It’s been a week

Five days since the D&C and one week since “This just isn’t right.”

Eight weeks almost to the hour since the pretty blue + sign.

I’m expecting (and expected) to feel something soon.

I just don’t. People ask how I am and I fight the urge to shrug. This is denial. This is what denial feels like.

Being pregnant didn’t feel real in the beginning. How could you possibly wait for something for so incredibly long, and then learn on a whim, pure whim, that you’re waiting was over? There’s no way this was actually happening to me, to us. It can’t be.

And now, being not pregnant doesn’t feel real. I mentioned to Dave that I was in denial, and his first question was “Do you think you’re still pregnant?”

No, that’s not it. Maybe I’m in denial that I was ever pregnant in the first place. “Honey, you were pregnant. You saw the ultrasound. There was a baby in there.”

Ugh… okay. That’s not it either. I’m not in denial that I ever was, and I’m not in denial that I still am. It took me an hour to articulate how I feel.

I feel like this happened to someone else. I feel like this dream come true turned living nightmare was just that. An awesome dream that turned into an awful nightmare, and then I woke up and life was normal again. Except that I can’t take a bath or have sex for… nine more days. But who’s counting?? I really want both of those things to happen, BTW. This is my blog, my raw feelings, and my overshare. I want a bath and sex with my husband. Deal.

I mean, rationally, I know that the last eight weeks of my life actually happened, and that it’s not just June 11th.

It’s just impossible to believe that this happened to us. This happened to us. Not our friends, not someone one of us knows from work. Us.

Maybe it’s early. Maybe I’m in shock. Maybe I’m not in denial and I just accepted our fate really well, really quickly.

Maybe I should have gone into psychiatry instead of library science.


The Worst Part

The worst part is unsubscribing to the 57,000 email lists and reminders I’ve signed up for in the last two months.

The worst part is feeling myself leak like a sieve and thinking irrationally that I’ve pissed myself.

The worst part is wearing a maxipad like a twelve year old and remembering how the damn things work. Then disposing of them. It’s gross.

The worst part is this overwhelming rage. And the sudden need to break something. And then realizing there’s nothing to break.

The wort part is this cramping that I can’t do anything about. Because I can’t take a bath for two weeks. And the only thing that relieves the cramps is a two hour bath.

The worst part is my pants still don’t fit quite right.

The worst part is hearing “God has a plan.”

The worst part is the guilt.

The worst part is the months and years of waiting waiting waiting waiting… It was supposed to be over now.

The worst part is Monday morning and going back to work.

The worst part is the crying everyone else is doing over this.

The worst part is not being able to curl up in my mom’s lap and cry and cry and cry.

The worst part is feeling completely inarticulate.

The worst part is being a member of this club.

The worst part is not identifying with anyone or anything I read online.

The worst part is not knowing if this is denial.

The worst part is knowing this would happen.

The worst part is knowing this is how this adventure would end.

The worst part is knowing no way it could be this easy. No way I get this lucky. No way this ends well.

The worst part is not knowing how to help my poor sweet husband.

The worst part is fighting tears during not so random songs on the radio.

The worst part is no longer feeling empowered.

The worst part is being the center of all of this sad attention.

The worst part is putting on a brave face because I don’t want to cry anymore.

The worst part is feeling like I should just be over it already.

The worst part is this feeling of defeat.

The worst part is being bloated and feeling deflated at the same time.

The worst part is the whole fucking thing.


There’s no easy way to say this…

So, uhm, awkward conversation ahead.

I’ve spent all summer trying to figure out the best way to tell my blog I’m pregnant.

As of Thursday, I’m not anymore.

Maybe I’ll blog about my feelings. But not today. I’ve written this post in my head a thousand times, and right now I’ve got nothing.

There it is. We miscarried.

Yes, we’re mostly okay. Yes, we’ll try again in a few weeks after my poor body gets itself together.

And maybe in the next, I dunno, three to four posts I’ll write about something not emo and maudlin. We’re buying a house once we find a house we want to buy. That’s fun, right?

If you try to email, comment, facebook, or tweet, I probably won’t answer. But thank you in advance for whatever nice and encouraging things you might say.

