...but one of the coolest things that ever happened to me.
As I'm still on my long cruise down "denial" until the Ultrasound of Truth delivers me from these agonies into new fields of worry, and as I've already waxed poetic about some of the music I like, let me tell you a story from my first trip to the Obscure Corner of the World, the place I've dedicated the lovely years of my grad career to.
The first time I ever went there, I traveled by train. The train to this particular part of the great OCOW takes 5-6 days.
Have you ever ridden on a train that long? Oh, the delights you have missed, if you haven't! You start out excited as the train pulls out of the station, all prepared with days worth of ramen, chocolate, and (you believe) enough booze to get you there. The first day, as the sun dips below the thrumming horizon and the trees whipping by, you toast the journey.
The second day, you're cracking a beer around 2 PM.
The fifth day? Shit, you're doing shots at 11 AM. And you smell as ripe as the smoked fish they're selling on the platform at major stops.
After this exciting experience with three good friends (actually, two of them were complete strangers, but we became good friends by the end), we finally stepped off the train in the Sad City that is the capital of OCOW. Our friends, who were actors we met in NYC and members of a certain indigenous group, were all waiting at the station, overjoyed that their American friends had somehow finally gotten halfway around the world in one, stinky, hungover piece.
This being OCOW, we had to follow custom: We were summarily driven to friends' apartment, where we were stuffed with ridiculous amounts of meat and hard liquor. After hours of gastronomical and liver abuse, we finally begged to be put to bed.
I wound up in the care of a sweet young woman singer who had stayed in the tiny "bedroom" of our NYC apartment for weeks while performing in the East Village. She took me to her relatives' place, in some strange neighborhood of a strange city, and put me to bed in a big, shiny, pink bed.
That night, I had the strangest dream. I was standing on the balcony at Friend Number 1's apartment, looking out across the city, the river, to the bare hills beyond. A finger pointed toward the hill (where, I had been told the night before, there was a Hun burial mound) and a voice said in another language, "You're buried there." Then, suddenly, I was flying off the balcony, into a huge flock of black birds, all chanting a single name, over and over and over, with a thousand low, rough voices.
Then I woke up, freaked out of my mind. And I knew that I was doomed/destined to study OCOW.
Of course, I asked my friends what they thought of my dream. The name I heard? "Oh," my friend said, taking a drag off her cigarette, "that's just our sky spirit. You must have been born here in another life."
Friday, February 27, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
And then again, for something else totally unrelated...
The ever cool, New Wave-lovin' Emily challenged several bloggers to come up with their top 15 albums of all time. That's a really, really tough one. But I'll stick to 15 albums that changed my life (lord--how cheezy does that sound?).
In no particular order:
1. Floodland by The Sisters of Mercy: A much cooler, older friend at my school made me a cassette tape of this record, and I remember slipping it in my walkman, hiding the girl's room (we weren't allowed to have walkmen at my mean school), and being absolutely, totally blown away. Goth at its glossy, dark, soul-searching best, with anthemic massive songs perfect for those moments of adolescent hormone-driven angst. I think this was the first album I was really, truly obsessed with. I longed to live in it.
2. Unknown Pleasures by Joy Division (note the pattern here?): This spare, depressing, yet at moments mysteriously hopeful album... It's the sound of the city I grew up in at night, half-deserted and economically depressed. I still listen to it. But don't mix with alcohol. Very, very bad.
3. Aion by Dead Can Dance: This is their best album, and I will wrestle anyone who claims otherwise to the ground. Based on Catalan and other 13-15th century music, it's their most carefully crafted, least cheesy, more gorgeous record.
4. Secrets of the Beehive by David Sylvian: Poetry, with amazing production and arrangements. And I love this man's voice.
5. Billy Holiday's Decca Recordings: She just knows how to tell a story, that gal. And I love her dark humor.
6. Passion Sources by Peter Gabriel: This CD, along with Dead Can Dance, got me into so-called "world music," which makes up a huge chunk of my listening today. Has cool tracks by Djivan Gasparian (Armenia), Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (Pakistan), and Baaba Maal.
7. Filligree and Shadow by This Mortal Coil: Okay, this is getting all out of order, but I love this album. Dark, lush, sad, and very beautiful, with great vocals.
8. Victorialand by Cocteau Twins: my favorite album of theirs, when Elizabeth Frasier was at her best, imho.
9. Speaking in Tongues by The Talking Heads: This is a family favorite, one my dad and I would listen to and sing along to and dance around to.
