Starfish Envy

Life Is Good

You know what I love?  Friends who understand technology.  I have lived in my house for almost seven years.  During that time I have never had wireless internet service.  I have only intermittently had internet service at all.  Why?  God doesn't like me.  God wants me to be disconnected from the universe.

But then my friends from North Carolina came to visit, and NS sat down in front of my computer for 10 minutes... and I mean literally TEN MINUTES... and suddenly I have wireless internet.  

So there, God!  In your face!

I suppose it's possible that my internet wasteland hasn't actually been a curse from God, or whoever's up there floating in the sky.  (Does Buddha float?)  It's possible that I'm just a technology moron.  It's possible that it's a FRICKING MIRACLE that I can even type.

Or maybe NS is a genius.  He is a doctor, after all.  They're usually not stupid.  (Which reminds me, I had a follow up with my internist today, and I still think she's great. Although I totally have white coat syndrome, which is SO lame.)      

Either way, the most amazing thing has happened.  I'm talkin', CRAZY.  Steel yourselves.

I CAN BE ON THE INTERNET ANYWHERE IN MY HOUSE!  Right now?  I'm blogging in bed. That's right.  I'm all pajama'ed up, with a dog at my feet and a basal body temperature thermometer at my side, ready to get popped in my mouth at exactly 7:30 a.m. come hell or high water.  Life is good.

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What simple things make your life good?

Take Time. Take Steps.

I've been floored over the last few days by the thoughtful and touching responses to the "Comfortably Numb" post. (Except for the one from the chick who called me vain.  I mean, I'll cop to wallow-y or self-involved... but vain?  Really? Not to say that I'm not vain, because I am, a little, on occasion.  But the post wasn't. And then WP reminded me that not everyone parses words to the extent that we do, and probably vain-caller really meant   wallow-y or self-involved.  So... okay.  Yeah. Maaaaybe.)

It's both comforting and sad that so many people REALLY understand numbness.  Because, ultimately, what we all want is JOY, right?  Loads and loads of joy.  With dashes of exhilaration, and an ample dose of laughter along the way.  But it's so seldom that we get that or, really, anything even kinda sorta close to it.  And so we slide into numb or, best case, settle into content.  

On occasion we're just miserable.  

I think if there's anything I'd like to teach my future child/ren, it's that it's okay to be numb.  Even unhappy.  Sometimes.  It's even healthy... if (and this is a big if) you recognize that unhappiness is not our natural state as human beings... if you understand that you deserve to be happy... if you believe that your own happiness is important... if you know that you have the power to create your own happiness.  And, most importantly, that numbness and unhappiness are signs.  Symptoms.  Clues.

They say, "Yoo hoo!  Action must be taken!"  

Several of you have pointed this out, and it's true, so true:  when you're numb, action is the only way out.  This weekend, my numbness got me to the vet with my dog Chloe.  It helped me talk calmly with the vet about ways I can keep my Alpha dog and Beta dog from ripping each other into bloody canine-shreds.  

Armed with solutions, able to take concrete steps to solve the problem... the numbness quickly fades.   

Now, I usually try to respond to all comments.  Today there simply wasn't time.  So this post will have to serve as my possibly vain, slightly self-involved, but completely not wallow-y response to your amazing comments on the subject of numbness:

Take time.  Take steps.

To which you say, "huh?"  And then I explain that two of my Happiness Project-inspired resolutions this year are...  Take Time and Take Steps.  Both of these resolutions exist to counter numbness.  They remind me to take the time think about how I'm feeling and then take steps to make things better.  

So, if you're numb... Take time.  Take steps.  Sooner or later, all will be well.  Sooner or later, there may even be a little joy...

Another Take on Starfish Envy

My married friends LJ and NS visited from North Carolina this weekend.  (To clarify, I mean married to each other, not just generally married. Whatever that would mean.  Hello, semantic corner I've painted myself into.  Upshot:  they are husband and wife.)  

Anyway.  

In the midst of a one-day whirl-wind tour of Los Angeles, which included brunch at Shutters, the Garden Tour at The Getty, sticker shopping at the Farmers Market, a stop at my favorite high end paper store (it's called Pulp, it's on LaBrea, if you're a paper freak like me, you must go), dinner at Katsuya, and about six thousand hours of L.A. car-time, LJ told me the loveliest thing.  Which is that many moms of newborns notice that their babies' hands, opening and closing in that adorable newborn way, look like tiny starfish.  

So when she first heard the name of this blog, she assumed it was those little baby starfish hands that evoked my envy.  Which is lovely. And much cooler than driving down the 101 listening to Isabella Rossellini talk about asexual reproduction on NPR...  But truth is truth.  My aha moment was on the freeway, folks.  