The Last Time

I’ve often wondered how a person would react if she knew the last time she did something would be the last time.

I’ve often wondered if people knew the last time they did something, anything. would be the last time they ever did that thing.

I just put my Nannerpuss to bed for the last time.

I weep as I type this, just as I wept while I held that precious baby in my arms, long, lanky, and primarily appendage-y as ever, as the first time I put her to bed. I cradled her head to the left and supported her knees to the right, swaying just so, patting her back as I’ve done dozens of times over the last two years.

And I savored it. I committed to memory the way her downy thick curls cascaded over my forearm. I held her close and inhaled the smell of her wonderful head, a smell that has evolved but not changed since I met this Nanner twenty-five months ago. I kissed her wonderfully plump left cheek, a cheek that has also evolved, but is still as marvelously apple-shaped as it was the first time I kissed it. She was pocket-sized then, six pounds and some change and all of it in limb. I felt the heft of her weight in my arms and committed that to a memory along side her curls.

And I wept.

I will never again put that baby to bed. I will, in all honesty, put the child into which that baby evolves to bed at some point in the future. I will not let her escape me so easily. But I will never again hold my Nanner to my chest and sway her into the Land of Nod, patting her back in time to the white noise machine. It’s surreal and heart-breaking and gut-wrenching and every other innard-destroying metaphor available in the English language.

Tomorrow, her parents will return from their anniversary get-away, and we will celebrate our last holiday together as a family of circumstance and choosing, for awhile at least. We will celebrate other holidays together at some point in the future. I will not let them escape me so easily. But it will be different. It will be planned and itineraried. It will involve travel much longer than an hour. It will not be a given. It will not be expected. It will not be just the way we do it. This too is surreal and heart-breaking and gut-wrenching and every other innard-destroying metaphor available in the English language.

Because I will miss my friend. I will miss my sister. Not by birth mind you. This is better. This is a sister I chose, who chose me back. This is a sister who gets me, who loves me, who enjoys my company, all these things almost as much as I her. Except the getting part. She gets me so much better than I could ever do for her. And so, this is worse. This physical breaking up is physically painful. She’s not dumping me, we’re not leaving each other, but she is in fewer fingers than I have on one hand packing her car and this Nanner and moving half way across the country. She is leaving, and I am being left. I’ve never been this before, the leave-ee. I’ve been the leaver. This role sucks.

So tomorrow will be the last barbecue, the last cuddle, the last hugs and kisses, the last squeals of delight with this Nannerpuss I love so dearly.

Next time will be different. Next time will be with a new, older Nanner, a Nanner with further developed language skills and more intense world opinions. I do so look forward to meeting that Nanner. I want to know how she feels about this and that. I’m excited to see who and what she will be, and how many different letters are in her alphabet song. But I will miss my Nanner. I will miss how prominently she showcases the letter B. And I will very literally miss how my Nanner became that New Nanner.

I’ve witnessed every other Nanner-sition, from the fresh new nugget of human being to babbling, argumentative baby girl, from crawling adventerous discoverer of things to cruising, balancing agility act. I watched her go from wispy headed baby to curly-locked toddler almost overnight. I listened as Nanner-ese morphed into legitimate English. I participated in most of those coveted firsts. Before I see her again, she will pass through more Nanner-sitions; she will have more firsts. They will belong to someone else. They will not be mine. And while I understand rationally that these first will be as important and as equally prized to those lucky enough to participate, I am selfishly envious.

I will miss my Nanner. I will miss her mother.

I am still weeping.

Bronies are not the bad guys, bitches.

I went into this whole thing with an open mind.

And when I say “open mind” I mean “okay, boys, you’re traumatizing little girls. It’s time to move on now.”

Then I got curious. Exactly what did this kid see? How easy is this stuff to find?

Onward, to the Googling!!

I thought to myself, “Self, if you were four, and had free reign over the intertoobs, what would you search first?” Self said, “My Little Pony.”

Tiptiptaptap. My little pony image search. Two things: one, I’m am by all legal definitions an adult. Two: My SafeSearch stays off.

