Mollywogger

Molly Blogs Oscar Fashion 2007

2007-02-27T15:54:00.000-05:00

Oh, I’m ashamed.

Here it is two days after the Oscars aired, and I’m finally getting around to posting my fashion review. Mea maxima culpa, ladies. I guess the snarky side of me was buried under the foot of snow we received this weekend. But alas, keeping myself away from other fashion commentary for the last 36 hours has been excruciating, so the time for my post has come.

Best Dressed – Women

5. Rinko Kikuchi

After the Golden Globes fiasco (½ dress, ½ French poodle), I am thrilled beyond words to see Ms. Kikuchi cleaned up and glamified in this gorgeous Chanel Haute Couture gown. The hair is sleek, the accessories are perfect (I love the red clutch). What a fantastic turnaround.

4. Reese Witherspoon

Hey Britney - this is what you should be doing after breaking up with your cheating husband: getting the best revenge, which is looking fantastic. Reese wears this Nina Ricci, which lightens in color from eggplant to lilac, the way it was supposed to be worn. She looks regal, yet the long, loose hair and bangs keep her from looking stuffy.

3. Helen Mirren

God damn it, Dame Helen. If you asked me to move to the UK so you could become my sugar mama, I would be out of here so fast that the sound barrier would break. Look at her! She’s so goddamn sexy that you forget that she’s a 5’4” tall 61-year-old woman. She always dresses with perfect taste, and this Christian LaCroix dress is another bullseye.

(Mirren with her husband, director and all-around lucky bastard Taylor Hackford, who is thinking about how hard he wants to smack that ass right now).

2. Gwyneth Paltrow

Yes, yes, yes. This Zac Posen dress is beautifully cut to give a woman curves even if she is somewhat un-curvy like our Gwyneth. The lovely copper color shimmers in the lights and adds a warm glow to her face. Well done.

1. Cate Blanchett

Sweet mother of all that is sexy, will you look at Cate Blanchett?! She follows the metallics trend in this fabulous Giorgio Armani Privé gown which looks as if it was carved out of pewter especially for her. The one-strap trend was hot this year, and she wore it better than anyone else. Her skin looks like cream and her makeup is fresh and rosy. An absolutely flawless choice, all around.

Honorable Mention

-Isla Fisher

Another jewel-toned dress on this Australian Sacha Baron Cohen arm candy. The beautiful Monique Lhullier goes perfectly with her natural red hair (lucky bitch), and the high-waisted belt and mermaid cut are very flattering.

-Maggie Gyllenhaal

She gets an honorable mention, if only for the fact that at previous award shoes she has been seen schlumping around in a burlap sack. This gown is a beautiful yet distinctive and high-fashion choice for Maggie, who looks great after having given birth a few months ago. Looking great and being with Peter Sarsgaard? Nicely done.

-Diane Keaton

I was so excited to see Ms. Keaton not dressed as a man that she could have been wearing anything else and I would have honored her. But she went above and beyond by looking glamorous yet casual in this black form-fitting dress, with a bit of fun flip added to her normal severe-looking blonde bob.

-Emily Blunt

Yes, another jewel-toned dress. This one a bright clear sapphire Calvin Klein number on Brit Emily Blunt. It fits beautifully, and the cut is clean and elegant which lets the dramatic color speak for itself. Lovely.

Best Dressed – Men

-Ken Watanabe

I champion a man who will wear something other than white and/or black without looking ridiculous. And Ken can do it. I love this rosy-silver tie tiny diamond lapel pin. He looks handsome, yet distinctive. Plus, god! How cute is he?

-Djimon Hounsou

Brown! A man at the Oscars wearing brown and pulling it off! I love it! Perfect from head to toe. I even like the little gray bits in his beard.

-Leo DiCaprio

This man could have wrapped himself in his bedclothes and still have been the hottest thing on the red carpet, but I give him kudos for selecting a classic Armani two-button suit with shiny satin lapels and tie. Very striking.

Best Dressed Family

The Pinkett Smiths

As I’ve said in the past, Jada Pinkett Smith has impeccable taste in gowns, and this golden Carolina Herrera is yet another example. It’s the perfect color for her beautiful skin. Will looks great in a classic bowtie tux, and their son Jaden is adorable in his tux with a classy white tie and curls. What a photogenic family. Can you imagine what their Christmas pictures look like?

Look at all of these beautiful people! So classic! So glamorous!

And then everything went horribly awry.