I expect, however, that from now on I will surely find myself imagining those tiny little hands, grasping...

JL (who is a doctor, a mother of two, and the woman who introduced me to the wonderful world of log-cabin knitting) was also kind enough to offer some words of wisdom about parenthood and expectations.  Seriously good advice.  Just press the little arrow thingy.

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If you're a parent, what were your expectations when you had your child/children?  And for those of us who aren't yet parents... what should we do to manage our expectations?

A Dog House Divided

For the next two weeks, the main floor of my home is divided into three sectors.  Daisy occupies Sector One, which is comprised of the bedrooms and bathroom.  Moose reigns supreme in Sector Two, the living room and dining room.  And Chloe has possession of Sector Three, the kitchen sector, which includes the doggy door.  (Although she's not allowed to use it at the moment, so that's not as much of a bonus as it could be.)

Now.  I promised I would be happier today, and I am.  Just so, so tired.  Consequently, instead of writing, I'm taking pictures.  Which are apparently worth a thousand words. So, hey.  I'm bustin' my ass here. 

WARNING:  IF YOU GET AN OOGY STOMACH, THESE PICS MAY NOT BE FOR YOU.

Phantom of the Opera Daisy.

Moose.  AC got me this crazy lens, and look!  Only his ear-hair is in focus!  

And sad-sack Chloe.  That white thing on her cheek is a drain.  Sticking out of her skin. Feel free to vomit.

It's a good thing I love them.

I Have Become Comfortably Numb

So, I went out of town and my dogs got in a fight and now Daisy has a surgically repaired lower eyelid and Chloe… well, Chloe happened to get bit right on a fatty tumor she’s been cultivating, so she’s currently at the vet recovering from having the whole thing removed, since, hey, there was a big gash there anyway, might as well make it a little bigger and take this baby out!

All while Moose obliviously looks around grinning and going “What?  What’s going on?  What’d I miss?”

Seriously, does it never end?  It’s not like today was such a GREAT day to start with.  It SO wasn’t.  Not even close.  Ugh to the extreme.

All of which led to a discussion with my friend CA about numbness. 

Personally, I’m a fan.  Of emotional numbness, I mean, not numbness of the extremities.  That I don’t enjoy even a little.  But emotional numbness serves a vital purpose in my life.  It’s far better than loneliness, for example, which is crippling and unpleasant.  It’s miles above fury, which makes my neck get all shakey, and everyone knows that’s just not attractive.  It beats the hell out of regret.  And sadness.  And disappointment, and all the other emotions that make me want to eat bad things and not answer the phone and curl up on the couch for marathon sessions of Masterpiece Mystery.  (Oh, Poirot, how I love thee...)

Numbness, on the other hand, is the equivalent of being a functioning alcoholic.  Are you miserable (drunk)?  Sure!  But that doesn’t mean you can’t get out of bed and give the dogs their pills (8 at last count, not including two varieties of drops and an ointment) and shower and put on make-up and go to work and actually do work and talk to other humans and maybe manage a couple of laughs and eat healthy and exercise and do all the things that non-miserable people do on a daily basis.

And eventually the numbness fades and the goodness comes back.  For the most part.  There are some things I’m just long-term numb about.  Singledom.  My mom’s Alzheimer’s.  Not that being perpetually single is the equivalent of a disease that attacks your brain cells.  But, as much as I’m trying to see the bright side of my solitude lately… well, I’m doing my best.  Some things just are what they are.  And numbness makes those things bearable.   

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What does numbness help you get through?  And just to be clear, I’m not talking about depression, which is a totally different thing and should be treated very seriously.  If you’re depressed, get thee to a doctor-y!  Make haste!  (I'm being glib, but I mean it.  If you're depressed, get your ass to a shrink.)  But if you just need to muddle through something, does numbness come in handy for you? 

P.S. Tomorrow I promise to be happier. 

Resource Page Updates

I've updated the Starfish Envy Resource Page!

I've added some new books-- among them, Taking Charge of Your Fertility, and The Infertility Cure.  (I got my period when I was ten, so you'd think I'd be an expert on all things period-related by now.  But I've learned a lot in the last week from these two books.  One of the things I learned?  That because I started my period early, it's statistically likely I'll be older than average when I go into menopause. Lucky me!  Ugh.)

I've also added a link to the Adoption Diaries website.  

And I've added a link to fertilityfriend.com, which my acupuncturist recommended to me.  I've been using it for a week, and I think it's BRILLIANT.  If you're thinking of trying to conceive, or if you're already trying, you must check it out.