Ya know what came up in a “my little pony” (no caps like a heathen) image search? A bunch of totally innocuous My Little Pony fan art. Yeah, okay the five steps from pony to Anime style human was a leeeeeeeettle weird, but it’s not fucking traumatizing anyone. Also, there’s a bit of a MLP/Disney Princess cross over artistic lovefest, and not in the dirty way. I saw nothing, and I do mean NOTHING remotely disturbing (except for the bastardized abomination that is the new and “improved” My Little Pony franchise as a whole. Another diatribe about the ruination of my youth for another day, I suppose).

Hmmm, okay… all safe here. Let’s try “my little pony friendship is magic.” And yes, again sans capitalization.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand squat. Not one remotely unpleasant (ish… see above statement) image. Not one. No sex. No violence. No nothing. Bupkiss. Now I was just getting disappointed. I wanted to see some depraved pony-on-pony action, or at the very least some horror standards done up in pony fashion. Think My Little Zombie, My Little Cthulhu, My Little Vampire, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Not yet deterred, I tried mlp. Same results with one, that’s right, ONE legitimately adorable zombie. Blargh.

“my little pony games?” Who the hell invited Kirby to the party? And still nothing.

Uhm, okay, Google suggests “my little pony rainbow sparkle.” Click. Holy shit snacks and now my retinas are bleeding from the rainbow-splosions. The Castro District doesn’t have this many rainbows during pride week. My brain was in Roy G Biv over load.

What I’m saying is I saw a lot of fucking rainbows.

And still no depravity.

What the fucking fuck did this evil genius little computer mastermind do on the goddamned internet that immediately sent her shriveling back up into a scared little girl?

Finally, one of my teens mentioned Cupcakes. Clickityclickity.


I’m not going to go into Cupcake right now. Google it. There’s a wikia devoted to it. Short version: Brony with a penchant for dark horror wrote a fic, posted it to the bowels of the internet known as 4chan (fuck rule 1), and the internet took it and ran, far and batshit crazy, as the internet is wont to do.

Here’s the thing. I’m a librarian who works with teens, and is also still deeply in touch with her inner fourteen year old boy. I had to go through FIVE different searches to find this stuff. It didn’t just pop on the first collection of images.

And that’s where my change of heart was born.

You see, the mom behind this frankly insulting Tumblr plea just pisses me off. I’m pissed about it. I am. And I’ll tell you why.

The Internet Is A Scary Fucking Place.

And you are NOT the police. You wouldn’t let your precious four year old stroll through the neighborhood all by herself. Why in the name of reason would you let her surf the web sans supervision? Where the fuck was your Safesearch? Did you plop her down to fucking Tumblr of all places, the same social biosphere that brought you this? Have you lost your mind?

Honestly, as illustrated above, the shit this kid found wasn’t easy TO find, so what happened? I’m not going to speculate, because speculating will lead to someone quoting it as gospel truth. But trying to divine the moral compass of the most unfiltered mass of information the human race has ever known is both narcissistic and rude. The beauty of the internet and censorship is that, unlike television or radio, you don’t just stumble into shit. You have to actively seeking it out. Every move you make on your computer is a deliberate one. You can’t just flip through the channels and end up on Skin-i-max or Jimmy Smit’s butt cheeks. I’ll assume you don’t just let your kid watch whatever she fancies on Netflix. Let’s maybe apply that philosophy to the internet, mmmmkay? Be a parent, especially to a freaking four year old.

Rule 34 Is Still Alive And Well.

If you know ANYTHING about the Internet, you should know that. And if you don’t, fucking school yourself. Also, don’t mother the rest of the free and not so free world. Don’t tell people to “lock it up.” That’s how we developed this oppressive and repressive society we have now. The same one that assumes it can tell grown adults how to live their lives and makes it really hard for some of them to buy decent dildos.

Who needs to control themselves more? The guy writing depraved pony fanfiction that doesn’t actually hurt, maim, humiliate, or otherwise directly cause ill to anything or the kid who isn’t old enough to understand that what she saw online isn’t real or representative of her beloved ponies? For that matter, the kid who doesn’t realize her ponies are just cartoons the begin with? Oh yeah, that’s right. IT’S THE FUCKING KID WHO CAN’T FUNCTION IN SOCIETY WITHOUT A HAND TO HOLD. Children turn into adults. Adults, especially adults who are not bound by confused little four year olds, should NOT have to restructure their world to suit the needs of children. Children are on the planet for a relatively short time. Adults are here until they die.