10. The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter by the Incredible String Band: I am a huge fan of the British roots scene, actually, the English roots scene (Celtic stuff doesn't do much for me, actually). This album is by a bunch of wigged out Scottish hippies who made absolutely, bizarrely beautiful songs with rambling yet touching lyrics dedicated to things like water, the waltzing new moon, ice skating, and bats. But it works, I swear.
11. No More to the Dance by the Silly Sisters: June Tabor, another fixture of the British roots scene, has the best voice ever, and for this album teams up Matty Prior of Steeleye Span for amazing vocal work. The kind of tight harmonies and soulful phrasing that sends shivers down my spine.
12. Fear of a Black Planet by Public Enemy: This album made me finally get hip hop, oddly enough while on a trip to the (soon to be defunct) Soviet Union. Don't ask me why; it's not the best, though it has its moments, most certainly. But thanks to PE, I eventually got into everything from Lyrics Born to Wutang to Missy E. Love me some Missy E on a bad day.
13. Club da Esquina by Milton Nauscimento, Lo Borges and company: If you like Brazilian music, you have to hear this album. It's basically what happened when a bunch of kids from Belo Horizonte heard the Beatles. Kind of a more restrained Os Mutantes (another band I highly recommend from the psychedelic era in Brazil). Beautiful vocals, lovely guitar work, cool percussion.
14. Wrecking Ball by Emmylou Harris: I know, I know. I listen to NPR. I'm a woman from the Midwest. Ergo, I love Emmylou. But I do. She's awesome, and this album, produced by Daniel Lanois, puts her in a whole new light. Got me through a lot of breakups. This one mixes pretty well with alcohol, preferably in a space where you can sing at the top of your lungs to the sad songs. I like classic country, too, thanks to my man, who turned me on to Ernest Tubb. Hell, I even like George Jones now. Just not that shit on the radio nowadays.
15. Transnadezhnost' by Zvuki Mu: Glasnost in Russia was a very wierd time. People were brewing their own booze out of processed cheese and cologne (I kid you not). Record stores were private apartments where you could go and dub rock tape imported from abroad. Wierdos like Zvuki Mu ("The Sound of Moo") played school gyms and clubs. They wrote eerie, disjoined songs about sinister tourists, seances, and polar exploration. There are lots of other great rock/pop/whatever underground bands from this era, but these guys are my personal favorites. Alisa, Akvarium, and Auktyon are some others worth checking out.
Of course, I love Bach and Arvo Part, and ridiculous amounts of other stuff, but these were what came to mind. I'll shut up now. What are your life-changing albums?
In no particular order:
1. Floodland by The Sisters of Mercy: A much cooler, older friend at my school made me a cassette tape of this record, and I remember slipping it in my walkman, hiding the girl's room (we weren't allowed to have walkmen at my mean school), and being absolutely, totally blown away. Goth at its glossy, dark, soul-searching best, with anthemic massive songs perfect for those moments of adolescent hormone-driven angst. I think this was the first album I was really, truly obsessed with. I longed to live in it.
2. Unknown Pleasures by Joy Division (note the pattern here?): This spare, depressing, yet at moments mysteriously hopeful album... It's the sound of the city I grew up in at night, half-deserted and economically depressed. I still listen to it. But don't mix with alcohol. Very, very bad.
3. Aion by Dead Can Dance: This is their best album, and I will wrestle anyone who claims otherwise to the ground. Based on Catalan and other 13-15th century music, it's their most carefully crafted, least cheesy, more gorgeous record.
4. Secrets of the Beehive by David Sylvian: Poetry, with amazing production and arrangements. And I love this man's voice.
5. Billy Holiday's Decca Recordings: She just knows how to tell a story, that gal. And I love her dark humor.
6. Passion Sources by Peter Gabriel: This CD, along with Dead Can Dance, got me into so-called "world music," which makes up a huge chunk of my listening today. Has cool tracks by Djivan Gasparian (Armenia), Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (Pakistan), and Baaba Maal.
7. Filligree and Shadow by This Mortal Coil: Okay, this is getting all out of order, but I love this album. Dark, lush, sad, and very beautiful, with great vocals.
8. Victorialand by Cocteau Twins: my favorite album of theirs, when Elizabeth Frasier was at her best, imho.
9. Speaking in Tongues by The Talking Heads: This is a family favorite, one my dad and I would listen to and sing along to and dance around to.
