Blasts From The Pasts

I'm sure you're wondering what on earth is going on.

Exciting news!   I'm finally moving to my own domain.

I've bought www.cluelessincarolina.com and I'm ready to take this to the next level.

Before I turned the blog over to my web designer, I went back and published some old posts that, for one reason or another, were in my Draft file.  

Enjoy!!!!

See you soon!!

I hope you enjoy reading these old posts as much as I enjoyed the stroll down memory lane.

Banned To The Backseat

PART TWO-MOTHER-IN-LAW


There is a song that goes something like this:

The meanest woman I know(mother-in law, mother-in law)

she aggravates me so.... (mother-in-law, mother-in-law)

If she'd leave us alone we would have a happy home...

Sadly enough, my version would go something like this:


The woman loves him so (mother-in-law)

If it was a choice between me or him, I would have to go (mother-in-law)

Everything he does is right

It's such a pathetic sight

That she loves him so much more than her own kid (mother-in-law)

As you can see, I'm banned to the backseat while my mother and her Precious Son-In-Law commiserate over what a rotten kid I am. We picked her up to take her to the recital. The kids had been dropped off 2 hours earlier.


I wiggled into the front seat to grab the camera. The conversation went like this:


Mom: "Lorrie, I wish you'd just SIT DOWN. What's so important that you have to GET OUT OF YOUR SEAT?"

Suckup Roger: "That's right. It's SO DANGEROUS. And by the way, I bet that truck driver passing us appreciates seeing you behave in such an unladylike fashion."  Roger is enjoying this far too much.

Mom: "Listen to your husband. And by the way, I hope you don't embarass him with that short skirt and plunging neckline."

Suckup Roger: "That's right. You'd better not embarass me."


ps Mom is dead serious; Roger is just kidding!! No man in my experience has ever objected to short skirts and plunging necklines :)

Merde Gifts

PART FOUR-MY USELESS FEMALE PARTS START TO HURT

So, the recital unfolded in front of our awe-stricken eyes. Every person in the auditorium gasped with admiration and excitement when their Little Precious took the stage.

But I slowly became aware that an intruder was here to..in the words of a famous China parent...Steal My Joy. I started having cramps.

I made it through the recital and climbed quietly in the back seat of the van and opened my Secret Jar Of Sanity. I began eating Motrin (Prescription Strength, 800mg) like Tic-Tacs. Motrins are hard on my body, but I can't deal with the pain. I tried to keep it light, but just before we got to the cast party, Roger hit a speed bump and I screamed, clutching my ornery insides, "OH MY GOD!" The whole family turned around to look at me, aghast.

The tension of the recital and the pain burst a dam. I started to sob. "I'm in pain," I sobbed. "Terrible, terrible, pain."

Two little girls looked at me in horror. I try not to cry around them. I'm not trying to be the Little Spartan, but I think that parents ought to save crying for truly sad events. It shakes up a kid's world. Kids need to be able to look to their parents for stability. I sobbed briefly for a few seconds, then got up and brushed it off. On with the party!

Fortunately the kids were distracted with Merde Gifts. Merde means "shit" in French. You've heard of "Break A Leg", right? Ok, well, the custom in the theatah world is to give little "Break A Leg" or "Merde" gifts. Each ballerina gives them to the other kids in their group. Bring it! The happiness at receiving a bag filled with toys drove any thoughts of their sobbing, irrational mom out of their head.

Oh kids, remember this one day when we have the Serious Talk About Womanhood.

I won't tell you about the Joy Of Being A Girl.

Because there isn't any.

IT SUCKS.

Oh, and guys? I've HEARD the story before about how awful it is to be a male and how you became excited during 7th grade World History while fantasizing about Ms. Hotteacher and how that is just so awful and how'd you like to walk around with a body part that tends to have a mind of its own and blah blah blah and I'll see that untimely event and raise you a body part that CAUSES A LIFETIME OF PURE HELL. 

Thank you and have a nice day.

eta:   Later I was diagnosed with Stage 3 endometriosis and all my internal organs were removed, causing this disabling fibromyalgia.   So the joy never ends.

My Open Letter To Men

An Open Letter To Men

I didn't know anything about men when I was growing up. Oh, I had a Dad. He changed diapers, worked a full time job, always displayed open love and affection towards Mom, claimed to be a virgin on his wedding night (age 28, served in WWII), never cheated, encouraged his daughters to succeed academically and thought that our career ambitions were awesome, never drank, ate only healthy foods, never smoked, picked up after himself, could cook a mean omelet, believed in God but not in the smarmy obnoxious way, wrote beautiful love letters, etc.

So you can see that I really did not know anything about men.

After thirty years of careful, exacting field research, I have amassed a large dossier on the male species. I feel selfish keeping it to myself. So, men, here you go.

The top five things that you men THINK we want:

1. Ripped muscles--Guys, we really don't care about a six pack. Try to keep in shape, and a huge protruding stomach is a gross turnoff to be sure, but honestly, an evening spent cooking dinner for us will pay off quicker and more profitably than an evening in the gym popping protein pills.

2. Mother Nature was kind to you.  You think about this far more than we do.  I promise you.  Cross my heart.  

If you still feel cheated by Mother Nature, I encourage you to take advantage of the many caring people on the internet who want to help you with the problem. If not, forget it. Just let nature take its course. Oh, and a cuddle sometimes without wanting more? Yeah. It is nice. Take one for the team.

3. A big ol' honkin job--No. I've dated millionaires. I've dated poor boys. It's not the job, or the salary, it's the fact that you actually HAVE one. Live within your means. Don't borrow money from your partner. Don't work 100 hours a week. Do care about OUR life. Don't think that if you make more than us that you are superior. A person's value as a friend, lover, life partner, etc. does not depend on the size of their paycheck.

4. Hair--Ok, I'm prejudiced. My man is bald. Has been bald since he was a teenager. If you're going bald, just deal. Don't do the combover bit. You aren't fooling anybody. Forget the toupee. If you must get a weave, fine. I don't care one way or the other about hair.