Star Trek Wasn’t Meant To Entice Teenage Girls Either.

But I am proof and I have proof that a ripe, healthy devoted following made almost EXCLUSIVELY of 12 to 18 year old girls existed and FAWNED over some STTOSTNGDS9VGR. You know, a collection of TV shows with the target demographic of men 18-49.

Back. The FUCK. Up.

And while we’re on the subject of what’s for who and where the fans lie…

Gender Equality Works Both Ways

I dare someone to tell this little girl she can’t start playing with superheros, Skylanders, or whatever. Gasp you should. The idea of pigeon holing a little girl into only playing with “girls toys” is as reprehensible today as the idea of a gender neutral Easy Bake Oven in the seventies. No one bats an eye when stuff like this populates Pinterest, Facebook, and/or other social networking or craft sites. We applaud these efforts to include the girls in their boyish passions. We tell little girls they are as strong, as smart, as capable as any little boy. We empower them. We lambast ad campaigns that cast girls in as sexual creatures, or portray women in unattainable standards of beauty. Americans today just Will. Not. Tolerate. anything less than total equality for their little girls.

And nobody stops to think about the little boys.

Some kid wears pink shoes to school. The Internet EXPLODES with ugliness. (Updated version of the story here.)

We can’t sacrifice little boys for the sake of little girls. We can’t keep lifting up “the girl” to the detriment of “the boy.”

Yes, white men have historically had it much, MUCH easier than…well than anybody else on the planet. But today’s little boy? Today’s little boy is just an embattled as… well as any other demographic. Where’s the “gender equality” in telling a boy (dude, man, whatever) that he shouldn’t watch/love/be involved in something because it’s intended for little girls? Hint: nonexistent.

So stop it. Stop vilifying the Brony. Because shit like this keeps happening. I wanted a few more examples of little boys getting their asses kicked and made to feel like less than they are for liking things society feels are “made for little girls,” but the first three pages of Google were plastered with the story of this poor kid. This eleven year old boy attempted suicide last week because he was bullied. Can you guess why? Simple. He’s a Brony.

Please cry me a river because your four year old won’t play with her toys. This kid tried to DIE because people don’t think he should like a show made for little girls.

Bronies are not to blame for your bad parenting.

Bring it, Internet. Fucking bring it.

Today, I turn 30.

I’ve dreaded this day for the 365 that came before it. I mourned the loss of my “youth,” regretted not doing this or that sooner so I would be in a different place today. I would have more, I would have done more, I would be more put together as a person.

Today, I turn 30.

This is the second week of graduate school. I’m a student again. Creaky, unused muscles are ever so sloooowly grinding back into place, moving from gear to gear, remembering how to do this again. My backpack weighs more now than it ever has, and I have a bachelor’s degree in literature. Four novels a week, sometimes plus a textbook. I am at once terrified and thrilled. Terrified, because what if I’m not as good as I used to be. What if I can’t meet my own standards of education? What if I can’t make the grades to which I’ve become accustom? What if I actually have to study? The answers are simple: You are. You probably won’t. Bs ARE acceptable; Cs are not. You will, and that’s okay. It’s all okay. I don’t NEED to graduate with honors again. I’ve done that twice. I’ve proven I’m intelligent. I just need this final degree. And a B is okay. Thrilled because I’m done waiting. I’m finished putting off. I’m DOING something about this land of limbo in which I find myself: smart and experienced enough to do the work, but without the proper piece of paper stating both of these things accompanied by a stamp of approval from the ALA. And in two years I shall be in limbo no more.

Today I turn 30.

