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.