5. Fancy clothes, car, etc.-- You know what? Convertibles are the most overrated thing in the world. It's either too hot or too cold to drive around with the top off. It's windy. Is it worth going into debt just to drive around the ten days out of the year that the weather is perfect? If you want one, fine. Just don't think that it's gonna get you laid.

Um, clothes? Ok, the stained shirt that you bought at Dollar Plus ten years ago isn't a turn on, but you don't have to go all metrosexual either. Choose clean clothes that fit and are reasonably up to date. I like a man in a white shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots, just fyi.

The top five things we REALLY want.

1. I hope you dance, yeah I'm talkin' to you my loving, wonderful, sexy and handsome husband!! :)-- Why are men so resistant to dancing? Why are we women glued to the TV watching Dancing With The Stars? Why don't you want to get up and take a spin on the dance floor with us? You think "people are watching?" You pussy. People are busy getting drunk. Just get up and dance. I don't care how bad you are. And don't make me pump you with liquor to cajole you into dancing. It's no fun if you're so drunk you're stepping all over my toes.

2. Write a love letter once in awhile-- My 8 year daughter found some of my love letters from an old boyfriend. She teases me about it--Is he your boyfriend, mom? Well, not so much, but....they are so beautifully written I can't bear to throw them out. It's all a part of my history, yada, yada. I don't mind if my husband has some old love letters by the way (which he does-after all, he was 39 when we met) I think I can literally repeat every love letter I've ever gotten, word for word. They mean that much to me.

3. Two Profitable Hobbies:

Guitar--You might not have time to take lessons, but I can tell you that a man playing the guitar and singing softly makes me feel very affectionate, which is why we can never attend a Guitar Mass at church.

Photography--If you don't have time to play the guitar, how about photography? Buy a camera and photograph me. That works. Works just peachy keen.  Well, unless you make comments like "My God, I had no idea how fat your face looked until just now."

4. A nice guy--Yeah, I've heard all the whining about how you nice guys get dumped for assholes. Bull!! I'm sorry, but you just might be a nice, BORING guy. I don't like nice boring guys, but I prefer them over mean, boring guys. Truly, what is the alternative? Do you want to torment your woman? Do you get off on that? Come on. Just be decent. Caring. Thoughtful. Honest. Hold a job. Pay your bills. Don't live with your mother.

But do be nice to her when she calls.

5. LISTEN--I feel that it's a vitally important and interesting part of my history that my 2nd grade teacher once yelled at me for picking my nose in front of the class. If you listen to that story, I promise I'll listen to your blow-by-blow explanation of the latest football game on the telly. Major, major excellent brownie points if you actually remember the story 48 hours later. I do not hold out much hope for that.

Sign My Scrapbook!

Back to the Never Ending Story of the Ballet Recital, which you're probably sick of and looking for the X box right now. But bear with me for just a little while longer.


Yeah, they helped. I rapidly morphed--honestly, they should make a TRANSFORMER DOLL starring me--from Mature, Mellow, Pain-Stricken But Basically Stop-And-Smell-The-Roses Lorrie to Young Lorrie. Young Lorrie? Bore a striking and terrifying resemblance to Young Frankenstein.


In my younger days, I was insanely competitive. I can't even begin to tell you how insanely driven and competitive I was. Let me see:


1. High school-skipped 1 year, graduated 11th in class of 450.
2. College-skipped 1 year, graduated 11th in class of 4,500. Graduated Magna Cum Laude.
3. Law school-skipped one semester, discovered something even more interesting than books--men--yeah YOU--and graduated Thank You Lawdy (And thank you old boyfriend for helping me with the Uniform Commercial Code).


I was 23 when I was sworn into the bar. I was single minded to the point of, seriously, madness. That was a long, long time ago.


I am now happily self-benched and on the Mommy Track to Oblivion And Poverty.


But Young Lorrie comes bursting out at inopportune times, like at a ballet cast party hopped up on painkillers.


Happily Stoned Young Lorrie wrote a check for $60.00 for 2 DVDs of the performance and 2 scrapbooks. The kids were supposed to get their friends to sign the scrapbooks. I placed the scrapbooks into their little hands and instructed them that they were supposed to get their friends to sign them.


Young Lorrie would have grabbed the scrapbooks and began soliciting signatures immediately (It was my goal to have more signatures in my yearbook than anybody else, a goal that makes sense only to a teenager, I guess).


The kids just stood there.


"Look! There's Lindsay! There's Evelyn! There's Darienne! KIDS ARE ALREADY LEAVING THE PARTY FOR GOD'S SAKE I DIDN'T JUST PAY THIRTY DOLLARS FOR SOME PIECES OF PAPER BETWEEN SCROUNGY CARDBOARD FOR NOTHING! GET OVER THERE AND GET THE KIDS TO SIGN THE SCRAPBOOK NOW!"


Lord, my kids are going to write the sequel to Mommie Dearest.


Seriously, I have GOT to stand down. I had parents who didn't fight my battles because they were gentle, kindly, and courteous souls, so my sister and I became ball busting beyotches. I have to strike a happy medium here. Be ready to go into battle for a true problem, but otherwise back off and let them handle life on their own.


I know this.


It's just that Young Lorrie doesn't.


I'm going to have to get in touch with my inner child and feed her some Xanax.

Guest Blogger

Happy 4th! Give it up for my guest blogger, Tammie (password protected now-this was originally written in 2006)  We're exchanging blogs for the day. The assignment was "Freedom" and let me tell you, it isn't easy to think of something that isn't loaded with cliches. I think she did great!


Latitudes
From the time I was 5 until I was 17, the epitome of freedom for me was the last day of school before summer vacation. There was nothing like that feeling of hearing the final bell ring and seeing three whole months stretching out before me, full of possibility.


These days, with the myriad of adult responsibilities that I deal with every day, freedom means a hundred different things.