Worst Dressed – Women

5. Nicole Kidman

I hate to do this to Nicole, whom I adore, especially post-Moulin Rouge!. But . . . THE BOW.

We’ve been over this before, ladies. The big, floppy shoulder bow is NOT A GOOD IDEA! The rest of this Balenciaga sheath is stunning and fits beautifully, setting off her snowy-white skin. But . . . THE BOW. There’s just no excuse.

4. Anne Hathaway – See #5, above.

And guess what? There are TWO BOWS on this little Valentino number.

Christ almighty, shoot me now.

3. Elizabeth Shue

Wait. Elizabeth Shue was there? Wearing a shapeless sack and a neck shackle? Why?

2. Eva Green

Oy. I knew that this Algerian-born stunning beauty had the potential to make an interesting fashion choice, judging from her look at the BAFTAs earlier this month. But this dress is simply strange. It looks like it has the potential to be two separate dresses that could possibly both be quite beautiful – the white lacy one underneath, and the flesh-colored, gauzy one on top. But to put them together – and top them with that bizarre bouffant-y do – simply does not work.

But don’t tell Eva that, or she might EAT your SOUL.

1. Kirsten ~~Dumps~~ Dunst

Unngghhh. There are so many things wrong with this look that I’m overwhelmed. The weird snaky-looking sequins. The bizarre little meshy Peter Pan collar. The strategically-placed-over-breasts-and-genitals beading. And, of course, the feathers. It just does. not. work.

Dishonorable Mention:

-Rashida Jones

Beautiful Karen from The Office (who I just figured out, after seeing several pictures of her with Quincy Jones, is Q’s daughter) is not showcasing her assets in this boring dress. The dress is dowdy and too shapeless for her beautiful figure, is the most dull color and pattern imaginable, and makes her look slouchy. The severe hairstyle and sparkly accessories both add to just make her look sort of out-of-place.

-Maribel Verdú

I loved the beautiful Ms. Verdu in Pan’s Lanyrinth, but I can’t say that I feel the same about her dress. As far as I know, Ms. Verdú is not sporting an advanced pregnancy, but the cut of the dress says otherwise. The fact that the whole dress looks to be crafted from a cake design template, tin foil, and a crimper is not a good thing.

The “Too Twisted for Color TV” Award*

-Patricia Field

This costume designer seems to think that she has to dye her hair to match the color of her dress (as opposed to some other people seem to think that they need to dye their hair to match the color of their skin – I’m talking to you, Kidman).

-Sally Kirkland

HOLY SHIT. I think this is what you used to see when you were little and you rubbed your eyes too hard.

Other general notes:

Shortly after this picture was taken, Joan Rivers turned feral and gnawed off Ryan Seacrest’s arm.

Things at the Oscars that were big and round:

Jack Nicholson’s Head (he apparently is playing a cancer patient in an upcoming movie)

Jennifer Hudson’s Rack

Perhaps Robert Downey Junior really was on drugs that night:

Right after Celine Dion was told at 99.97% of the American public actually thinks she’s the Antichrist:

The best part of the show:

“An Oscar and Helen Mirren are coming home with me!”

And lastly, just because it’s my blog, goddamnit:

Mads Mikkelsen

Clive Owen

Ahhhhhh . . .

*Name the movie that quote comes from and I’ll love you forever.

Evidently, I'm back.

2007-02-27T15:53:00.000-05:00

If Blogspirit isn't going to let me post pictures in my Oscars post, I'm sure as hell not sticking around. So, um, here I am again, two years later.

I'm outta here!

2005-03-15T15:57:00.000-04:00

It's official - I'll no longer be posting on this site. Come visit me at Blogspirit - Mollywogger. Cold mojitos with freshly harvested mint await you.

And, if you are so kind as to list me on your blog or in your favorites, make sure you update the links.

Change of A Dress

2005-03-11T13:17:00.000-04:00

I am happy to announce that I have moved to a nicer, classier, easier to use blog over at Blogspirit*!

Come visit my newly established Mollywogger Blog!

* - Highly recommended

I married a nerd.

2005-03-10T17:57:00.000-04:00

So my husband (The Handsome Linguist) called today.

HL: Molly, I have something to ask you. You know I'm a dork right?
Me: Yeah.
HL: Well . . . would it be OK if I bought a starter kit of Magic: The Gathering cards?
Me: [stifling laughter] Yeah, I guess that would be fine. How much are they?
HL: $12. I could join some of the tournaments up at Pegasus Games.
Me: Sure. Go for it.

