In The Name of Beauty

I used to be a blond.

Like, really blond.

When my brother and I were kids, our hair was so light it was practically white.

But even as I grew up and it naturally got darker, I was still a blond.

Until I moved to Alaska.

Where the sun chooses to take an extended leave of absence every winter.

And then, my summer sun locks suddenly became something else.

Somehow, I went from this:

To this:

I don’t even know what to call it now. I obviously still have some blond highlights, and I cringe at the thought of calling myself a brunette (not because I have anything against brunettes, but because – I’m a blond!), but… I really don’t know what it is.

Dirty blond?

You know – like really really dirty.

Either way, I miss my blond locks.

But I don’t have the patience to dye it. The upkeep and time and money and hassle and damage to my hair.

Yeah, I want nothing to do with that.

And besides, the more “green” I become, the less interest I have in exposing myself to a bunch of chemicals for no good reason besides vanity.

So, here I sit.

With a cup of yogurt and chamomile tea hiding out in my hair under a shower cap.

Slowly escaping in sticky little drips all over my face.

I’m a hot mess.

I read somewhere online that chamomile was a natural hair lightener. It said it would take several treatments to see a difference, but that it was far less damaging than lemon juice.

I figured it seemed like something worth trying.

And it’s not exactly the worst thing I’ve ever done.

You know, besides the mess I made in the bathroom I literally just scrubbed clean last night.

Of course, it did just now dawn on me…

I’m going to Mr. Coffee’s BBQ tonight.

And I’m going to smell like I bathed in chamomile tea.

Because… I kind of did.

Brilliant.

The things we do in the name of beauty…

The Path Less Taken

In honor of National Infertility Awareness Week (NAIW), I was asked to write a guest post for noordinaryhomestead.com. All about The Path Less Taken.

Check it out!

You know... if you're not all awarenessed out!

Soul Surfer

When this journey began, there was a part of me that was convinced I wouldn’t make it through if things didn’t work out the way I wanted them to.

The way I needed them to.

I was convinced that if IVF failed and I hit the end of the road and had to come to terms with the fact that I may never carry a child – I would crumble.

And I did. I crumbled hard. Some days, I think I’m still crumbling.

But something else happened that I didn’t expect.

I survived.

I’m here, almost 6 months since my last cycle, still living, breathing, and moving through life.

Everyone told me that it would take time to heal these wounds. But I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe they would ever heal.

I’m still not entirely sure they ever will completely. I worry about the ache I may feel for the rest of my life whenever someone I know announces a pregnancy. I worry that there will be a part of me that will always feel empty. A part that will always yearn for something I may never have.

But I know that I’m surviving. Making it through most days with a genuine smile on my face. Laughing real laughter, enjoying my time with the people I care about, and functioning in a way that I didn’t initially think would be possible if I failed.

Had I gotten pregnant that first round – I would have a baby in my arms right now. I would be a mommy to a newborn, instead of trying to heal from the loss of that possibility.

I would have thought that knowledge alone would have been enough to bring me to my knees lately. But it isn’t. Most days, it really isn’t.

I’m learning how to live my life again separate from infertility. Separate from endometriosis. Separate from the pain and sadness the last few years have brought.

It's a process. Because I've spent so much time consumed by all of it already.

But I'm doing it.

And I’m doing so much better than I ever would have thought possible before this journey began.

A few weeks ago my favorite teenager let me know that she wanted me to take her to see Soul Surfer. I jumped at the chance to see her, without even really knowing what to expect from the movie. I knew the basic premise behind the story (I remember hearing about it on the news when it happened), but I really had no idea what had gone into the movie at all. I was just excited to get to spend some time with this little girl who I adore.

When we actually got to watch the movie though – I was blown away.

It was not what I was expecting at all.

It was better.

So much better.

This movie was inspirational, and incredible, and so unbelievably amazing I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.

I wanted to watch it again almost as soon as it had finished.