This weekend my dear and perfect adorable husband treated me to the best birthday I’ve ever had. We stated at the Ritz-Carlton Washington D.C. We had our car valet parked and our bags delivered to our room. We walked the National Mall. We watched Bo Obama take a potty break. We were heckled in front of the White House by protestors with whom we did not agree. We took oodles of pictures. We discovered The Smithsonian is free and also amazing. We asked a question about dinner and ended up with reservations and hand-delivered conformation and directions. We ate dinner at the Palm and ordered the biggest steak on the menu. We had the most delectable slice of cheesecake drizzled in the most amazing raspberry compote I’ve ever tasted. We were waited on by a guy named Chuck who just so happens to be the best waiter in the history of waiters. We slept in the plushest bed with huge feather pillows. We awoke to room service laid out for us including a set of poached eggs cooked to perfection (according to Dave). We then went shopping at the only Vera Bradley Outlet Store in four states. We drove home through north and central Virginia, inadvertently crossing off a bucket list item by stopping in Tightsqeeze, VA for gas. Just to clarify, the bucket list item was visiting Tightsqueeze, VA, not necessarily stopping for gas.

Today I turn 30.

And I’ve come to realize that my twenties, while important, were hard. Really hard. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. I endured significant loss and betrayal. I made big, ugly mistakes. I leapt, then looked. I was going to say “while important, were really hard and not that great,” and then stopped myself. My twenties were awesome, in the traditional sense. I learned so much about myself. I became myself. I stopped fighting myself, and started loving myself. I came to understand what I want and need in this world. I let go of my silly standards. I was absolutely broke for a majority of the decade, mostly through all fault of my own. I searched my soul over and over again, each time redefining myself a little more. And yes, I meant to say “redefining” and not “refining.” I was an amalgam of metaphors: forged like hot steel, extruded into and out of various molds like plaster, chipped and cracked  like marble, battered and polished sea glass. I was all of it. I learned to be the grown-up. I learned when I needed someone else to be the grownup. I learned that both things are okay. I came to terms with my shortcomings as a person and embraced them. I came to terms with my body and now accept it for what it is: flawed and beautiful. I will always have two digits in my pants size, always have at least one X in my shirt size, and will never really know my dress size. And each of those things are exactly as they are meant to be. I needed my twenties to happen exactly the way they did. I needed each and every mistake I made. Without the last 120 months, I wouldn’t have the rich and fulfilling life and loves I have now. I wouldn’t have Ashley and Joe, Claire and Jordan, Scott and Cheryl, Eric and Callie, Becca and Mat, Devin and Valerie, Greg, Adam, or Bryan. I wouldn’t have Daisy, Finn, or Dinah (I would probably still have Oliver). I wouldn’t have Dave. And I need Dave.

Today I turn 30.

This has always started the new year for me. Yeah, sometimes I claim my resolutions on January 1st, but I always wait until January 20th to start them. I make plans for the new year on New Year’s Day, but I implement them on my birthday. I don’t reflect on what I want my year to look like until tomorrow.

Today I turn 30

And I am still rocking blue hair. I’m still rocking. I watch cartoons. I play video games. I make fart jokes. I bought a hoodie as a souvenir in DC, and I’m going to rock that too. I wear blue jeans because they are comfortable. I collect t-shirts because I like them. I turn up The Beastie Boys too loud in the car. There are no rules saying that I must box these things away or give them up, and if there are, I’m breaking them. My twenties were important and necessary, and now they are over. I am what I am, where I am, and who I am right now because of the decisions I did and did not make. The world is not leaving me behind, and I will not measure my life by the successes of other people. This year, I’m prioritizing, and no longer seeking out instant and fleeting gratification in a misguided attempt to keep up. This year, I’m taking advantage of my location and circumstances, and doing the things I want to do, not just the things I can do. This year, I’m going to get to know my husband better. This year, we’re embracing our freedom. And before this year is over, we’re gonna make something really amazing together.

Today I turn 30.

And that’s okay.

It’s more than okay.

Today I turn 30.

And I’m going to rock the fuck out of it.

House of S Dog Chew Review: @StarmarkAcademy can have my money.

Himalayan dog chews are a waste of money.

Ten minutes and Finn had demolished half the stick. TEN MINUTES. Not worth the nearly $40 we paid for those things.

StarMark everlasting treats? Totally worth the dough. Bonus: you can stuff the ball with other cookies and yummies after the kids demolish the everlasting treat, you know… a week later. We already had a groovy ball, so we snagged a bento ball and this hollow ball made just for stuffing. I think it’s meant to be stuffed with food, like a feeding alternative for bored animals. But the stuff we feed them is a little to small for the holes. If you have a larger dog (50+lbs) who eats larger …grain? pebble? grit?… kibble, it would probably serve well as a busy feeder.