10. The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter by the Incredible String Band: I am a huge fan of the British roots scene, actually, the English roots scene (Celtic stuff doesn't do much for me, actually). This album is by a bunch of wigged out Scottish hippies who made absolutely, bizarrely beautiful songs with rambling yet touching lyrics dedicated to things like water, the waltzing new moon, ice skating, and bats. But it works, I swear.
11. No More to the Dance by the Silly Sisters: June Tabor, another fixture of the British roots scene, has the best voice ever, and for this album teams up Matty Prior of Steeleye Span for amazing vocal work. The kind of tight harmonies and soulful phrasing that sends shivers down my spine.
12. Fear of a Black Planet by Public Enemy: This album made me finally get hip hop, oddly enough while on a trip to the (soon to be defunct) Soviet Union. Don't ask me why; it's not the best, though it has its moments, most certainly. But thanks to PE, I eventually got into everything from Lyrics Born to Wutang to Missy E. Love me some Missy E on a bad day.
13. Club da Esquina by Milton Nauscimento, Lo Borges and company: If you like Brazilian music, you have to hear this album. It's basically what happened when a bunch of kids from Belo Horizonte heard the Beatles. Kind of a more restrained Os Mutantes (another band I highly recommend from the psychedelic era in Brazil). Beautiful vocals, lovely guitar work, cool percussion.
14. Wrecking Ball by Emmylou Harris: I know, I know. I listen to NPR. I'm a woman from the Midwest. Ergo, I love Emmylou. But I do. She's awesome, and this album, produced by Daniel Lanois, puts her in a whole new light. Got me through a lot of breakups. This one mixes pretty well with alcohol, preferably in a space where you can sing at the top of your lungs to the sad songs. I like classic country, too, thanks to my man, who turned me on to Ernest Tubb. Hell, I even like George Jones now. Just not that shit on the radio nowadays.
15. Transnadezhnost' by Zvuki Mu: Glasnost in Russia was a very wierd time. People were brewing their own booze out of processed cheese and cologne (I kid you not). Record stores were private apartments where you could go and dub rock tape imported from abroad. Wierdos like Zvuki Mu ("The Sound of Moo") played school gyms and clubs. They wrote eerie, disjoined songs about sinister tourists, seances, and polar exploration. There are lots of other great rock/pop/whatever underground bands from this era, but these guys are my personal favorites. Alisa, Akvarium, and Auktyon are some others worth checking out.
Of course, I love Bach and Arvo Part, and ridiculous amounts of other stuff, but these were what came to mind. I'll shut up now. What are your life-changing albums?
And now for something completely different...
So, we actually went to look at Short Sale Farm. Our agent talked to the listing agent a bit, and it seems the problem is NOT that the bank refuses to sell for some cryptic reason (apparently some bank is now the owner), it's that the offers on the table really suck, and the bank is rejecting them out of hand. And banks apparently will often simply say "Nope" and that's it. No counter.
The land is gorgeous, just what we're looking for in just the right amount. It has a very cool old barn, set up at the moment for horses, but with electricity, water, and enough structural integrity to perhaps shelter a walk-in cooler (a veggie farm must) and other important work spaces. The house is funky: nice kitchen that needs little more than a new light fixture and a touch of paint, decent bathrooms (totally not my style, but in good shape and tolerable for now), and a crazy-ass old-house floor plan that tells tales of years of random additions and such.
One bedroom was just gorgeous and huge and bright, looking out over acres of farmland, rolling hills, and an old barn. Just nix the carpet and you're good to go. The other had a weird old fireplace and a bizarre walk-in closet-like space that made you scratch your head. The third "bedroom" was a windowless room down a couple steps next to the mudroom/laundry area. Very odd.
Fortunately, we're in/subfertile, so whatever.
Unfortunately, we'll have to have a strong pending offer on our house to make an offer the bank won't refuse. No so good.
Did I mention the toilet from the second bathroom is currently sitting in the middle of the family room, which still lacks its bamboo floor? You get the picture.
But perhaps, the real estate gods will be kind. Perhaps the timing will somehow pan out. Or not. Maybe there's someplace even cooler just about to go on the market once the daffodils appear.
By the way, I saw the first crocus and snowdrops this morning!
The land is gorgeous, just what we're looking for in just the right amount. It has a very cool old barn, set up at the moment for horses, but with electricity, water, and enough structural integrity to perhaps shelter a walk-in cooler (a veggie farm must) and other important work spaces. The house is funky: nice kitchen that needs little more than a new light fixture and a touch of paint, decent bathrooms (totally not my style, but in good shape and tolerable for now), and a crazy-ass old-house floor plan that tells tales of years of random additions and such.