And I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

Thinking about how so many of the feelings this girl described mirrored my own feelings and struggles with infertility.

Which I realize sounds ridiculous. We’re talking about comparing the struggles of a 13 year old girl who had her arm bitten off by a shark, to the struggles of a grown adult woman trying to cope with infertility.

I know that a connection seems absurd.

But hear me out:

Here is this girl who has never wanted anything more in her life than to be a professional surfer. She's shaped her world around that dream. Her plans and hopes and expectations for the future. And then, just like that, the possibility of that dream gets ripped away.

How is that any different from a woman who wants nothing more than to be a mother, only to find out she may never be?

There was a scene where she was crying on the beach to her dad, and she said “I just don’t understand why I had to lose everything?”

It ripped my heart out; because I have to be honest – there have been so many times I have felt and thought the same thing.

But her dads response was exactly what I always try to remind myself of in those moments. He looked at her and he said “You haven’t lost everything. You’re alive. And you have a family that loves you. You haven’t lost everything.”

I know I haven't lost everything. I know I still have so much. But sometimes... sometimes those feelings of having nothing left creep in. Those feelings of having lost it all.

I try to remind myself that isn't the case. But some days it really is easier than others.

It was just nice to see someone else echoing that.

It was as Bethany started to find her way to the other side of her grief that I really became enthralled though. I was captivated by this girl’s journey. By her strength. By her faith in God, and her ability to survive and persevere.

Her ability to let go of her dreams, and then find them again.

There was one scene in particular that just about knocked me over. She had gone to Thailand to volunteer with relief efforts after the tsunami, and while there she began teaching kids to surf. Just playing, and working to make them feel comfortable and safe in the water again.

As this scene was playing, there was a voiceover where she said something to the effect of “It was funny, but it took teaching kids to surf to remind me that surfing wasn’t everything.”

I don’t know why, but something about that statement just seemed so profound to me.

And it reminded me – carrying a child isn’t everything. It’s what I want. It’s what my heart longs for. But it isn’t everything.

And if I can’t have it – I will be OK.

I’m trying to remember what I had determined this year would be about. Healing – both physically and mentally. Finding myself again. Finding my happy again. I’ve found a way to go through the motions. To navigate the day to day with a smile on my face. But it’s been a while (years?) since I’ve felt truly happy.

And I want to find that again. I want to remember how to be happy without the dream of a baby in my future. I want to remember to be happy with what I have. With who I am. And with where my life has brought me.

This movie inspired me to work towards that again. To focus on today (and all the blessings laid out in front of me) rather than on yesterday (and all the dreams that seem to have been washed away).

There's a site filled with incredibly inspirational quotes from Bethany Hamilton herself, but my absolute favorite is this one:

I have this thought every second of my life—Why me? Not negatively, like "Why did this terrible thing happen to me?" But more like "Why did God choose me and what does He have in mind for me?"

Incredible.

(Courtesy of tadpolemarketing.com)

I want to be like Bethany Hamilton when I grow up.

And in the meantime, I kind of want to watch Soul Surfer again.

I'm In Trouble...

I don’t even know where to start.

Or what to say.

I just know… I’m in trouble.

This guy is intelligent, funny, humble, open, and…

Just as gorgeous as I remembered.

He also very clearly just had his heart ripped out of his chest.

I’ll admit – I was skeptical going into this coffee date. I had my guard up, and was prepared for anything. Wary of any signs that would indicate that he hadn’t been entirely honest about the end of his marriage.

But I’m telling you… All it took was him relaying to me the details for 2 minutes, before I knew.

I knew this guy was telling the truth.

And I knew that he was still very much so devastated by the implications of that truth.

The story is honestly heartbreaking. I couldn’t help it; my guard was pummeled. I just wanted to hug him. It was painfully clear how difficult this situation has been.