I’ve been trying lately to look at the many positives in my life and appreciate how fortunate I am, rather than focusing on the negatives. I am so extremely lucky to be living in this time, under these circumstances. The freedoms I enjoy span an enormously broad spectrum. For example, Jeff and I are struggling with infertility and we don’t know when we’ll have a baby. But on the other hand, I can still sleep in if I want to. We can take off and travel at a moment’s notice and for the moment, my body and life are still my own. As much as I want a child, all of that freedom changes when we have a baby. I know everything will be worth it, but you’d better believe I am making the most of the autonomy we have now.


In my personal life, I have often struggled with finding my identity and being true to myself. In the last few years, I feel I’ve sort of come into my own in that regard. I have surrounded myself with people with whom I am comfortable enough to be myself. I feel loved and supported. The feeling of freedom that comes with knowing, without a doubt, that I never have to fake it or be anyone but who I am is absolutely amazing.


Freedom comes in many colors and sizes. My husband and I are fortunate to have good jobs (well, since we just moved to Florida, he has a job and I’m unemployed for the time being – another type of freedom altogether) and to be in a solid financial situation. On a more global scale I am among the luckiest people in the world to live in a country where as a woman, I can do and be whatever I choose.


Life is good and my focus lately has been to try hard not to take any of it for granted.

Last Call

Professor

I became a lawyer when I was still a tadpole, and I’ll shamelessly confess that I always enjoyed the “prestige” of the field.

Sadly enough, I came to the field of academia very late and it’s just bad luck that academia has a caste system as rigid as any in India.

My job is the lowest on the totem pole, and the pay is minimal, but I do love it so. And by the way, to all you 50 male lawyers who have said to me, “I’d love to do what you do, but I have so many financial obligations,” do you have any idea how obnoxious you sound?  How condescending you sound? You choose a high stress, high pay job and you’re enjoying the rewards. Good for ya. I don’t need a big house or a nanny or a stay at home spouse or a gardener or a 3 carat diamond ring. I look forward to going to work every day in a low stress job.

ANYWAY.

The one thing I crave, and it’s not money, is the lost prestige of being an attorney. I’m not even a “professor.” I’m an instructor. Gawd. That sounds like I’m teaching basket weaving to slack jawed mental defectives.

The dream of being a “REAL PROFESSOR” in a four year school has always been a wispy fantasy at the back of my mind.

I thought it was going to happen 7 years ago. I was offered a position at a small private college. I accepted the job and was scheduled for a final handshake interview with the president at 2:00. At 1:00 they left a message on my machine telling me the job belonged to someone else.

Last year the same small private college told me again that the job was 99% mine, then they sent an email rescinding their offer. Isn’t technology wonderful? They don’t even have to brush you off in person anymore.

So I was going on with my life, happily resigned to being an Untouchable, when I got a call on Monday. From the same school.

Dr. Jones called. He's a good guy, but he isn't the decision maker.

Lucky that I used to be a bar hopper. I was able to interpret the conversation based on Last Call Language.

"We have another tenure track position open," he began, filled with excitement.

Last Call Language: it's late, and you look good after my 6th Budweiser.

"I'll just be honest with you," he began. "We are looking for a Ph.D, not a Juris Doctor. But we offered the job to Dr. A, who turned us down. We offered it to Dr. B, who has a M.A. and a J.D. and a Ph.D, but had terrible job references. School begins in 3 weeks and our travel budget is exhausted. We already know what you've got. Are you interested? If you are, you'll have to come in tomorrow for an interview, because the dean is flying to India on Wednesday!"

Last Call Language: All the really cute girls have gone home, and I don't have the money to hire a hooker, so would you like to drive your car back to my place for a roll in my unwashed sheets? I won't be marrying you or fathering your child, but I'll try to find a decent condom....make up your mind now, or I'll just go home and cue up some porn!

"I...I....guess...." I stammered. "Great!" he replied. "Stay by your phone. How about 1:00 Tuesday?"

I didn't even bother to buy fresh pantyhose.

The phone rang at 12:00 Tuesday.

"Bad news," began Dr. Jones. "The Vice President insists on a Ph.D. He wants to reopen the job advertisement. He said, however, that if we were bound and determined to hire you, we could offer you a one year contract."

I believe this speaks for itself.

"Dr. Jones!" I laughed. "Leave a job where I have 14 years in, a job I love, for the chance of a one year contract! I want to be a professor, but I'm not insane!"

"You're right," he sighed. "Honestly, they'd probably readvertise next spring, terminate your contract, and hire a Ph.D."

"Thanks anyway," I said. "I truly do appreciate your candor."

"Um....would you like to teach an adjunct class during the day this fall?" he asked.

Last Call Language: I won't be marrying you, but can I drop by your place every couple of months for a quick visit if my wife is out of town?

I thanked him for being honest with me hung up.

I'm Cheap And Easy

Yeah, this is original, but I hate Valentine's Day. And yeah, I don't have a single original reason why.


I don't have much use for cards and jewelry and candy and all that claptrap either. Mom always told us, "Write me a poem." ..which spawned some of the most godawful poetry ever committed to paper, but saved a fortune in card money. For Daddy, she'd grab a paper towel and write "Happy Valentine/Birthday/Anniversary" on it and stick it at his place at breakfast. So you can see that I do come by it honestly.


I did insist on a honkin engagement ring which you can see in the flickr pictures if curiosity consumes you but it's put together like this: My ex bf said he'd like to buy me a "promise" ring. Sadly, I was so pathetically thrilled at this "promise" that I immediately went out and paid for it myself since he was a little short of money.


Unfortunately, the only "promise" he kept was to rip me off and break my heart. Anyway, the ring is beautiful. It's 2 diamonds with a sapphire in the middle. Well, I'm too practical to ditch an expensive ring that I paid for myself so I just had Roger buy a diamond for the middle of it to replace the sapphire.


I didn't get a thing for my birthday, but Roger did make me a computer printout card and one from the kids. He refused to write me a poem, though. Creep.


Roger bought me roses for our first V-day together and was thrilled when I thanked him profusely and got him off the hook for the rest of his life. He didn't get me a thing for V-Day, and I got him a box of candy for 1/2 off at a local drugstore on Friday and wrote on the receipt: "My love for you is as large as my ego" and slipped it to him in private so the kids wouldn't insist on reading the card.