One bedroom was just gorgeous and huge and bright, looking out over acres of farmland, rolling hills, and an old barn. Just nix the carpet and you're good to go. The other had a weird old fireplace and a bizarre walk-in closet-like space that made you scratch your head. The third "bedroom" was a windowless room down a couple steps next to the mudroom/laundry area. Very odd.
Fortunately, we're in/subfertile, so whatever.
Unfortunately, we'll have to have a strong pending offer on our house to make an offer the bank won't refuse. No so good.
Did I mention the toilet from the second bathroom is currently sitting in the middle of the family room, which still lacks its bamboo floor? You get the picture.
But perhaps, the real estate gods will be kind. Perhaps the timing will somehow pan out. Or not. Maybe there's someplace even cooler just about to go on the market once the daffodils appear.
By the way, I saw the first crocus and snowdrops this morning!
Monday, February 23, 2009
"Bujilkhamo"
I know this looks like your latest word verification gobbledygook, but it's the Mongol.ian name of a bodhisattva. I bought a painting of this bodhisattva, who seems to have no internet presence, at our annual Mongolian lunar new year's celebration, which this year involved an art opening by a young female artist from Mongolia.
As for the bodhisattva, she's white (helpful for identifying your various Tibetan Buddhist peeps), holding two babies in her lap, who are in turn playing with chandamanis (or chintamanis or however you spell it), the wishing jewels. I just looked at it and was so drawn to it, I immediately plopped down my credit card. I don't do that much (though I'm a sucker for art when I can afford it).
It seemed like the very embodiment of my positive thinking campaign, an image I can turn to remember what I have, be grateful for it, and attempt to cultivate some peace while waiting another week for the Ultrasound of Truth.
As for the bodhisattva, she's white (helpful for identifying your various Tibetan Buddhist peeps), holding two babies in her lap, who are in turn playing with chandamanis (or chintamanis or however you spell it), the wishing jewels. I just looked at it and was so drawn to it, I immediately plopped down my credit card. I don't do that much (though I'm a sucker for art when I can afford it).
It seemed like the very embodiment of my positive thinking campaign, an image I can turn to remember what I have, be grateful for it, and attempt to cultivate some peace while waiting another week for the Ultrasound of Truth.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Denial
This is a really weird time. I used to think denial was for cowards, for people who didn't dare to look into their hearts and see what lurked there.
Now I've resolved to remain in denial myself.
You see, I've decided to believe things will turn out well. And statistics, for what they're worth, are on my side.
I can fret and fear and worry until my worrier is sore; it won't change what's already done--I mean, the embryonic die is cast--and it certainly isn't improving the quality of my life. Will putting a downpayment of worry toward any future calamity and the ensuing misery reduce my suffering? No. Will it eliminate the let down that will strike my husband, parents, closest friends? No. Will it change one goddamned iota of anything? No.
So why bother?
I've jumped through a certain major hoop for the first time in my entire life (okay, not counting the ectopic fiasco). I have no idea what will happen. I'm just going to dwell in that, and pretend that there is no shit until it hits the fan.
Let's see how I do.
Now I've resolved to remain in denial myself.
You see, I've decided to believe things will turn out well. And statistics, for what they're worth, are on my side.
I can fret and fear and worry until my worrier is sore; it won't change what's already done--I mean, the embryonic die is cast--and it certainly isn't improving the quality of my life. Will putting a downpayment of worry toward any future calamity and the ensuing misery reduce my suffering? No. Will it eliminate the let down that will strike my husband, parents, closest friends? No. Will it change one goddamned iota of anything? No.
So why bother?
I've jumped through a certain major hoop for the first time in my entire life (okay, not counting the ectopic fiasco). I have no idea what will happen. I'm just going to dwell in that, and pretend that there is no shit until it hits the fan.
Let's see how I do.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Better today
I got a good night's sleep (aka 12 hours) and things seem less terrifying. The funny thing about fear is that you actually can beat it. I don't mean stop feeling it, but stop letting it grab you with those big, harsh claws and shake your heart to bits.
My plan is to keep busy and to try to practice some mental discipline. As there is only a limited amount of discipline available at one time, this means I get to eat whatever I want. I'm sure this will help my already bloated belly look fab in my somewhat ill-fitting clothes.
Thanks for your support. I guess it's tougher to live with uncertainty when you have something to lose.