That's all I feel right sharing about that though. It’s not my story to tell. And for the first time with any guy that’s come into my life since the conception of this blog – I’m suddenly feeling strangely protective of him. Of his story. Of his life.

I can’t explain it. I have shared ridiculously candid details about more than one guy from my past here, but with this – it just doesn’t feel right. Turning his heartache into some story I tell doesn’t set well with me.

So I’m not going to do it.

The truth is, I don’t even know what to call him here. In this space. I normally come up with names with ease, but with this guy – I’m at a loss. I was thinking The Divorcée, but now that just feels… mean. I don’t know. Just seeing how hurt he was by all of it… It almost feels like calling him that now would be poking fun at the whole thing, and I don't want to do that.

And for the record – He didn't spend the entire time talking to me about his ex wife. But I definitely pressed for details. Probably more than I should have.

What I do know, is that if I met this guy out and about under completely different circumstances – I would be all in. I would be going out of my way to make him mine.

But these aren't completely different circumstances. And knowing what I know now, I’m thinking that what this guy really needs is a friend.

So… That’s what I’m going to be. A friend. I’m not aiming for any more right now at all. I don't even really think he could possibly be capable of any more at this point. As far as I can tell, he literally just had the ground ripped out from under him.

I think calling me is something he did solely because he didn't know what else to do. He said he was actually looking through his phone the other night and saw my name. Remembered talking to me on New Years, and decided “What the hell!” So he waited until the next day, and he gave me a call.

When his (ex) wife and I had exchanged numbers, she actually put mine in his phone because hers was dead. Which is the only reason he even had it at all.

And I kind of think he just called because… because he’s hurt. And feels like he should be dating. And all of a sudden, in feeling and thinking that, there was a number right there in front of him. I think it made it easy for him to pick up the phone and call.

But nothing about this guy screams scumbag to me at all. Or dirtbag looking only for rebound sex. I honestly think he's just a good guy who got dealt a really crappy hand and has no idea what he's supposed to do next.

In so many ways - he reminded me of my dad.

For those who are still furiously typing “RUN!”  into their keyboards though – I did do some digging when I got home, and every last detail he told me checks out. Right down to the reason he told me she left, and the divorce records I was able to find.

I believe every word he said.

I also believe that he isn’t even kind of over her and what happened between the two of them.

And I wouldn’t expect him to be at this point.

Which is why I think the only role that makes any sense for me to play right now is "friend". Nothing more, and nothing less.

I’m not sure what’s going to happen. Or that anything’s even going to happen at all.

I do know that he asked me to come to a BBQ at his house this weekend.

And I said “yes”.

I’m dragging Loo along with me of course.

And the rest – I’m playing by ear.

But I can’t help but feeling like…

I’m in trouble.

It’s Only Coffee

I have a date.

Kind of.

Sort of.

Maybe.

And I suppose I should tell you that he could possibly be married.

But... It’s only coffee.

I think.

I guess I should back up.

I had a busy Saturday. One that started with me getting my butt out of bed and to the Pilate's studio for a Rolfing session bright and early at 8am.

I am not a morning person.

I am especially not a morning person on the weekends.

But for McDreamy? Yeah… I made it work.

Once I was up, I kind of felt obligated to make something out of my day. I was done with Rolfing by 9:30. An hour I normally wouldn’t even be awake by on a Saturday. So I tried to take advantage of it. I ran to the grocery store, and the post office. I finished up a few errands, and then headed back to the studio at 11:45 for a class. And when I got out an hour later, I had a voicemail. The strangest voicemail I’ve had in a long time.

Hey, this is (strange mystery guys name). You met me on New Years Eve. You may remember, you may not. Either way... give me a call back.

I sat in my car listening to this message dumbfounded for a minute. I must have played it over again at least 3 different times trying to make sure I had heard it correctly.

First of all: I had no idea who this guy was. Not a clue.

Second of all: Wasn’t it almost May? Why in the world was a guy I supposedly met months ago only now getting around to calling me?