Playing Doctor... and Doctor... and Doctor...

I’m from the Midwest.  Kansas City, Missouri, specifically.  Which some people probably think of as the south and others probably think of as Kansas. It’s neither, though it’s close enough to both to shout across the yard.

As a child, I had a pediatrician and a dentist.  Eventually my pediatrician fell away, and I added a gynecologist to the crew.  That was pretty much it as far as my health team went. 

Now I live in L.A.  I have a general practitioner an internist, a gynecologist, a dentist, a trainer (whom I view as a health professional), a Pilates instructor (also a health professional, IMO), an acupuncturist, and a currently off-again dietician.  Also off-again is my therapist, though I reserve the right to call her at the drop of a mental health hat.

How am I not the healthiest person in the universe? 

Last week I saw the acupuncturist for the first time.  She gave me some herbs to take daily, assigned me a couple books to read, which I promptly ordered from Amazon, told me to get a basal body temperature thermometer, and to sign up on fertilityfriend.com where I am to record EVERYTHING from first-thing-in-the-morning temperature to things we won’t talk about in polite company.  And, finally, to write down every single thing I eat or drink for seven days.  This on top of taking my blood pressure five times a day for my regular doctor.  (My blood pressure, by the way, is mostly fabulous—as long as I don’t have a doctor’s appointment.)

And I’m not even trying to get pregnant yet.  This is all prep work. 

Sigh.  Long, deep sigh.

But here’s the great thing.  As complicated as it is to juggle my job and my life and the multitude of things that have to be done to give me the best shot at conceiving quickly and healthily, all of these doctor-types help me to gain focus.  I like having concrete steps to take and clear instructions to follow.  It appeals to my Virgo nature. 

Plus, I like these women.  (I’m just realizing now that they’re all women.  How cool is that?)  My acupuncturist is smart and compassionate and nice.  My gynecologist is, too—in a fast-talking way.  And although my GP internist is new, she seems terrific.  

Whatever happens as I move forward, right now I feel like my fertility and I are in good hands. 

Thinking About Adoption...

I get a lot of comments and emails “encouraging” me to “think about adoption.”  I must admit, I find them a little irksome.  Y’know.  Irksome as in ‘Do I weigh in on your reproductive choices?’  (And then I remind myself that I made this a public discussion by writing about it on the internet.)  And irksome as in ‘Yeah, and why would you assume that I haven’t?’  (And then I remind myself that most people who read this blog don’t actually know me, and the odds are excellent that few people have scoured the archives for me-thinking-about-adoption moments, which might be hard to find anyway, since I’ve been leaning toward insemination almost as long as this blog has been in existence.  Which is not long.) 

Most of all, though, I do truly believe that, for the most part, the comments come from hearts that are one hundred percent in the absolute right place.

Still.  I just want to say, once and for all: I get it.  I have thought about adoption.  A lot.  For a long time.  As in, years.  I’ve got stacks of books on the subject, and I’ve actually read most of them.  A couple of years ago, I spent a day at a Department of Children and Family Services orientation on adopting from the foster care system.  Three years ago, I spent time at an orphanage in Ethiopia, where I met a little girl, and I tried to adopt her.  Although she was in an orphanage, she had a father, and he wouldn’t relinquish her.  I am not capable of talking about it without crying.  Still, as recently as a couple of months ago, I had a three-hour meeting with an adoption attorney who handles domestic adoptions.  I know single women and men and couples who have adopted or are in the process of adopting, both domestically and internationally.  I think adoption is terrific.  The odds are good that I will adopt at some point in the future.  But it doesn't feel right for me right now.

Right now, I’m going to try to get pregnant.  I understand that this is a selfish decision.  It is exactly as selfish as when a married woman decides to get pregnant.  It is also equally understandable.  I would like to try to use my body for what it was made for.  I would like to experience the one thing that I can do that a man can’t.  I refuse to miss out on the most basic and fundamental human experience available to me… if I don’t have to. 

Now, it is entirely possible that, at thirty-eight, I won’t be able to get pregnant.  I may have waited too long (thinking about adoption, ironically).  

But, for better or worse, I am going to try.  Okay?  Okay.

More Tales from the What If List: Dogs vs. Children

I love my dogs.  I love them so much that Number 4 on my What If List is “What if it turns out I like dogs more than kids?”

This is a serious question.  I mean, what if it turns out I like DOGS MORE THAN KIDS??? 