Some people have accused me of being a man in disguise.


Update: Now with the most spectacularly bad poetry ever written!!


Mother, you are so nice.
You are sweet as spice.
-me, age 7


Without your love Mom I don't know where I'd be
But with it I'll be editor of the Washington Post eventually
-me, age 19

No Wild Guesses About Pants Or Dresses

Adoption Announcement in 1959

Studying Semen

"Oh! Oh!" I gasped. "Stop! You're killing me!"as my body writhed convulsively on the....


sofa in the faculty lounge.


It all started when a coupla of us faculty members were talking about appropriate and inappropriate behavior when you are The Professor.


You may remember many a dry, boring lecture. I sure do. Why, I remember one from last week. The speaker flashed a Powerpoint slide on the wall. I read it (5 seconds). She stood there quietly (120 seconds) then proceeded to read it to me (5 interminable minutes). Aaarrgh.


Well, college professors these days are encouraged to liven things up whenever possible.


But there is a limit...


"My friend was teaching biology at a private college," began Dr. H. "She was passionate....passionate! about her work. She bred horses and the highlight of her Bio 230 class was always when she would bring in horse semen. The students would make slides and study the semen to see defective..and normal sperm.


One day she forgot the horse semen, and the students were really disappointed. So she handed a small cup to one of her male students and told him to go to the bathroom and....produce a specimen. He did..brought it back..and the students were very excited because this was live sperm instead of dead sperm. It was a very educational experience....


But she was fired. She was told that she had encouraged a student to have...lewd thoughts."

Fifi and Trixiebelle

My mom grew up in a Christian Home where the Facts Of Life were not discussed. It was interesting hearing her talk about her chosen field--Public Health-- which, alas, often required some knowledge of the, um, well, gamier side of life.


While I was growing up, I often heard about the Lab. Mom and Dad received their graduate degrees in and moved to Florida in the early 50s. Mom worked for the State of Florida Department of Public Health and spent her days hunched over a microscope in Jacksonville, Florida, in an unairconditioned lab, examining slides.


No wonder she didn't mind quitting her job on doctor's orders to "relax" in 1957 after trying unsuccessfully to conceive. Yes, it's true. She really did quit her job on doctor's orders to relax.


Anyway.


"We'd get these slides in from the Public Health clinic to analyze," she began. "They'd have names on them like 'Fifi' and 'Trixiebelle' and I'd say, "Who would name their daughters that?" and my colleagues would reply, "Ruth, they're prostitutes."


That was about as detailed as the story got.


Last fall I told her that I was going to write about Fifi and Trixiebelle.


"Oh my friends used to laugh at me," she reminisced. "They couldn't believe that I didn't know where those slides came from."


Something distracted me and I forgot about it until Easter dinner.


"So Mom," I began. "What do you mean you didn't know where those slides came from?"


"You know," Mom replied, vaguely waving her hands around her mouth.


"No, I really don't," I replied earnestly.


"My friends at the lab teased me because I didn't know the slides were from oral swabs," she answered. From....you know....."


"Oral sex?" I replied, laughing.


"I suppose," she replied, blushing.


"You had a master's degree from the University of North Carolina School Of Public Health and you didn't know about oral transmission of venereal dise..." I snickered.


"Children!," interrupted my mom. "It's time for Easter dinner!"

A Billion Little Pieces

April 1982-Age 23. The night I was sworn into the South Carolina Bar.

No, I don't know why I was doing that thing with my hands.

I am extremely flexible.

However, I am off the market. For now.

Sorry.

Keep this website bookmarked.

Dear Oprah,

You may wonder why I'm not writing a letter to "Dear Madeleine" or "Dear Meredith" like some other fabulous bloggers out there. 

Well, Oprah, I must be absolutely frank with you. My kids do not have an acclaimed television show. Nor do they have their own magazine, or, alas, the slightest chance of acquiring one in the near future. Nor do they have one billion point one dollars. They have about $500 in savings bonds and that's it. So, Oprah, that's why you are getting this letter.

****************************

Oprah, I just want to take this opportunity to say that first of all, you look absolutely fabulous, and second of all, I was all over you after your dramatic and compelling smackdown of James Frey, Professional Liar. I know that you only did it because of the pressure from your many angry fans, but I'm still deeply and profoundly touched by your inspiring show.

Oprah, I want to write my own memoir and come on your show. It's obvious that Bad Girl/Bad Boy memoirs are hotter than Star Jones's vibrator was after six months of celibacy before her marriage to the most hetrosexual man alive. (I digress, Oprah. Please forgive me. This is a work in progress).

*******************************

Anyway, I realize the story I'm about to tell you is rather brief. Don't worry, Oprah. I can work on that. I will fill the rest of the 758 pages with heartwarming pictures and stories about my kids. Heck, it worked for Dooce, right?

Ok, Oprah, here it is.

********************************

A BILLION LITTLE PIECES

First of all, I know that now you're extremely paranoid about exaggeration. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of posting irrefutable photographic evidence of my alcohol abuse.

That's right, Oprah, that's me after about 45 beers the night I was sworn into the South Carolina Bar. I had no idea that I was being photographed holding my arm in such a terribly strange way. That's what happens when you partake of evil spirits, I guess.

*******************************

Ok, Oprah! I'm sorry. I actually probably had like 2 beers that night.

*******************************

I was terrified of alcohol as a young college student. My mom had told me terrible stories of boys doing filthy things to girls under the influence, but eventually I figured out that I actually enjoyed those filthy things, even though they were, and are, CRIMES* in the State of South Carolina.

********************************

By law school I was ready to party, and did. However, I only got really drunk once.

*********************************

One night my boyfriend and I met some friends for drinks. I was 22. I forgot to eat dinner, instead eating an entire bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos. Then I drank three potent margaritas. We had a good time. I fell asleep at my boyfriend's apartment.