My plan is to keep busy and to try to practice some mental discipline. As there is only a limited amount of discipline available at one time, this means I get to eat whatever I want. I'm sure this will help my already bloated belly look fab in my somewhat ill-fitting clothes.
Thanks for your support. I guess it's tougher to live with uncertainty when you have something to lose.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Wrestling With Fear
One thing the hormones haven't blunted: my fear. I had nightmares last night of miscarriage. (oddly, I was being poorly diagnosed by the doc from Battlestar using some bizarre powder. Yikes. I think I've finally met the evil Dr. Google.) Today, I find myself calculating, just as I did with my possible success rates for IUI, when I can possibly relax, what my stats might be, my chances of escape. Can I make it to the ultrasound? Or to three weeks from now? Or to five weeks from now?
Can it be that the fear is worse than the dread of a BFN? Perhaps yes: At least when preparing to cycle, or when cycling, you often have the energy to go out and do something. You throw exhaustion in the mix, and you don't have the strength to distract yourself.
Bleh. Time to go to outerspace. At least I wrote a few dis pages.
Can it be that the fear is worse than the dread of a BFN? Perhaps yes: At least when preparing to cycle, or when cycling, you often have the energy to go out and do something. You throw exhaustion in the mix, and you don't have the strength to distract yourself.
Bleh. Time to go to outerspace. At least I wrote a few dis pages.
Hormonal Lobotomy
Warning: whining ahead.
I think I've lost several IQ points with each passing day. Really: I have no idea what I'm doing most of the time, where I am--and forget knowing why I'm somewhere doing something. It's a bit unnerving.
My two obsessions--sleep and food--rule my life. Yesterday, I literally curled up on the floor of an unassigned office at the university and slept so deeply, I slobbered all over the carpet. I'm dead to the world from 2-7 PM every day, which, of course, is when I have my class starting in a week and a half. I just don't know how I'm going to make it through 2.5 hours, twice a week, of lecturing on Mongolian history, and without coffee.
Sure, it's for a good cause. And my husband has been wonderful. And a lot of blood, sweat, and tears went into this.
But it's still kind of depressing: I've turned into a stupid slacker. Does it get a bit better?
I think I've lost several IQ points with each passing day. Really: I have no idea what I'm doing most of the time, where I am--and forget knowing why I'm somewhere doing something. It's a bit unnerving.
My two obsessions--sleep and food--rule my life. Yesterday, I literally curled up on the floor of an unassigned office at the university and slept so deeply, I slobbered all over the carpet. I'm dead to the world from 2-7 PM every day, which, of course, is when I have my class starting in a week and a half. I just don't know how I'm going to make it through 2.5 hours, twice a week, of lecturing on Mongolian history, and without coffee.
Sure, it's for a good cause. And my husband has been wonderful. And a lot of blood, sweat, and tears went into this.
But it's still kind of depressing: I've turned into a stupid slacker. Does it get a bit better?
Monday, February 16, 2009
So sorry... 242
Sorry, between my parents' visit, various home improvement projects, brain fog, and utter exhaustion, I didn't get to post this weekend. But my repeat beta on Friday came back at 242, more than double. My ultrasound is on March 2.
So far, no puking, but serious fatigue--I am a zombie from 2-6 PM and can nap at will--and serious hunger. My entire brain, the part that is still functioning, is taken up by thoughts of bacon, sausage, mushrooms, and, oddly enough, vegetable bouillon cubes.
I have a lot of thoughts and feelings, but don't quite know what to make of them yet. I've moved up my dissertation defense to late September (gulp). Terrifying. We're still moving ahead with our plans to get a farm and put our house on the market (hence the relentless home improvement schedule).
We are insane.
So far, no puking, but serious fatigue--I am a zombie from 2-6 PM and can nap at will--and serious hunger. My entire brain, the part that is still functioning, is taken up by thoughts of bacon, sausage, mushrooms, and, oddly enough, vegetable bouillon cubes.
I have a lot of thoughts and feelings, but don't quite know what to make of them yet. I've moved up my dissertation defense to late September (gulp). Terrifying. We're still moving ahead with our plans to get a farm and put our house on the market (hence the relentless home improvement schedule).
We are insane.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
88
That's my beta. My progesterone was something like 168 or something.
No bleeding.
Holy shit. You mean that this stuff sometimes gets you pregnant?
Repeat, naturally, on Friday. Nurse Sweetie was so delighted and she told me, "I have a very good feeling about this."
Me, too.
No bleeding.
Holy shit. You mean that this stuff sometimes gets you pregnant?