Because I like my dogs a lot.  I like that Daisy’s head smells like rosemary.  I like that Chloe is Moose’s mother hen.  I like that Moose is a big goofball.  (Okay, I have to admit that I accidentally typed ‘Moose is a big god,’ which is a Freudian typing slip if ever I’ve seen one.)  I like that Daisy sleeps stretched out next to me—and I mean all the way next to me, underarm to ankles.  I like that Chloe snores, and that Moose never barks unless absolutely necessary.  My dogs are fun, and smart (two of them, anyway), and sweet (except Daisy with cats), and well-behaved (in my own mind), and TOTALLY LOVE ME.  Which is not to say that Moose can’t be kind of a shit, but he’s young.  And he has bad hips—well, one bad hip, after ten thousand dollars of surgeries and seven months of twice weekly physical therapy.  That I paid for.  With blood.     

(Cut me some slack—I got him when he was three days old.  I’m a sucker.  He’s very cute.  Hey, have you looked into those big brown eyes?)

Anyway.  The point is, I won’t know until I have a kid if, in fact, I like dogs better.  Because other people’s kids are not like your own kids.  I can’t really use how I feel about WP’s soon-to-be son as a gauge of how I will feel about a child that is actually mine.  Not that WP’s kid won’t be great, mind you.  I’m sure he’ll be cute and brilliant and funny and all those wonderful things you want your kid to be.  But will he be as insanely adorable as Moose?  The jury’s still out.

Now, everyone says that you don’t love your pets as much as your children, and I’m sure that’s true.  But I’m not talking about love.  I’m talking about like.  There’s a fairly enormous difference.  I love at least three people I frankly don’t like all that much.  I’m guessing you do too.

So what do you do if you don’t like your child?  That’s a bit of a humdinger, really.  Obviously I hope that I will like my child/children very much-- in fact, I expect that I will. 

But what if I don’t?

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(Top Dog is Chloe, then Daisy, and below is Moose, in the hydrotherapy tank with P, his favorite person in the whole world.  Including me.)

Kit De Luca Says "Take Care of You"

Every now and then I have a Take Care of Me Day.  No errands.  No onerous phone calls.  No laundry.  No tub scrubbing.  No paperwork.  No picking up dog poop.  Nothing, in short, that I don’t thoroughly enjoy.  

(Take Care of Me, of course, is stolen from Kit De Luca's famous line in "Pretty Woman." And by Kit De Luca, obviously I mean Laura San Giacomo, who brilliantly portrayed Kit De Luca, prostitute extraordinaire and best friend of Vivian/Julia Roberts.  Because, y'know, Kit De Luca is not a real person.  To anyone but me.  Sigh.  I love that movie.)

Saturday was a serious Take Care of Me Day.  (And well deserved, mind you.)  First, I took a class on “Being a Buddhist”— three hours of listening to a very engaging Buddhist monk talk about everything from the Four Noble Truths (three of which I remember) to meditation (insight and tranquility) to the difference between being a Buddhist and practicing Buddhism.  I don’t know if I’m going to be a Buddhist or not, but I’m seriously considering practicing.  Which, come to think of it, would be a wonderful way to Take Care of Me all the time, without having to set aside a day for it... 

Then I got a hair cut. Is there anything better than zoning out while someone combs and cuts and combs and fluffs and blow dries and brushes your hair?  No, I say.  No.  I didn’t even turn on my Kindle.  I just sat there and closed my eyes and let it be awesome.

And then I went to dinner with several women from my local Single Mothers by Choice group.  I’ve never met anyone who’s done what I’m planning to do.  In some ways, it was a huge relief.  I don’t know what I was expecting, exactly, but every woman there was totally different from the woman next to her.  Somehow knowing that there isn’t a mold to fit into lifted a burden I wasn’t even aware of carrying.  And then it was exciting that all of these very different, smart, interesting, beautiful women had been brought together by this huge, scary, wonderful thing that they’re all doing.  I’m now even more excited to be a Tryer, not just a Thinker.

Now, there are many things that I would do on a Take Care of Me Day that other people wouldn’t enjoy in the slightest.  Sorting, for example.  I LOVE a good sorting session.  Pulling things out of drawers and closets, sorting them into piles for Good Will and Trash (and, of course, Keep).  I get a tremendous amount of satisfaction from sorting and clearing.  And not just because I find things I’d totally forgotten I had.  (Apparently at some point, I bought Photoshop.  Huh.)  But also because I like the idea that there’s someone out there who will be thrilled to have a brand new (well, two years old) Photoshop program that’s never even been taken out of the box.  Now if only I could find someone who wanted all of my keepsake t-shirts from high school...  Anyone want a twenty year old t-shirt with "SAVE OUR SENIOR ROOM!!!" on it?  Anyone?

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What do you do to Take Care of You?   Are there things you love to do that others might think are a total drag?