***********************************

About 4 AM in the morning I was suddenly violently ill, the margaritas and Doritos mixing to form an unholy Bubbling Broth of Satanic Potion that called for immediate expulsion.

***********************************

I lurched out of bed, clad in a bathrobe from 1975 and blind without the aid of my glasses. I frantically stumbled for the door that would lead me down the stairs to the bathroom shared by two other apartments. It was an old converted house with one bathroom between apartments.

****************************************

Unfortunately, I lost my balance attempting to run down the stairs and slipped. Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce...I slid headfirst down the stairs and landed on the foyer, where I proceeded to disgorge the contents of my stomach.

***************************************

And I never got really drunk again. 

******************************************

And I had appropriate anesthesia during dental surgery. 

************************************

Actually, I've never had dental surgery.* But you can bet that if I did, I would enthusiastically have anesthesia.

***************************************

Do you think I can get a novel out of this?

Call me!

Sincerely, your most devoted fan,

Lorrie

***************************************
*I was lying about lying here.  I had all my wisdom teeth out when I was 17.    Please don't judge.  I wrote this post when I was younger and needed the money.


*SC CODE OF LAWS SECTION 16-15-60. Adultery or fornication. Any man or woman who shall be guilty of the crime of adultery or fornication shall be liable to indictment and, on conviction, shall be severally punished by a fine of not less than one hundred dollars nor more than five hundred dollars or imprisonment for not less than six months nor more than one year or by both fine and imprisonment, at the discretion of the court. 

Oh how cute!  I was experimenting with Technorati for the first time....trying this new tag thing here. Yep, I am a publicity hound.
James Frey
Oprah
a million little pieces

Ovarian Cyst Explodes: Film At 11

Here's a nice soothing picture of water lilies to look at as we explore the grisly aftermath of my one attempt at Artificial Insemination in November of 1997.


If you recall, before Christmas, you were gripped with suspense as I described the ticking time bomb in my ovaries--after my ovaries were stimulated with powerful fertility drugs in order to produce eggs and ovulate.


A meeting was held, attended by my womanly parts.


"She wants some eggs to drop," said the uterus. "Anybody wanna step up to the plate?"


"Naw", said Egg 1, reading the National Enquirer and munching on nachos.


"F*** off and die," snarled Egg 2. Egg 3 heard this, took it personally, and committed suicide.


"Someone's gotta at least make an appearance," worried the uterus. "Let's give it a half hearted try, and maybe she'll get discouraged."


"I'll drop," sighed Egg 4, dusting herself off and applying makeup to her aged visage.


In the meantime, a malevolent creature was growing on Ovarian Lane. "Why did she make me grow to the size of Anna Nicole Smith before Trimspa?" snarled the ovary. "I'll show her--I'm gonna grow a cyst. Then I'll make it explode!"


And that is what happened. Egg 4 dropped, thought the sperm knocking at the door were Jehovah's Witnesses, and refused to let them in. She eventually retired to Florida, where she holds Pampered Chef parties and entertains cabana boys.


Meanwhile, my ovarian cyst exploded after a few days "Am I pregnant?" post insemination torture.


No, I didn't take any pregnancy tests. This was 1997, people! I don't know what the state of tests were in 1997, but I vividly remember what they were in the early 80s. You had to have the dexterity of a chemist to mix the little tests up, none of the pee on a stick nonsense. Plus, in 1997, the sticks weren't advertising that they could reveal any interesting information within the first two weeks of insemination. Plus, in those days, they cost $19.95 per box.


About 4 days after the insemination I casually observed that either somebody was carving away at my parts with a rusty knife or I was just plain dying. I was rushed to the hospital and diagnosed with an exploding ovarian cyst.


Ten days later, I started my period.


I was absolutely horrified. I wasn't even disappointed as much as I was personally pissed off at my body. I had been told since I was in diapers that if a boy even "looked" at me that I would start growing triplets. I simply could not believe that the strongest drugs known to modern medicine would not produce pregnancy.


I was really mad.


Keep in mind that I had always enjoyed a felicitous relationship with my body. I've never been horribly sick, I've always been able to maintain a decent weight without half trying (cough) vegetarian (cough) , and really, we have always gotten along just fine. Yeah, I even have a fairly decent body image. Not perfect, but pretty good.


So here's this happy little relationship shot to hell by rogue womanly parts. Boy, did I give them a lecture.


"I'm trying again in January and you'd better straighten up and fly right, Missy!" I lectured my womanly parts.


"You mean Ms. don't you?" yawned my ovary. "You lost the Miss part long ago."


"Bite me," I snarled.


"You want another cyst?" she hissed.


"Sorry!" I exclaimed apologetically.


In January of 1998 I went online and typed in "China Adoption."


Ten minutes later I walked out to the den and casually informed Roger that we were adopting a kid from China.


"Ok!" he agreed cheerfully.


And
that
was
that.

Get That Can Opener Away From My Cervix

If I had only known
November, 1997
If I had only known.

If I had been better prepared, I wouldn't have freaked out when I started to blow up, both physically and emotionally, from the Pergonal.

I remember screaming at my mom on the phone. "I don't think you should be taking those drugs," she sighed. "All I WANT IS A BEAUTIFUL BABY LIKE YOU GOT!" I screamed. "IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK? I GUESS SO! ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS PUT ON YOUR SIZE FOUR CHANEL SUIT AND PICK ME UP FROM THE HOSPITAL! I GUESS IT'S JUST TOO BAD THAT THIS ISN'T 1959 ANY MORE!"

Finally it was time for the insemination. A good thing, as divorce and being written out of the family bible was looming in my future.

By the way, I didn't get to choose my donor. I submitted a picture of my husband, and somebody in North Carolina picked out the donor. I was quite disappointed--I was really looking forward to picking out my donor from a catalog like they did on Friends.



So it all came down to this. I lay on the table with my legs in that famous position. No Barry White music, no candlelight, no sexy nightgowns, no foreplay at all. 

The nurse came in with a warm, foamy, bubbling vat of semen. Or was it eggnog? We'll never know. Perhaps Dr. Dickhead didn't believe my claim to be legally hetrosexually married, Blessed By All The Deities In The Universe, recognized on every continent in the world...