Repeat, naturally, on Friday. Nurse Sweetie was so delighted and she told me, "I have a very good feeling about this."
Me, too.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Potty Paranoia
My last science cycle, this was the day I started bleeding like a stuck pig. Before that, I had been fairly blissfully bopping along, feeling a bit odd, but nothing clear one way or the other. I had been slightly hopeful.
At the Red Army's invasion, I cried in the ladies room, but soon found myself resigned to my fate--a do-over--and demanding the RE's office let off the beta hook, since it was already obvious what had happened: nothing.
Cue sinister strings.
But my beta was positive (sort of) and I had an ectopic.
I'm scared things will happen exactly the same way today. So I have potty paranoia. Toilet terror. Commodophobia. Even though I need to pee every half hour, on the hour, like some sort of urinary NPR update, I hold it. I'm scared to look down and see what's up.
Why do we feel that events will repeat themselves? It's as if some oddball part of our brains insists on extrapolating whatever has gone before endlessly into the future. That's why it's so impossible for many of us to ever imagine getting a positive test, getting an encouraging sonogram, getting to labor and delivery.
We've had the same thing, with slight variations, happen over and over and over again. Our minds just can't fathom that sudden shift, that huge change when everything that's gone before is relegated to the past, and thus, in some respects, to uneasy irrelevance.
I don't know what will happen to me tomorrow. But I refuse to feel fear today.
At the Red Army's invasion, I cried in the ladies room, but soon found myself resigned to my fate--a do-over--and demanding the RE's office let off the beta hook, since it was already obvious what had happened: nothing.
Cue sinister strings.
But my beta was positive (sort of) and I had an ectopic.
I'm scared things will happen exactly the same way today. So I have potty paranoia. Toilet terror. Commodophobia. Even though I need to pee every half hour, on the hour, like some sort of urinary NPR update, I hold it. I'm scared to look down and see what's up.
Why do we feel that events will repeat themselves? It's as if some oddball part of our brains insists on extrapolating whatever has gone before endlessly into the future. That's why it's so impossible for many of us to ever imagine getting a positive test, getting an encouraging sonogram, getting to labor and delivery.
We've had the same thing, with slight variations, happen over and over and over again. Our minds just can't fathom that sudden shift, that huge change when everything that's gone before is relegated to the past, and thus, in some respects, to uneasy irrelevance.
I don't know what will happen to me tomorrow. But I refuse to feel fear today.
Monday, February 9, 2009
My eerie family
First off, thanks so much for your thoughtful responses to my question. I love it when people take the time to express their perspectives--too little of that goes on, imho--in a way that encourages learning. Meaning that I learned a lot from your words and experiences.
A while back, I mentioned in passing that I grew up in a haunted house. "A ha!" some of you may now be gloating. "You had Casper as a sibling, you only child poseur!"
Not quite. But in the interest of distracting myself and keeping out of the clutches of the evil Dr. Google, I'm going to tell you more about my eerie adolescence.
My mom's side of the family, in particular as it comes down my maternal granddad's (Welsh) line, is beset with weirdness. Dead relatives appearing in photographs. Clocks--electric, pendulum, battery, you name it--all stopping at the minute of my granddad's death for several hours. A woman in a mental hospital where my dad was working telling my mom about her "beautiful baby girl" when she was already pregnant but didn't know it yet. Strange lucid dreams that come true. You know, that kind of thing.
These were, for the most part, stories I heard and didn't witness. But in the 100-year-old old prairie four-square where I spent my teenage years, I heard and saw some odd things. Strangely enough, it was never scary. Just...bizarre.
One night, I was lying in bed. My parents were both out of the house. I was reading and suddenly heard what I thought was them coming home: the distinctive slam of the heavy plate glass front door, the particular creaks of each stair. I heard it, plain as day.
Then I looked out on the landing, and there was no one there.
You'd think, as a gal alone at night in a big old house, that I'd be pretty shaken. But I wasn't, not at all. It felt oddly normal.
My parents both saw the ghost, each on separate occasions, a female figure in white who turned around and disappeared. We would sometimes here loud crashes and bangs from the kitchen at night, as if every glass and dish were breaking at once. Sometimes, the whole house would smell distinctly and powerfully of roses in the winter, with no potpourri or whatnot to explain the scent. Once, a stained glass window somehow flew smack dab into the middle of the kitchen floor, smashing into a hundred pieces but not disturbing the breakables in front of it. Once, a single piece of the family silver disappeared mysteriously, only to reappear a thousand miles away several years later. My mother still jealously guards the spoons, keeping an eagle-eye out for the pilfering phantom.