Plus, I think it is here that I should point out – this guy had the same name as the ex. Which just left me even more confused.

I was 99% positive that I had not given my number to any guy with that name in recent history. And I was 99.9% positive that I would have remembered if I had.

I went over and over in my head who I had met that night, and was sure of only one thing – no matter how much I had consumed on New Year's Eve, my memories of the evening were clear. Heck – I had relayed every last detail with ease to you all here the very next day.

And the only guys I met that night that I had any interest in at all were Tom with an H (whose calls I went on to avoid for the next several weeks, because it turns out he was not so interesting once I had sobered up) and the guy who wound up being married.

You remember the one, right? I had only mentioned him briefly, but I did tell you about him. The guy who I had intentionally followed from one bar to the next and gone out of my way to introduce myself to (because drunk me is far more bold than sober me) only to find out a few minutes into the conversation that he was married.

Married to a woman who was most definitely there, and who came up and introduced herself to me upon realizing I was hitting on her husband.

To be fair, I think it was pretty clear that I had no idea he was married when I initially approached him. And she was very understanding about the whole thing – laughing it off, accepting my apologies, and sitting and talking with me for about 15 minutes after the fact. Because, to be clear – I genuinely have no interest at all in hitting on a guy who is already taken. I may joke about crushes here and there, but I would never in a million years go there. I wouldn't even have walked up to him in the first place had I realized he was attached. They were out with a big group of people though, and I guess in watching him I just hadn’t noticed the two of them together.

Either way - this girl was gorgeous. It was funny because as soon as I saw her my immediate thought was "I was totally barking up the wrong tree... this guy is way out of my league!" Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking myself, but... his wife and I were not on the same playing field. Nor were we even kind of the same “type”. She was definitely petite with long dark hair and darker features. Whereas, let's face it - I'm a tall, curvy, blond girl. It was almost humorous that I had approached him at all after seeing her.

She and I chatted for a bit though, and were getting along well when she said she had a close guy friend she thought I should meet. And so, even though I absolutely despise hookups, we exchanged numbers.

And that was that. Never heard from her again, and never contacted her myself. Just last week I was actually looking in my phone thinking that I should probably delete her number.

But for whatever reason… I didn’t.

So there I was, playing the events of that night over in my head and coming back to the same conclusion I had initially – I was sure I had only given my number to 2 people that night.

And this number calling did not belong to either of them.

The only person I could think that it might be was the husband. But I couldn’t figure out why some married man I had met for a brief interval months ago would be calling me now, out of the blue, as though it was the most normal thing in the world. It just didn’t make sense. It couldn’t possibly be him.

He was my first thought – but I thought I was crazy.

And as much as I wanted to just delete the voicemail and move on... I couldn't... Curiosity was killing me!

So, I did what any self respecting blogger would do.

I posted a conversation about it on the community – asking for votes on whether or not I should call him back.

Interesting side note – there was a similar discussion going on the first time I met Mr. Fix-It. And it was the advice given there that gave me the balls to make the move.

So it turns out… I have absolutely zero clue how to navigate my own dating life!

Either way, the general consensus was that I should text him. Which is exactly what I wound up doing. Almost 4 hours after the original voicemail, I sent this:

Got your message... Sorry, but I really don't remember giving my number to any guys on New Years? I was drunk, but I don't think I was drunk enough to forget that? Curiosity is killing me though... Where did I meet you? And just because it's cracking me up... What kind of guy waits almost 5 months to call?!?

His response: I like to take things slow. Would you like to meet for coffee and see if you remember me? I will send you a picture so you can find me at the coffee shop.

After that, I was pretty sure he was a creeper. He wanted to send me a picture? And to lure me to a coffee shop? This did not sound like a good idea. Which is why I responded with:

Um, yeah... Meeting a guy that I maybe met in a bar months ago who I don't remember giving my number to at all kind of sounds like a good way to get murdered. Think I'm gonna pass on that one... Thanks though!