The conversation progressed, we talked about what we were eating for dinner, etc. Then . . .

HL: Umm, I have a confession to make. You know how I asked you if I could buy some Magic cards? Well, um . . . I kind of called after the fact.
Me: You already bought them?! Ha!
HL: Well, I was nervous about buying them because you'd think I was a nerd.
Me: I always have, honey.
HL: Didn't you wonder how I already knew what the price was?
Me: I figured you had researched it online or something.
HL: No. But if I tell you how I knew what the price was, you'd laugh at me.
Me: Too late, I'm already laughing my ass off.
HL: *sigh* . . . I found out from one of the 4th graders at school.

At which point I was laughing so hard that everyone at the office turned and looked at me.

He went on to tell me about buying the cards from a guy who looked just like Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons, who gave him the tournament schedule. Know when the biggest tournaments are held?

Yeah, Friday nights. When else?

Tales of Horror from the Barnes & Noble Restroom

2005-03-02T11:37:00.000-04:00

Well, tonight is my second-to-last shift at my neighborhood Barnes & Noble, after which I will have just one job like a normal person. I have mixed feelings about this: while I'm overwhelmingly glad that I'll once again have my weekends and evenings free, I do have some friends at Barnes & Noble that I will miss. Which is why God and Thomas Edison invented the telephone. Anyway, on to the point of this post.

As a way to enhance its "warm, comfortable and spacious atmosphere" (Company History, barnesandnobleinc.com), Barnes & Noble offers comfortable lounge chairs, a fully-staffed cafe serving Starbucks coffees, a wide selection of books, music, DVDs, games, and gift items, and public restrooms.

Most American citizens have a rudimentary understanding of the function and use of a bathroom. Most. However, in the past months, I've become aware that there are some real freakshows out there.

Consider these examples:

-Because Barnes & Noble frequently offers such fine magazines as Busty Beauties, Paddles, Leg World, and Plumpers, as well as other incendiary books such as Bearotica and Lighting for Nude Photography, sometimes the clientele feel they need an, um, outlet for some pent-up, um, pressure. I can't tell you how many stories I've heard of employees finding some of the above-mentioned reading material spread on the floor of the above-mentioned restrooms.

-A few weeks ago, one of our employees was thrilled to find a pile of shit on the floor in the mens room. In the stall, but directly on the floor. At least 3 feet from the toilet. There's no way you can accidentally "miss" by 3 feet, folks. Luckily, when a mess like that ensues, the managers are in charge of cleanup. The following week, however, our floor-shitting villain returned -- and this time he was caught in the act by an employee. I'm not really sure how this one was resolved, or what the young man's reason for floor-shitting was. I do know that he's not coming back anytime soon.

-Along with the reading material frequently found in the restrooms, there are often implements for concurrent use with this literature. My personal favorite report was of a cucumber wearing a condom. In case the cucumber had an STD, I guess.

-When I was at work a few weeks ago, one of the employees reported to the manager that there was a toilet plunger sitting in a toilet. The manager, figuring some good samaritan had tried to unplug their own clog, went in to survey the situation. Upon reaching for the handle of the toilet plunger, he found . . .

wait for it . . .

VASELINE ON IT.

Policy was immediately enacted removing all plungers from restrooms.

I only have two shifts left to collect more of these. I'll keep you posted - I'm sure you greatly appreciate it.

The Oscars 2005: Get Beyonce the fuck off the stage

2005-02-28T12:01:00.000-04:00

I eagerly look forward to the Academy Awards each year. I am a fan of the cinema as well as a whore for celebrity gossip, so the Oscars are my personal Holy Grail.

The ABC pre-show, as always, made me want to hurl. If it weren't for the first tantalizing look at all of those gowns and jewels (and Clive Owen, a jewel in and of himself), I seriously wouldn't bother. If I had to hear, "Well, you look absolutely stunning," or "What was your inspiration for playing this character?" one more time, I would have tossed something. Probably my cookies.

Beyonce. Oh God, Beyonce. You were omnipresent. The memory of that first HORRID PERFORMANCE will haunt my nightmares for decades. Dearest, a hint: do not sing in French. EVER. AGAIN. And do not attempt to writhe about sexily while you're surrounded by 60 little chorus boys in sweater-vests. Burgundy-colored sweater-vests. Might I ask, also, why you chose a lovely LIME GREEN and ORANGE frock to match those burgundy sweater-vests? That whole performance was a gigantic fucking train wreck.

