Unearthing my desk

Sorry to remain silent so long. Suffice it to say that the LH did surge, sex was had, hips were elevated, etc. Now I'm in the two-week wait, with three fresh First Responses sitting at home in their box, ready to be christened tomorrow morning.

In the meantime, I've been entertaining myself with various projects. On Monday, I got this email from my boss: "Hello Molly, So here is a bit of friendly advice: seriously organize your work area before your annual review that is coming up in a few weeks. Tom" Guess what I've been doing for the last three days?

Granted, it was SERIOUSLY in need of "organizing." I found stuff under the piles that hasn't been applicable to any part of my job since October of 2002. And I started here in August of 2002. So an "organization" was long overdue. I actually was quite lucky -- I didn't find a single thing that, having been left so long unattended, would have warranted immediate firing. Not bad. This is especially good since I work in a University department, and the documents I deal with daily affect people's education and, by extension, LIFE. Frightening.

My mother and I both have this problem -- leaving various piles of un-dealt-with junk in our wake wherever we go. My mother has always referred to it as "clean clutter." Mom has obsessive-compulsive disorder, and her obsession is cleanliness, but not in the way you'd think. She has an aversion to anything grimy, sticky, dusty, etc., but no problem with piles of mail, shoes left by the door, or towels hung crookedly.

A few examples of what I mean: 1) One of her big things is dust. To counteract dust, Mom covers board games, books, unused furniture, photo albums, and unfinished craft projects with dish towels. White ones, with little ducks doing laundry embroidered on them by some family matriarch. There are many of these snow-covered mountain ranges throughout our house; or 2) Mom is also concerned about the possibility of ant infestations - before anything goes into our recycling bin, it must be thoroughly washed out with dish soap and water. Also, all food garbage is kept separate from paper trash and packaged in an empty milk carton (notice I said "garbage" - which, to my mom, refers to food-based refuse, and "trash" - which is "clean" refuse).

Yup, she's still a bit nutty. Yet, she's been on Zoloft for about 15 years. I'm kind of glad that my childhood was spent semi-oblivious to her mental illness, or I probably would have gone nuts. I do remember one incident, however -- my sister and I were lying in bed, half-asleep, when we heard Mom bellow from downstairs, "Girls?! Who knocked over the rolls of toilet paper under the sink down here?!" Mom made us get out of bed to re-stack the toilet paper rolls. Memories.

Incidentally, all three of us are on Zoloft now. Small wonder.

Really . . . have . . to . . . pee.

Being an overinformed, semi-anal-retentive woman who is trying to conceive, I've doled out $36 in the past 2 months on ovulation predictor test sticks. And, because it is recommended you "Reduce your liquid intake for 2 hours before testing, since drinking excessive amounts of liquids can dilute the LH in your urine," I'm sitting here after foolishly drinking an excessive amount of liquids, hoping my bladder doesn't burst before I get home to the box o' sticks.

Only . . . 45 . . . more . . . minutes . . .

Shoveling Snow with Buddha

I recently posted this poem as a comment on grrl's blog, but I thought it was fitting for the season so I'm posting it here as well:

Shoveling Snow with Buddha
by Billy Collins

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,his hair
tied in a knot,a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck,
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.

---From "Picnic, Lightning"

The Handsome Linguist shakes things up

So, yeah. It's been almost a month since I posted. There are 2 reasons: 1)I've got so much crap jammed in my head that, instead of categorizing into separate crap piles and shoving in my pitchfork to see if I could produce some posts, I ignored that fact that I had a blog, and 2) the crap that I have is hard to write about. Well, today, I've decided to try.

My husband and I spent the last week with the in-laws in beautiful Kalispell, Montana. My husband had had just about enough of his parents by the time we left, but I could have stood a few more days if it meant staying away from work for longer. My job is, quite simply, not what I might describe as "my passion." More like, "What I will drag myself to each weekday to ensure that we have health insurance and can pay rent." As, I'm sure, is often the case.

We took the Amtrak there -- a 24-hour-ride, one way -- which was quite lovely on the way out. On the way back, however, we were seated in front of a delightful man whom I referred to alternately as: 1) Coughy McHacksalot; 2) Sir Phlegmington; and 3) Typhoid Murray. THE grossest, gunkiest, most rattly cough you've ever heard -- followed each time by a good, hard loogie-hocking. Every 30 seconds. After about an hour of this, I was nauseous just listening to the man. My husband improvised some earplugs from Kleenexes and was able to block out the gurgling, while I clenched my jaw desperately, cursing the non-functioning Kleenex earplugs shoved in my own canals, and contemplated how to most politely say, "NYQUIL!! INVEST IN SOME FUCKING NYQUIL!! JESUS CHRIST!!" to Mr. Insensitive Expectorator. So, not much sleep that night. I guess I could have used the Nyquil.

Big changes have been afoot lately in Mollywogger land. My husband has spent the past 2 and a half years in a graduate program studying ancient Semitic languages, and he decided to withdraw from the program last month because the program's focus wasn't exactly what he wanted. This kind of threw us both for a loop -- my handsome linguist has been in school for 19 and a half solid years, and now he's going to begin job hunting for a full-time, not-summer-only job for the first time in his life.

This small earthquake will affect us/is affecting us in the following ways: 1) we will have two! incomes! soon! and I can get rid of the part-time job; 2) until he has a job, he'll be doing all of the cleaning/grocery shopping/laundry etc. Woo hoo!; 3) the stress of 12-14 hours of classes/studying daily will quickly melt away. I hope.; and lastly, and most jarringly exciting for both of us, 4) we've decided to start trying to conceive.

Wow.

This brings me to a quandry.

If, indeed, I am like 90-95% of women, I will most likely become pregnant within the first year of trying. However, the women I care for so deeply online have been struggling with infertility for years. If I do end up being really-fucking-fertile, I hereby pledge that I will do my best to not be obnoxious about it. I've learned so much from all of you -- now, if the proverbial embryo hits the proverbial uterine wall, I will do my best to put all of your advice to the best possible use. Of course, I'm counting my eggs way the hell before they're even ovulated, but I wanted to mention the possibility.

Hoping all are well. More news sooner than later, I promise.