A large metal device that resembled a Giant Economy Size can opener was placed inside my vagina. "We're cranking open the cervix!" the nurse explained cheerfully. screech, screech...."Ow!" I yelled. All of a sudden I felt like someone had rammed a baseball bat Down There.

Poof! In went the sperm.

And I left, absolutely, 100% convinced that I was pregnant. 

Literally the thought of failure never entered my mind......

Little did I know the only thing growing was an ovarian cyst, which was fixing to explode...

Say Buddy, Can You Spare A Cup Of Sperm?

Yeah, I went back to Dr. Dickhead. I didn't have any choice.


I didn't think I was infertile. I thought I'd just go in, order a cup of sperm, and be pushin' out a young'un in 9 months. (tears of laughter)


Imagine my surprise to learn that I'd have to undergo fertility treatment. That I had something called "eggs" and that they needed to be a "certain size" in order to make a baby.


I took Clomid for a couple of months. I'd heard stories...but I might as well have been swallowing Tic-Tacs. I didn't experience any mood changes, weight swings or any side effects at all.


Unfortunately my eggs didn't change either. The surly little bastards were sitting around in my ovary watching Oprah and eating Nacho Cheese Doritos. They were like all, hey beyotch, we're 37 years old. Cut us some slack here! We're little and lazy and we like it that way. Four cycles went by and the dildo-cam revealed eggs that were flipping me the bird.


So it was onto the next step--Pergonal. (Insert the music that gets played when a nubile young teenager goes into the attic wearing nothing but scanty underwear in a horror flick)


"Seven Hundred Dollars!" I shrieked into the phone. "And I'm supposed to pay that in ADVANCE?" Yeah, I was having a conniption about $700.00. It was even covered by insurance, but I had to lay out the dough up front.


I had no idea that women could run up bills that would make $700.00 look like bubble gum money.


So I started taking Pergonal. And I started noticing that I was gaining a huge amount of weight. The jeans I'd worn for 10 years were tight. And I was starting to shriek at people. I had never experienced PMS, but now I was making up for lost time.


To be continued....

Y'Ain't Onna Them LESBIANS, are you?

As long as we're dodging the bullets flying while scampering down Memory Lane...


I also underwent agonizing fertility treatment.


Ahem. Excuse me while I split my sides laffing.


Hell, after reading the fertility blogs, my "treatment" was the equivalent of a bubble bath while sipping margaritas and being hand-fed truffles by George Clooney while Brad Pitt gently massages my feet.


But let us begin at the beginning.
I made an appointment with a fertility doctor. Roger wasn't too psyched about the whole thing, so I went alone. He is sterile, and had resisted artificial insemmination for years, but after our fun filled DSS experience relented and let me go ahead.


I had an initial intake interview with Dr. Dickhead. I've seen more warmth when confronted by snarling pit bulls. "Where's your HUSBAND?" was his opening statement to me.


"Um...er.....he's on a business trip," I lied nervously, twisting my wedding band in a frenzy.


A few minutes later he sent the nurse in.


"I need to ask you something," she said. "Y'ain't onna of those LESBIANS, are you? Dr. Dickhead does not service lesbians or single women."


What I wanted to say:


1. Why yes. Would you like to have dinner tonight?


2. No, but I did dream about having sex with Cher once. Well, Sonny was there, too, but I really preferred Cher.


3. I do prefer sex with women, but that's because I'm actually a man myself. Don't let this lace collar fool you.


4. I'm actually ambidextrous. I like sex with both men and women.


5. I only wish that I was! Men are such PITAs.


6. I honestly doubt that a lesbian would want to be serviced by Dr. Dickhead.


7. Would you be good enough to excuse me for a minute? I feel the need to run screaming from this office as if I'm being pursued by a pack of rabid wolves.


What do you think I said?


I'm a Southern lady, and Mom is always watching me.


I said, "No ma'am."

Pinkeye Causes Sterility

Madeleine: "Mommy, why do you keep a pair of panties in your car?"


Me: "Well, that's for emergencies about that thing we talked about."


Madeleine: "Oh." To her sister: "That's when you have a baby inside of you and it dies and blood comes out. Except that Mommy didn't have a baby inside of her, right Mommy?"


Me: "That's right. Daddy was sick when he was a little boy and his baby making parts were broken."


Madeleine: "Oh, yes. I can't have a baby now I guess. I had pinkeye last week."


Me: "No, I'm pretty sure that you can still have a baby."


Madeleine: "GROSS! I don't think I want to."

Natural Childbirth Sucks

I don't get the smugness that women who have "natural homebirths" have. I don't get natural childbirth either. Nada. Zip. Zippo. Zilch.


Hell, I don't even want natural periods.


If you did natural childbirth, good for you. If you did unnatural childbirth, I still think you're a hero. Anybody who has ever given birth, my hat is off to you. Seriously.


Believe me if I had ever popped out a puppy I would have insisted on drugs during conception, to borrow a Joan Rivers joke.


And while I was absolutely excoriated with the most hateful venom that I have ever seen displayed in 8 years on the net while attempting to "help"..posted this link on a famous infertility site....all I can say is Hollie almost lost her son doing natural childbirth in a birthing center.


Sure, it's a one in a million thing.


Sure, things go wrong in hospitals, too.

Grieving

I look like I've just lost my best friend!

Oh wait--that might be because...

Y'know, after many years dating men (euphemism for "have your poor heart stomped on once again, girlfrien') I basically do not trust men at all. I assume that they will lie to me, cheat on me, and leave me. The fact that my husband has never, in 14 years, done any of these things does not mean that I have let down my guard for an instant! Not that I'm checking his collar for lipstick stains or anything.

But women friends--ah, that's a different story! Sisters to the end, sitting around the nursing home sneaking cigarettes and chasing the one ambulatory male left...

Ah yes.