But that was only the first time Ms. B graced the stage. She returned, not once, but TWICE more to display her vocal stylings. The second performance, I'll admit, was bearable. Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber added some much-needed class to the stage as Ms. Knowles sang a tolerable version of "Learn to be Lonely" from Mr. Webber's musical. She wore a chandelier around her neck, but it somehow didn't seem to harm her breathing ability.

Beyonce was then joined by sometime hearththrob Josh Groban to ~~bleat~~ sing "Believe" from The Polar Express. Now, perhaps those who ~~are in need of a lobotomy~~ enjoy Josh Groban truly enjoyed this performance as well. I, myself, have never been a fan. I am personally acquainted with numerous men who sing better than that asshole. As our friends over at Defamer.com said, "Beyonce and Josh Groban - go together like peanut butter and baby vomit." Here, here! Ugh, enough. Way too much Beyonce for one post.

A few observations on the ceremony and the attendees (CAUTION: a zillion links ahead):

-Mickey Rooney is still alive?! Jesus tap dancing Christ!

-The style this year seems to be those fitted dresses that flare just below the knees, a la "A Fish Called Wanda." No complaints, just an observation. By the way, did anyone else laugh at the fact that "poor" Renee Zellweger could hardly walk in hers? Ha ha, that squinty little tart.

-My husband upon seeing the size of the cantalopes on one of Sidney Lumet's daughters: (in best girl voice) "His last two movies paid for these!"

-Another style? Frilly, fluffy, ruffly dresses.

-One more: The Greek Goddess look.

-Curiously missing: Nicole Kidman. Too weak from lack of sandwiches and pies to walk?

-My husband again: "Johnny Depp is so cool! He has a pocket watch!" Oh help me, God.

-I hate to rip on a hometown boy, but hey Prince: I took one semester of Spanish, and I know that "lado" is not pronounced "latro." You're on international television, buddy. Let's work the titles of those songs before the show.

I thought, overall, a successful show. How about you?

(Check out more snarky Oscars dirt from our friends at Go Fug Yourself, who have created this lovely slideshow for our viewing pleasure).

The Crimson Bitch rides again!

2005-02-24T11:00:00.000-04:00

Yes, 'tis true, my lovely uterus decided to bless me with the expulsion of its lining today, but only after fucking with me by spotting all through cycle day 27 ("Implantation spotting?! IMPLANTATION SPOTTING?!!!"). I had a 1/2 degree temperature drop this morning ("Implantation dip?! IS IT??!!!!!"), so I was pretty well prepared when the ute dropped the bomb a few hours later. But, of course, only after peeing on another seven-fucking-dollar stick this morning.

So, I'm looking on the bright side:
1) I can dye my inch-long roots again without fear that I will have a child with gills
2) Headaches can be TREATED
3) I can guiltlessly scrounge through the leftover deli sandwiches from today's industry meeting, listeria be damned
4) LIQUOR

I'm thinking of buying some of that Pre-Seed. Any thoughts on lubricants, ladies? Does olive oil really work just as well? Does it leave you smelling like Luigi's Pasta Parlor?

Buon appetito!

Hola Amigos! I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya . .

2005-02-21T13:17:00.000-04:00

. . . but here I am. Nothing to report, just another day in America's heartland. Life has been quiet here, which is both good and bad. I am thrilled to report that my husband is officially employed and we will, for the first time ever, be a two-income household soon. This is big! Mortgage applications and dreading moving our copious amounts of crap across town are soon to follow.

As for me, I'm once again coming to the end of another cycle. Last month I had a nine-day luteal phase and, if that holds once more, C.B. (Crimson Bitch® - just using an acronym that stands for "Aunt Flo" makes me want to hurl, as does the fucking annoying "B.D. - Baby dance" column that you have to mark on my Fertility Friend chart) could show up tomorrow. Guess I'll need to keep you posted there.

Since my temps have stayed up, I decided it would be a great idea to pee on a First Response Early Detection stick at 9 dpos. Ha! One beautiful pink line, the rest of the testing area as milky white as my February-in-Wisconsin ass. After which point I frantically searched the Fertility Friends chart gallery for "Negative HPT before positive HPT" to reassure myself, to some extent. I'm not sure why I do this to myself, since I haven't been having any pregnancy symptoms at all, and "even if you do everything right, you've only got a 20-25% chance of getting pregnant each month." Yeah, yeah. Suck it.