I don't know; perhaps there are other explanations for all this, besides the supernatural. Perhaps my family and I are one big happy band of mutually supportive loonies. But I have to say, regardless, my teenage experiences taught me that there is definitely more to heaven and earth than we can see and understand.
Any inexplicable happenings in your family history? Any eerie tales you can tell?
A while back, I mentioned in passing that I grew up in a haunted house. "A ha!" some of you may now be gloating. "You had Casper as a sibling, you only child poseur!"
Not quite. But in the interest of distracting myself and keeping out of the clutches of the evil Dr. Google, I'm going to tell you more about my eerie adolescence.
My mom's side of the family, in particular as it comes down my maternal granddad's (Welsh) line, is beset with weirdness. Dead relatives appearing in photographs. Clocks--electric, pendulum, battery, you name it--all stopping at the minute of my granddad's death for several hours. A woman in a mental hospital where my dad was working telling my mom about her "beautiful baby girl" when she was already pregnant but didn't know it yet. Strange lucid dreams that come true. You know, that kind of thing.
These were, for the most part, stories I heard and didn't witness. But in the 100-year-old old prairie four-square where I spent my teenage years, I heard and saw some odd things. Strangely enough, it was never scary. Just...bizarre.
One night, I was lying in bed. My parents were both out of the house. I was reading and suddenly heard what I thought was them coming home: the distinctive slam of the heavy plate glass front door, the particular creaks of each stair. I heard it, plain as day.
Then I looked out on the landing, and there was no one there.
You'd think, as a gal alone at night in a big old house, that I'd be pretty shaken. But I wasn't, not at all. It felt oddly normal.
My parents both saw the ghost, each on separate occasions, a female figure in white who turned around and disappeared. We would sometimes here loud crashes and bangs from the kitchen at night, as if every glass and dish were breaking at once. Sometimes, the whole house would smell distinctly and powerfully of roses in the winter, with no potpourri or whatnot to explain the scent. Once, a stained glass window somehow flew smack dab into the middle of the kitchen floor, smashing into a hundred pieces but not disturbing the breakables in front of it. Once, a single piece of the family silver disappeared mysteriously, only to reappear a thousand miles away several years later. My mother still jealously guards the spoons, keeping an eagle-eye out for the pilfering phantom.
I don't know; perhaps there are other explanations for all this, besides the supernatural. Perhaps my family and I are one big happy band of mutually supportive loonies. But I have to say, regardless, my teenage experiences taught me that there is definitely more to heaven and earth than we can see and understand.
Any inexplicable happenings in your family history? Any eerie tales you can tell?
Friday, February 6, 2009
In Defense of Onlychildhood
I'm sick and tired of whining about feeling sick and tired. I think that's what's really getting to me: The last three weeks, it's like I've had the flu and a raging awful period from hell at the same time (just without the blood).
So I will ask you all a question: In a perfect world, what would make a "complete" family for you? Two kids? Eight?
One?
Oh, come on! One is cool, man!
For me, it was always one. Two, max. Preferably one.
You see, I'm an only child, and I love it. Moreover, I don't get sibling dynamics at all and am afraid I'd be a poor parental guide in that department.
When people would ask me if I missed having brothers or sisters, I couldn't answer, not only because I didn't know what that was like, but also because, hey, I was happy. I had no rivals and no one to measure up to or to surpass. I just had two parents who lavished affection on me but knew how not to spoil me.
They encouraged me to be strong, stubborn, resourceful, and to know great, abiding, unquestionable love, even when I did something they didn't like (like wear all black for years and cut my own hair and skip gym class). They respected my independence and asked me to hang out with the adults. I learned to interact with people older than me early on, and it's served me very well in life. I don't know if the dynamics are quite the same in families with more kids.
My parents could afford to take amazing care of me, and even leave me debt-free after I got my undergrad degree. A huge gift I will never be able to repay.
They grinned and bore it when I ran away to strange countries and came back with odd ideas.
I'm not saying this is the fate of all only children; I'm just saying there are lots of upsides for both parents and child. My parents, who had no fertility problems, decided one was more than enough. (I was apparently quite a powerhouse who never slept as a child. My mom longs for me to get my comeuppance with kids of my own. Wouldn't that be nice?)