My first indication that girlfriends were as ephemeral as boyfriends was a woman I'll call Katherine.  I have never been able to figure out why she dumped me as a friend. Inseparable pals in high school, we kept up through college. Our friendship continued into our 20s, but she left to pursue a career in NYC when we were 23. When I was 25 I excitedly paid a visit to her place of employment in New York City. She came out and rudely told me that she had no time for me. The last time I saw her was at our 20th high school reunion. I invited her back to the house and she politely declined. I can't figure this one out.


This is the same person who wrote in my yearbook

All kidding aside
I'm your very best friend
You can count on me
Till the very end

I actually groveled and wrote her a letter begging her to tell me why. Nothing.

The second heartbreak has been another friend. I can't figure this one out either. We've been friends for 20 years. Last year she told me that she had no time for me--not now, not in the forseeable future. Well, you don't have to drop a freaking hammer on my head.

Now before anybody reading this thinks, well, conceited much? Not everybody likes you. Remember we're talking here about two people who acted as if they wanted to be my close dear friend for years, and years, and years, and years. And then disappeared mysteriously. Without a harsh word. Without a fight. Just....all circuits are busy now.

Now I must confess there's this girl from my past that I dropped..and I've never been able to tell her why. It would only hurt her feelings and not change anything. I'll tell you why here. Because she's a boring blabbermouth. Because once I adopted kids she made it a point to tell me in excruiating detail just exactly how much fun she and her husband were having being childfree and what misery I was getting in for. Well, there you go.

I feel better now.

Somehow I must have annoyed or hurt them. I just wish I knew what I did. Then I could apologize, and try to change.

ETA:  I finally heard from Katherine and she told me that "she had moved on."   Whatever.  I've taken down the shrine I had around her picture and blown out the candles.  Her loss.  And I'm cuter.  (meow).

 I can't believe I had energy or time in 2005 to worry about 2 girlfriends dropping me.  Try 3/4 of your friends dropping you after you lose your job.

Mommy Does Feelthy Things With Santa Claus

Dear Madeleine,


I guess it's time to hum the song "Circle Of Life".


Tonight you lost your first baby tooth.


An hour later, you busted me on Santa Claus.


Ok, it's time to come clean.


Let's just wrap this whole growing up thing up in one fell swoop, ok?


Yes, I'm afraid that.....yes.... Daddy is Santa Claus.


Oh, and by the way, since we're on the subject, guess what Santa Claus and Mrs. Santa Claus do after the presents are delivered?


That is, after they obtain protection, graduate from college, love each other very much, and get married?


Oh well, I'll get to that later.

How Cramps Can Help You Connect With Your Inner Goddess

I read a blog this week written by a woman who is planning a homebirth. She is very excited and plans to connect with her Inner Goddess and anticipates having a Beautiful, Satisfying and Empowering Experience.


Well...I tell you...that sent me straight for my emergency supply of Hersheys Kisses and Jack Daniels.


I morosely shoveled HK in my mouth while simultaneously chugging my medicinal beverage and sadly realized that my Inner Goddess is a pretty lame ol' beyotch.


Suddenly I sat straight up in my chair, nearly upsetting my delicious treats, and realized that I, too, have connected with that IG---MANY MANY TIMES.


Instead of a natural childbirth, I've had NATURAL CRAMPS!!


Suddenly all those hours in a hot bath clutching my insides and cursing vigorously as demons assaulted my tender uterus had a whole. new. meaning.


Ladies! You too can connect with the mysterious and beautiful forces of nature without squeezing a 8 pound blob of protoplasm sans pain relief from your beautiful feminine parts!!!!


First of all, throw away that Midol. As your ankles swell from water retention, simply meditate and call on the forces of nature. Perhaps a Wiccan dance in the woods while chanting ancient runes would be appropriate. For you have a very, very special experience in your near future.


Secondly, as your dainty feminine parts start to gush like a bloody oil well that just hit, eschew all Motrin, Tylenol, Mary Jane, Jack Daniels, and Morphine.


You may drink a cup of herbal tea.


Get in the bathtub and meditate on the beautiful spiritual experience that is happening to you. As the pain increases, simply chant "I love Mother Earth. I am empowering my Inner Goddess. I do not mind that malevolent elves are removing my uterus lining with rusty knives."


Although it's certainly tempting, please try to avoid beating your male partner about the face and shoulders with a tire iron as cramps wrack your body. My lawyer will not let me comment any further on this...I simply caution, purely hypothetically, that serious criminal charges may ensue.


By this time you should be literally aglow with enlightenment. As the pain gradually fades to a dull ache, realize that you are a better person, spiritually, emotionally, and physically.


What? You mean that the difference in NCbirth and NCramps is that something productive is produced?


I BEG YOUR PARDON.


Would you like to see the blood clots the size of a baby (ahhh!)'s fist that I've produced over the years?

My Career As A Porn-Obsessed Babysitter

I spent my teenage years babysitting. Mainly because my parents would not let me work a "real" job, convinced that my scholastic pursuits would suffer if I did.


Ick.


Parents, if you want grandchildren while you are still young, allow your kids to work at KFC or something. Seriously, I was in no hurry to have kids after almost weekly doses of them as a teenager.


In my day, the security level was definitely set low. It sounds so weird to say that total strangers allowed me to care for their kids. I was on a "list" at a local apartment complex. They would call me, not knowing me from Adam's house cat, and I didn't know them either.


Whoooooah.


Anyway, I was a pretty good kid, and did honestly try my best to do a good job. Although my "best" would not pose any threat to Nanny 911...


One of my favorite things to do was find "Daddy's" porn magazines. After the kids went to bed, I hungrily devoured the porn and learned all about getting hungrily devoured.


Once, and I swear that this story is absolutely true, I was hired to do some Saturday daytime sitting. The dad worked as a maintenance supervisor around the apartment complex.


As was my custom, I systematically swept the house looking for porn. I found some tapes that looked interesting. Please note that these were only audio tapes. It was in the days just before average people had VCRs..


They were labeled AN@L S#X.


So naturally I popped them in and bent closer, the best to hear every filthy detail.


