent a circus tent?

Yes! We could put it up in the Belmont parking lot and have snowball fights with our party.

Overheard at Disneyland
  • From the mom of a little girl, to that little girl who was SCREAMING inside a bathroom stall because she was apparently constipated: I can feel it! I'm touching it!
  • Later, from that same mom: You're not a princess, because a princess uses the toilet.
    By that definition, most of you readers are princesses!
  • From the mom of a sullen teenager, just before park closing in the line for Alice in Wonderland: You'd better stop acting so antisocial because NOBODY fucking cares about you.
    Happiest place on earth, indeed!

Hardy Harrrr Harrrr
Jenanator: nerd joke: what is a pirate's favorite nucleic acid?
Jenanator: why, of course: arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRNA

We're Back!
We almost had a hockey-free vacation. Almost, until we went to see the Jr. Sharks play in the regionals tournament and win their way into the final. They ended up losing in double overtime, but hooray for getting that far. We also ran into a bunch of Seals, who were there for the tourney as well. I cannot escape them after all...

But I digress. Disneyland was terrific as always. Not too crowded, full of fun and frolic. We caught up with Jennie and Graham on Friday, then with the Nettes for an action-packed Saturday. Both nights, we shut California Adventure down on my favorite ride, Heimlich's Chew Chew Train. We rode all the bouncyass rides that you can't ride while pregnant and had a very relaxing time. It was crazy amazing to think that the next time we were at Disneyland, we'd be parents or at least, pregnant. Wow. The Sheraton was very nice, quiet and of course, stocked with the Sweet Sleeper Bed.

We talked about other places to go on vacations, but really, we don't hike or camp or have the acumulated vacation time to go on a big long international excursion so back to Disney we seem to go.

We came home in time for two back-to-back A-Team games but I decided to go to my maroon game instead. For the second time all season, we pulled off a win. It was amazing. We finally gelled and went on to beat Viv's team 4-1, I think, knocking them out of first place. I guess if you can't win, you can at least be the spoiler. Stupid fun.

3.03.2005

Reasons #1-105 That I'm Not Straight
I don't know how You People deal with the cleanup after The Sex. Phat props to you for knowing that there's always cleanup involved and still being willing to do The Deed.

My Bidness, Not Your Bidness
Note to self: it's not always necessary to engage in discussions about personal matters just because I am asked about them. Yep, we're getting ready to try to get pregnant, but nope, I don't need to discuss it in detail at the drop of a hat just because people ask. Gotta remember that.

What I Wouldn't Give
During last night's cleaning extravaganza, I was on the verge of a migraine the entire time. If you get migraines you know this feeling: this wave of pain looming at the back of your head, ready to creep in and descend like a fog over everything that feels good or is bright about your surroundings. Andrea is well-trained to help me prevent them, so when I told her I felt one coming, she said what she's said for years: "Go have a Coke," and went on about her own cleaning bidness.

It was 10 pm. Having a Coke would no doubt keep me up ALL NIGHT and just to torture my inherently guilty conscience (thank YOU, Catholicism!) would no doubt have prevented us from getting pregnant. Yes, that Coke, the one that would have staved off (1-2-3) my headache, would have been the same one the prevents our very expensive donor sperm from finding my no-longer-in-hiding eggs.

So I sighed and said "honey, I can't have a Coke," with the tears about to flow. But I did the next best thing, drank a ton of water (works for me, sometimes) and willed it to stay away.

And thought a lot about how good that Coke would have tasted.

What Time Is It?
Oooh, it is almost time for us to go to Disneyland, to stay at the Sheraton and sleep in a Sweet Sleeper Bed of Joy for 3 nights (third night free!) and ride all the rides that you can't ride when pregnant or with a very small child in your family. Because how uncool would that be? "Hey Murray, me and Mommy are going to Disneyland but you have to stay home with aunt Susan because we want to ride the coasters without you?"

Nope, with any luck, this will be our last child-free trip, our last chance to do more than enjoy Fantasyland and the Bug's Life part of CA Adventure.

Were we the type of people who actually keep our house clean, having the dogsitter come would not be a cause for crisis. Were we also the type of people who can resist the opportunity to see the world's most amazing baby twins, even for a little while, we'd be in a better position as far as leaving the house once in a while. In other words, our house would be somewhat clean and we wouldn't have to stay up until past 2 am getting the office/hockey room/dogsitter's room ready for her to sleep in. We wouldn't have to sweep, mop and do doggie laundry in the vain hope of removing that doggie smell from the house until the wee hours of the morning.

But we are that kind of people so we were up until 2:30 doing all of that and more, plus I was trying to wrap up a presentation for class today and a paper for Monday. Good times, good times.

3.02.2005

Lessons Learned
Monday night, my class was having visitors from the agency we're helping with their event. These folks are recreation pro-fessionals, the one in charge let us know right away that she's obsessive (mentioned this no less than 5 times) and that she liked her 'high-profile' event attendees. All well and good, but none of that helped me understand AT ALL how having 'high-profile' men walk in high heels will stop sexual violence (why did that make me think of Sexual Chocolate?) but okay, great. Our class' purpose is to learn how to plan and evaluate leisure activities and their event is one, so there we have it.

Because the ladies were coming, the group decided to have a potluck. I brought Safeway cheese, everyone else brought stuff they'd made. Somewhere between the prenatal vitamin and what I suspect were the problem samosas, the evening left me pretty damn sick. I was up most of the night Monday, trying to get something moving along so I could feel better, trying not to puke as I lay in the bed. I got no sleep and felt like utter crapola. Tee-riffic.

Lesson learned: when the international students have a potluck, bring your own PBJ sandwich instead.