I hate progesterone / I love garage sales

I'd like to extend my sympathy to any and every woman who has had to inject or ingest progesterone. That wasn't my fate this cycle, but I surmise my poor ovaries are cranking out plenty of the evil stuff--yeah I know it's important for the big p, but whatever--and it's making me into a female monster. Think Grendel.

I don't know if this is the typical reaction for folks, but I have had the oddest, most vivid dreams. I keep falling asleep, even in the middle of the day. It's an irresistible sensation. It's accompanied by the worst combo of massive appetite and abdominal bloat ever. I'm not speculating about what any of this means, except that it means that I'm totally overdosing on progesterone.

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On a completely different note, my mom and I went to part of the World's Longest Garage Sale on Highway 127 yesterday. It was overwhelming: endless trash, old clothes, toys, etc. with the occasional gem thrown in (Mom has an antique store, so she has a professional interest in this type of thing).

One item that stuck in my mind was a christening gown--I know, how odd that I have babies on the brain at the moment! I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that.

It was clearly old, but in perfect shape, carefully preserved by some woman for decades, perhaps in a trunk in the attic. As I fingered its hem, I thought about all the children who might have used that gown, children who might be old by now or long dead. There was something very touching about its flawless condition, the care that went into making it, the suggestion of loss that hung around it. Someone was selling it, its source forgotten, the long line of women's hands and thoughts broken.

I didn't buy it, but I did get an awesome hand scythe perfect for whacking weeds the old fashioned way. The curved blade was perfectly balanced in the hand, making for a powerful, steady stroke. When we got home, I went to work on the weeds that have flourished in the past few wet, warm weeks, loping through them. The grim weeder.