I'm saying all this because every once in a while, I'll come across someone's blog post about their longing for more children or about wanting to give their child a sibling and not leave them (oh no, gasp) an only child. I just don't get it (though I'd like to): who says onlychildhood isn't better for the kid? Isn't wanting lots of kids about us adults, and not about our children? Do we model our dream families on our childhood families, so that if you have siblings, just one kid feels somehow off?
No judgment, just curiosity.
So I will ask you all a question: In a perfect world, what would make a "complete" family for you? Two kids? Eight?
One?
Oh, come on! One is cool, man!
For me, it was always one. Two, max. Preferably one.
You see, I'm an only child, and I love it. Moreover, I don't get sibling dynamics at all and am afraid I'd be a poor parental guide in that department.
When people would ask me if I missed having brothers or sisters, I couldn't answer, not only because I didn't know what that was like, but also because, hey, I was happy. I had no rivals and no one to measure up to or to surpass. I just had two parents who lavished affection on me but knew how not to spoil me.
They encouraged me to be strong, stubborn, resourceful, and to know great, abiding, unquestionable love, even when I did something they didn't like (like wear all black for years and cut my own hair and skip gym class). They respected my independence and asked me to hang out with the adults. I learned to interact with people older than me early on, and it's served me very well in life. I don't know if the dynamics are quite the same in families with more kids.
My parents could afford to take amazing care of me, and even leave me debt-free after I got my undergrad degree. A huge gift I will never be able to repay.
They grinned and bore it when I ran away to strange countries and came back with odd ideas.
I'm not saying this is the fate of all only children; I'm just saying there are lots of upsides for both parents and child. My parents, who had no fertility problems, decided one was more than enough. (I was apparently quite a powerhouse who never slept as a child. My mom longs for me to get my comeuppance with kids of my own. Wouldn't that be nice?)
I'm saying all this because every once in a while, I'll come across someone's blog post about their longing for more children or about wanting to give their child a sibling and not leave them (oh no, gasp) an only child. I just don't get it (though I'd like to): who says onlychildhood isn't better for the kid? Isn't wanting lots of kids about us adults, and not about our children? Do we model our dream families on our childhood families, so that if you have siblings, just one kid feels somehow off?
No judgment, just curiosity.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Recipe for the perfect 2ww meltdown
- Consult Dr. Google for success statistics;
- Fall into abject despair over success rates, the lady who gushed about how great giving birth was, the hostess at the restaurant rubbing her belly, etc;
- Eat biscuits/gnocchi/fish soup in great quantities;
- Notice how much weight you've put on for no good reason;
- Notice how, at least, you finally have something akin to cleavage;
- Look at triplet blogs;
- Scream, "I don't care what happens; JUST GET ME OUT OF HERE!"
- Stagger restlessly around house, reeling from cabin fever due to -8 air temps;
- Try cocoa. Even cocoa fails;
- JUST LIKE YOUR CYCLE...
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Luteal Lunacy
The ways I'm losing my mind are too many to narrate in my normal rambling prose. Add to that the low function of my brain at present, and you've got yourself one of those blog posts that somehow ties together the Knights Templar, tinfoil hats, New Mexican airplane hangars, and Texas book repositories. So, to the bullets:
- I cried when an Air Supply song came on the radio. Seriously.
- I ate two somewhat overcooked sausage biscuits procured with a madwoman's fervor from a fast-food establishment. Let me just say that as a somewhat vegetarian slow-food advocating future farmer, this is akin to apostasy.
- I really enjoyed aforementioned biscuits.
- I currently have what feels like a hot poker beating at my lower abdomen.
- My kingdom for a good number 2! Constipation and progesterone are totally evil twins in my body. (Excuse the TMI)
- Ummm... biscuits.
- I seem to have no desire (beyond biscuits) except to watch really, embarrassingly bad sci-fi. Which inevitably makes me cry.
- On the good sci-fi/crying front, I cried while watching the last episode of Battlest@r Galactica 4.0. When they find Earth, and it's all post-apocalyptic and the soil's all messed up and there's this bridge, broken and leading to nowhere...
- Sorry (sniff), where was I?
- I have dreamed every single friggin' night of pregnancy. I was 18 weeks, with twins, looking at a sonogram and worried about premature labor. My husband's real wife (don't ask, it was a wierd dream) was finally pregnant and I demanded he leave me for her. My fellow singer was pregnant with twins. What's next? Starbuck and Spock shopping for layettes, sporting huge bumps and devouring piles of biscuits?
- None of this means anything, except I'm pumping out ridiculous amounts of hormones. So I'm not fishing for speculations. Just sympathy. :(
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