Anyway, after two days of trying, Finn finally managed to free the everlasting treat from the bento ball. It was maybe five minutes before I noticed, and he hadn’t managed to do much damage to it. Shoved the remainder of the now gooey treat thing back into the ball and let him at it again. These things really hold up.

They also keep all three kids well occupied, even while participating in a rousing game of musical chewies.

Cost wise, they’re on par with other high quality chewies like large DuraChews. By “high quality,” I mean “toy that Finn won’t demolish in 11.7 seconds.” 

Con? These toys are only interesting if they’re stuffed. Nylabones, while not always interesting, don’t need to be stuffed. If the Starmark toys don’t have something yummy hiding in the grooves, it’s just another hunk of rubbery material laying on my floor.

However, Nylabones are the LEGOs of the pet parent world. Anyone who’s ever stepped on a half-gnawed Nylasaurus in the pitch black of night knows my pain. Starmark toys are made of some kind of a soft super rubber, the key word being soft. They don’t hurt when under foot and full body weight.

Overall, I see gobs more of my money going to the Starmark Academy for the rest of my pet parenting career.


This post not sponsored by anyone

While watching The Tudors

Me: And that is the biggest pair of boobies you’ll see on this show.

Dave: Really? That’s lame. They aren’t even that big.

Me: They are compared to every other pair of boobs you’re gonna see.

Dave: This show sucks.

(moments later when Dave realizes I’m blogging our exchange.)

Dave: (with shocked humor) Are you blogging that?!

Me: Yeah

Dave: (insert chortle and head shake here)

Don’t you wish you were us?

I took the GRE on Friday, and other goings-on in NorthCarolinaLand.

I made it my bitch.

Or so I’m told. I expected a little more from myself on the verbal portions.

I rocked the shit out of the quantitative though. Relatively speaking. I’m allergic to math, you see, and I managed to unofficially pull off a 152. So, you know, good job me!

The only thing standing between me and a acceptance to grad school is the committee of demigods who say yes… or no.

I like my chances.

I have an appointment on Friday at the local Aveda. I intend to leave with blue hair.

Dave got a promotion. Finally. The promotion comes with a shift change. He’ll be on late second shift instead of the usual 8-5 first shift. He’s apprehensive about this new schedule mix up simply because it’s something he’s never before done. I, on the other hand, am ecstatic. As a night owl and late-sleeper, this new, later schedule is quite possibly the greatest thing to ever happen to me. Ever. Well, okay, one of the greatest. I cannot properly verbalize how ridiculously amazeballs this is. There aren’t words in English. Or other languages. This. Is. Awesome.

In less than a month, I will have hosted both sets of in-laws here at the House of S. That’s exciting. We go so long without seeing familiar faces around here. Yeah, we have friends and stuff, some of them are even best friends, but there’s just something about seeing a truly familiar face. It’s comforting.

We’ve been a little homesick lately. I think these visits have helped a little, but we should probably go home sooner rather than later for a visit. It’s just a matter of planning the itinerary.

My job is still pretty awesome, despite various bureaucratic clusters of chaos stripping me of my most basic rights as an employee in good standing with my employer, or you know, an American. The next few months are really going to shake up the staff and schedule, but I think we’ll be okay. I mean, you know, throat may be ripped from their necks, eye gouging, whathaveyou, but it won’t last. And soon The Library may even resemble normal again. Next year, it will resemble normal next (fiscal) year. This year… this year is going to be a chaotic adventure in chaos. Yay chaos!

Soon I’m going to work up the nerve to publish some posts I wrote back in July. The next two years are going to look nothing like I expected, and I’m slowly coming to peace with that. We’ve (Dave and I) had to totally repaint our future. Okay, well, reorganize the collage/timeline/whatever. It’s been hard, emotionally draining, just tough and a little ugly. I hope it’s worth all this strife in the end. So far the universe has been good to us, evening out the kind of crappy stuff with more recent good tidings. I’m just having a hard time coping with The New Plan versus The Plan.

And now that the dryer is done, I can go to bed.

Yay bed!