Unfortunately, I don't have a Largest Celebrity Vaginas list, per Pru's request. Though I'll probably get some fucked-up Google hits from that one. Oh, and from adding "fucked!" This does not, however, change my undisputed reign as "Celebrity Gossip Whore."

More news soon.

In case you were curious . . .

2005-02-08T17:35:00.000-04:00

Who knew?

The Worst Song in the World - Tribute

2005-02-02T17:38:00.000-04:00

On Saturday, I sang in the wedding of a junior high/high school friend that I hadn't seen since my own wedding two and a half years ago -- let's call her T. Now, I've sung in my share of weddings, so I've sung some trite, cheesy little ditties. In fact, I sang for T.'s sister's wedding about 7 years ago, and I remember an especially hokey song I had to pull together for that one:

Oh yes, it's true,
He has chosen me for you.
Take my hand, and you'll agree
he has chosen you for me.

Yeah, cheesy, but bearable. HOWEVER - the horrible piece of crap I had to sing on Saturday has no equal. And that is even considering that I've sung "The Wedding Song" at two different weddings ("Rest assured this troubador is acting on his part" - what the hell? Troubador? Who was smoking crack when they wrote that piece?!)

The song I sang on Saturday was a Michael W. Smith piece called "The Other Side of Me." It seemed like your usual cheesy wedding fare at first:

If they had to write about
The story of my life
They would have to mention you
On every page they write -
There's another side to every story told

Ah yes, the life as a story. What a sparkling, innovative metaphor. Onwards:

If I were the ocean
You would be the shore.
One without the other
Would be needing something more.
We are the shadow and the light.

Is it just me, or is that fourth line just dumb? "Quick, I need something that rhymes with shore! And please, make the grammar as awkward as possible!" To the refrain:

Always love me
Never leave me now
Now you are the other side of me. (repeat)

Pretty basic pop-Christian love rhetoric. On we go:

I have known the emptiness
Of feeling out of touch,
And living life without you here
Would be living half as much
'Cause I've a need that only you can fill.

OK, well that's not horrible. It's actually kind of nice. Besides the 'cause. It's annoying and, ultimately, not even necessary. So far, I can deal with this song. Then it hits a submerged crap-berg and starts sinking faster than Vanilla Ice's career:

If love was mathematical
You'd understand the sum
To the heart's equation
Where one and one makes one,
And lonely equals me minus you.

And lonely equals me minus you. At this point, I'm hovering between nausea and the urge to pee myself from laughter. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. You want this song in your wedding? Please. No. Here, I'll give those soon-to-be-marrieds a few hints in picking their wedding music:

1. Any song with "'cause" in it is out. Period.
2. Sentences should roll off of the tongue. These are lyrics, for God's sake. They are written to sound nice with music.
3. Wedding songs should not contain math equations, even stupid fake ones, no matter how cute you think they are.
4. Again, no math in wedding songs. No math in wedding songs!

Now I'll have that piece of shit in my head all night. That's the price I have to pay for agreeing to sing a wedding song with MATH IN IT.

Whenever two or more of you are gathered in my name . . .

2005-02-01T17:29:00.000-04:00

. . . there is love. Oh, and I feel that love -- thanks to Angela, Pru, and The Duke for their comments. Good to know that people care and that other mothers are as bizarre as mine.

Well, ya'll, I pulled a Pru on Friday and got my period mere minutes after taking a pregnancy test. Ok, well, it wasn't so much minutes as much as two hours, but I wanted to share in that "Why the hell did I waste that $9 pregnancy test?!" moment with her. Besides, hours are, technically, minutes.

(That reminds me of the King of the Hill episode where Hank Hill is trying convince a customer to buy a grill from Strickland's Propane rather than the local Mega Lo Mart:

Customer: Do you honor Mega Lo Mart Coupons?
Hank: No, but for pennies more, you get the same products with Strickland service.
Customer: How many pennies?
Hank: Uh . . . several hundred.)

So, no, I'm not pregnant. And might I add that Friday was day 23 of my cycle. I had a 23 day cycle! 9 day luteal phase! What kind of a weirdo has a 23 day cycle! I suppose I'm still "settling in" to my normal cycle after 4 years on the pill - 31 in December, 23 last month. Let's hope we come upon a happy medium soon.