It went something like this:


(Man with bad British accent) "Do y' fancy a little backdoor luvvin, m'dear?"
Woman: "I....I...don't know..."
Man: "Oh come on, luv!"
Woman: "Well....ok..."
Man: "Here we go now, luv!"
Woman: "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOFF!"
Man: "Easy, luv!! Easy there!............."


And yep.


"Dad" walked in.


Was I embarassed? No, I really wasn't.


They weren't MY tapes, after all.

Dark Meat

"Dicha see Debbie?" snickered Kelly.


"Huh?" I replied.


"She tried some of that new fake tan stuff," giggled Kelly. "And she's got BIG ORANGE BLOTCHES on the back of her knees."


We collapsed into giggles, catty as only 13 year olds can be.


Those BIG ORANGE BLOTCHES have kept me out of the fake tan market for thirty years now, but I like to walk on the wild side once in awhile. So the other night I bought some Build-A-Tan, said a quick prayer (facing the sun for inspiration), and slathered some of the gook on my legs.


The years dropped away and I was suddenly in my back yard again, age 13, doggedly determined to have a tan line. Just something to show my friends on the first day back to school as we raised our shorts a little to show each other our leg tan line.


We didn't know that one day we would start examining every mole for, um, "changes."


Yep, there I was, the sun glinting off of my horse size braces encasing squirrel-like buck teeth, stringy hair pulled back into twin ponytails. A veritable Lolita, oozing with young sultriness and sensuality.


I was reading that scene in The Godfather where Sonny Corleone had consensual carnal knowledge with one of his sister's bridesmaids. "He crushed her to him and she shuddered with delight as sensations she had never known before tore through her body....."


Or Valley Of The Dolls, when Anne gets deflowered by Lyon. "And now it was happening. Oh God, this was the moment! She wanted to please him, but the pain caught her unaware and she cried out. He pulled away immediately and released her. She could see the surprise in his eyes. "Go on Lyon," she begged. "It will be all right."
And then I'd look down and see that my meaty cadaver-white legs had turned the faintest, barest shade of pink, sort of like an anemic boiled ham.


Well, I didn't really expect miracles. I expected the Build-A-Tan to leave nothing but BIG ORANGE BLOTCHES but, mirabile dictu, for the first time in my life, I HAVE TANNED LEGS.


Cellulite riddled chunky tanned legs, but let's not get, um, technical.


Yikes!!! The First Day Of School will be coming up soon and thanks to Build-A-Tan and Miss Clairol, I'm going to be tanned and blonde.


The boys will go crazy!!! Maybe I'll get kissed this year. You never know!! I better go buy another diary.....

If Blogspot Was Around In 1958

This all started with an interview request from Johnny Down To This, China dad, and blogger extraordinaire.

Johnny wanted to interview an adult adoptee who had decided to adopt from China. I poured out my heart and just typed and typed, fueled by coffee and emotion.

One of the things that swam to the surface was my anger and bewilderment at being told, over and over and over and OVER again, that my birthmother LOVED me so much. She loved me even though she gave me away. She made the "ultimate sacrifice" so that I could have a "better life."

So, what are you saying to a child when you tell him that her birthparents loved her?

Love isn't enough.

Love doesn't stop you from being given away.

Maybe one day YOU, adoptive parent, will give her away if you get sick, divorced, widowed, broke?

I don't even know if I was potty trained when I first heard this. All I know is that I hated it. Hated it then. Hate it now....

At the same time my parents pumped the propaganda they tactfully let me know that I probably was not going to have a happy tearful reunion with my birthmother. The adoption records were sealed. Dr. Reuben F. Simms of Richmond, Virginia arranged the adoption. He knew my parents from church. He told my parents that he had never seen a birthmother less interested in her child's future placement or more anxious to get away from the whole miserable situation. She wanted to know nothing about the "new family" and passionately begged him to NEVER tell them ANYTHING about her.

When I turned 18 I wrote Dr. Simms and received a nice letter confirming this and suggesting that I be happy with my adoptive parents. He might as well have reached out from his office and slapped me in the face.

I had an ace in the hole, however.

The judge had accidentally spoken the name of my birthmother during the adoption hearing.

The Backstory

1. Dr. Simms was a Southern gentleman whose roots stretched back to the Revolutionary War. He was, from all accounts, as decent and honest a doctor as walked the earth. He did not choose wealthy parents who were able to slip him a finder's fee. My parents owned a 900 sq. foot house at the time. Mom had quit work in 1957 to relax and conceive. (She's still waiting).

He did not push adoption. In fact, he encourged mothers to visit and hold their babies before deciding to sign adoption papers. This comes straight from the mouth of another birth mother who used him.

2. He also told my parents a lot of details, rare for this time period, I gather.

3. My birthmother, Elaine OldSouthernName, was from a wealthy Virginia family. She was a college student at William & Mary. A music major.

She was raped by her date, found out she was pregnant, and didn't tell her parents. She begged her uncle to support and hide her. He did, telling her parents that he had decided to send her on a....


wait for it, people....


ROUND THE WORLD CRUISE.


4. In 1988 I hired a search firm and they found her. I had her name, and her address in Richmond. How did I get that? Simple. I lied. I wrote the hospital pretending to be her and ordered a copy of "my" records.


5. I sat on it for 4 years, knowing in my heart that this would not go well.


6. I got engaged in 1992 and wrote her a nice letter. I received a polite brushoff. She was married. She never told her husband about me. I'll share the letter at the end of the story..


7. I have not contacted her again. I know nothing at all about my birth father. He probably doesn't know I exist.


8. I do not believe that my birthmother loved me in 1958 and I do not believe that she loves me today. I believe that her blood flows in my veins and I must try to understand and make peace with the past.


And...after all, I was there.


So tomorrow I'm going to go on a journey deep into my imagination, beginning with imagining that the internet existed in 1958.


I'm going to pretend that I'm her, and it's 1958, and I'm blogging from my lovely dorm room in Virginia, staring at the beautiful spring blossoms, realizing that my pink chiffon dress is torn after a dance I attended and that I am...


late.