As much as I am baffled by my supershort cycle, I am also somewhat glad that it was short because I was at the end of my period when I went in for my much-anticipated annual pap smear. Every year I pull myself in to see Dr. Stunning, my absolutely gorgeous 32-year-old physician. She is looks like a character in a Bollywood movie - long, glossy black hair, amber eyes, perfect teeth and cocoa skin, petite, lithe frame. This time, to add to my envy, she was also 6 months pregnant. Hmm. Sucks to be her. As I left, after some intimate time with the speculum, she said, "Well, next time I see you you might have a little baby with you!" Now that I've read all of these infertility blogs, all I can think is "That's awfully optimistic of you," though I know that that may be true, since the majority of people do conceive in the first 6 months of trying, and we're in month 3. However, my "infertility radar" is on lately, and I find myself being hyper-aware as a result.

More tomorrow, if I find the time. Must tell you about the INCREDIBLY CHEESY song I had to sing at a wedding on Saturday. *shudder*

Unearthing my desk

2005-01-27T16:27:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-01-13T18:08:00.000-04:00

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

2005-01-06T18:17:00.000-04:00

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

2005-01-05T17:56:00.000-04:00

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.

Sunrise, sunset . . .

2004-12-10T20:15:00.000-04:00

Hello from the United States of Canada. It's 4:15, the sun has set, and the week is gone.

A few observations:

WHY IS IT DARK AT 4:15?!

Watching my husband watch TV is the funniest thing I've ever seen. He mirrors all of the actors' facial expressions, eyebrows and all. You should have seen him during "Joey" last night.

How come our cats continue to eat toilet paper? What is so delicious about toilet paper?

We're finishing all of our holiday shopping TONIGHT. This has never happened before.

Could Johnny Depp be hotter? Seriously, could he?

Could be . . . who knows?

2004-12-07T17:29:00.000-04:00

On Sunday night I met with my book club. I love how you can put the label of "book club" on a monthly gathering of ex-Bath & Body Works employees getting somewhat snockered on cheap merlot while gossiping and, oh yeah, talking briefly about a book, and it sounds somewhat intellectually valuable.

There are five of us in book club, four of us married. The one that isn't married, A., is currently 32 and is in the first long-term relationship where she has actually considered (and they've actually talked about) marriage. What's even more surprising to her (and to us) is that she can actually see herself wanting to have kids with him.

This is was implausible in the past -- A. is the type of woman who really, really values independence, tidiness, and order. This is the woman who purposely chose the glowing, cream-colored, doesn't-hide-spills-well berber carpeting for her townhouse; who chose the Bath & Body Works soap-and-lotion sets to have in each bathroom based on whether the lotion color blended with her shower curtain (Warm Vanilla Sugar downstairs, Cucumber Melon up). We all gawked at her maternal admission, baffled.

Then A. asked C., who is a nurse, "But we'll probably want to wait a few years after we get married to have kids. Is 35 too old to start having kids?" Of course, a chorus of "NOs" resounded from the four of us, still dumbfounded that she would be asking anything having to do with offspring at all. She continued, "Because who knows if my system will still be working then? If it's working now, that is."

Of course, I thought of all of the women that I have grown to care for deeply over the past few months. How that little "if" in "If it's working now" can so quickly devastate all of the plans that someone has made for their life since their childhood. Because, really, there usually is no way a person knows about their own fertility until it is already drastically altering their life. It's scary to know that the answer to whether you yourself, as a man or a woman, can create life -- a central part of many people's lives -- has been with you for years, but you don't know that answer until you actually take the leap and start trying.

Few people consider, before the fact, the possibility that they may be infertile. For that reason, most haven't done any research on the cost, financial and otherwise, of infertility treatments, have a hard time understanding the dizzying throng of emotions that go along with infertility, and don't know not to say, "I guess it's part of God's plan" or "Why don't you just adopt?" It's sad that in many cases, the only people who understand infertility are other people experiencing it.

For that reason, I'd like to say thank you to the women who have opened my eyes and taught me so much about how to be a friend -- not just a friend to people struggling with infertility, but to anyone. The support you show each other is amazing. Thank you for sharing your stories -- it really helps those of us who haven't experienced infertility (or perhaps, in a case like me, haven't experienced it yet, because really . . . who knows?) how to be sensitive and understanding with others in need.

You are truly strong, beautiful people.

Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade

2004-12-05T03:20:00.000-04:00

Tonight at my part-time job at our friendly neighborhood Barnes & Noble, one of the managers (I use the term loosely -- the moron is about a year older than me and considers himself to be quite the shit because he was a history major. Yeah, and I was a religion major. Who the fuck cares?!) informed me that I "have the personality of a wet blanket."

Not quite the thing you want to hear when you're experiencing depression and your feet hurt and you're doing your best to ward off an ever-approaching migraine. Jesus Christ.

He apologized later, in no uncertain terms, after I was found crying in the break room.

Zoloft, sweet ambrosia of the gods, I could use some help right about now.

When I'm stuck with a day that's gray and lonely

2004-12-04T01:23:00.000-04:00

Two months ago, I called the clinic to see if I could get an appointment with a psychologist. I had never liked fall, and certainly never liked winter, but the dread of the upcoming season was just too much for me to handle this year. I live in the midwest, where winter means long underwear and car accidents and sidewalk salt and road gravel and scraping frost off of windshields with numb hands. And, what is surely the most defeating, only 10 hours of sunlight manage to push their way into our part of the northern hemisphere.

This year the dread of winter consumed me. I sat at work in a stupor, unable to force myself to work. I snapped at my husband, stayed at home every night, and seriously considered talking to my boss about the possibility of working only 3 or 4 days each week. I have a history of depression, but it's been controlled for years by Zoloft (a gift from the gods). This fall, it just wasn't cutting it.

I suspected Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and bought a book to read up on symptoms and treatments. The most frequently mentioned treatment was a light therapy box; these boxes emit 5,000 - 10,000 lux of light (as compared to a normal light bulb, which emits less than 1,000), and start, may I add, at upwards of $200. I had called and made my appointment, but couldn't get in for two months.

I couldn't let two months of my life slip away in this fog. We took some of my husband's most recent student aid loan and bought a light therapy box.

Godsend. Not quite 100%, but incredibly relieving just the same.

I finally got in to see Dr. N this morning. I was officially diagnosed as having SAD, and my Zoloft has been upped for the fall and winter months. I will continue using the light therapy box daily.

I firmly believe that if you are suffering from chronic emotional difficulties that are adversely affecting your life, there's no need for you to be a martyr. It's trendy right now for people to piss and moan about how Americans are drugging themselves into a stupor and crushing every negative emotion with a bottle of pills. Don't let that make you feel guilty if you need to seek help. A mental illness is exactly that -- an illness -- and should be treated as such.

So, we'll see how my treatment plan works. I'll keep you posted.

Introductions

2004-12-02T14:27:00.000-04:00

So I have started another blog.

My husband and I have a G-rated, benign, unpolitical, non-offensive blog that we update for friends and family. It was a creative challenge to come up with things to post after, say, last month's presidential election without alienating people that I'll need to see at holiday gatherings for the rest of my life. Creative challenge or not, it feels thoroughly scrubbed. With bleach. A Stepford Wife's blog.

One day about 3 months ago, while aimlessly surfing online, I somehow happened upon Julia's blog. In it, Julia, a writer, tells about her and her husband's many-year quest to conceive a child and maintain a pregnancy to term. Her story was full of heartbreak and, since she is now in a pregnancy that is going well, great joy. She is amazing. On her site, there were links to all sorts of other women, equally amazing, that are suffering from/have suffered from infertility and have had the guts to post their stories online.

Some of these women write with breathtaking wit and hilariously sharp humor (Julia [yes, another one], Grrl, Julie, and especially Jo), some are the strongest women I have ~~ever~~ (well, let's face it) never met, but would love to (Cecily, Tertia). Over the past three months of reading these women's stories, I feel I know them so well. I look forward to their daily posts, and I feel such great joy when things are going right and such sorrow when tragedy hits. I think of them every day, many times a day, and I admire them so much.

Now. I'm 25 years old, I've been married about 2 and a half years, and my husband and I have not yet started trying to conceive. When I mention to other people (my husband, my office mates [to explain why I have just audibly gasped at work], my sister, etc.) that I am reading the blogs of women suffering from infertility, I get some of the weirdest, most baffled looks I've ever seen. I have no way to explain how much I look forward to checking their blogs, and how close I feel to these women. I certainly can't post it on my blog (can't you just see it? My dad drops by for my weekly update to find, "Good news! Grrl's gestational surrogate is pregnant! The embryo implanted!"). So, I've started my own, in honor of the support that I see within the women in the infertility blogging committee. You ladies are truly an inspiration.