His response: You met me at McGinley's. I was wearing a black DC baseball cap. Ring any bells?

At this point, I KNEW that the only guy I had met at the bar he was talking about was the married guy. But I just could not wrap my head around that... WHY would he be calling me and wanting to meet up?

Me: Yeah... Sorry... Nothing... Clearly I didn't make much of an impression myself though. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure I would have gotten a call at least by February.

Him: You were checking me out at Humpy's before you introduced yourself at McGinley's. You met my ex-wife the same night. I was married then. If my wife would have left me that night I could have called in February.

And there it was. In black and white.

This was definitely the married guy.

And now I was freaking out. Because a.) All I remembered about this guy was that he had been gorgeous. And married. and b.) What in the world was I supposed to do now?!?

So I did the only logical thing for a grown woman to do.

I posed the question to all my closest internet friends and anyone in my phone book willing to answer.

Then – I only took the advice I wanted to hear.

The magical words “Go for it! It’s only coffee!”

(Courtesy of thesinglefilez.com)

So after a bit more back and forth, I sent him a text agreeing to meet him. To which he responded:

Wednesday or Thursday in September works for me, or we could jump right into it and meet this Wednesday.

Yep. That made me laugh. I had basically been giving him hell, and he was holding his own. And remaining persistent to boot.

I dig a guy who can be sarcastic right back with me.

Something mildly amusing has been happening since this all went down though. Two very distinct camps have been forming both online and amongst my circle of friends in regards to this guy and his intentions. There are those who have already overly romanticized him (swooning over the fact that he’s still thinking of me all these month later, and that he’s held on to my number the whole time). And then there are those who have overly demonized him (I should run for the hills because he probably isn’t divorced at all, and I should bring a friend with me – just in case he turns out to be dangerous).

The funny thing is – I think both camps are wrong.

I’m not counting on this guy to be the man of my dreams. In fact, if you’ll remember – I’m not currently looking for the man of my dreams. I’m taking a break from trying to bend the universe to my will, and I’m just focusing on having some fun for a little while. Dating like I used to date. Just for the excitement of dating. With no expectations, and no real intentions at all beyond having a good time.

If everything this guy is saying is true, he's probably just looking for a rebound girl right now. Let’s be honest though – I could probably benefit from a rebound guy myself.

You know, as I rebound from life.

And let's face it people - it's not like I come without my own baggage.

I have no expectations. No thoughts at all really. The truth is – I know nothing about this guy. I don’t remember a single detail, beyond the fact that I had been instantly attracted to him.

That’s it.

And you know what – that’s enough. For me, for right now, for where I’m at in my life – that’s enough.

I just want to have a little fun. Do a little flirting. And let a good looking guy distract me from life a bit.

Even if just for an hour over coffee.

So… I have a date. Tomorrow night after work.

Kind of.

Sort of.

Maybe.

And it's possible he's married.

But hey - it’s only coffee.

Living Proof

MYTH: People think IVF always works. Everyone who uses it is successful and has a baby.

It’s National Infertility Awareness Week.

I have to be honest - I hate being a part of anything that has it's own dedicated awareness week.  I would rather just not be aware at all. I would rather not be in the know. I would rather it all be some big mystery to me.

But it's not.

Unfortunately - I'm more aware than I ever thought I could be.

Resolve.org is launching a campaign to bust a few myths about infertility in the week to come. To help spread all this awareness some of us have for whatever reason been anointed with.

And you can imagine my reaction when I saw the myth above.

It’s true though. People do think that IVF always works. Or at least – that it will always work for them, or anyone they know. No one goes into IVF thinking it’s going to fail. You can acknowledge out loud that you’re aware of the possibility, and you can announce over and over again that you aren’t that optimistic, but the truth is – you are. Somewhere, deep down inside, you believe it’s going to work.

If you didn’t – you would never be willing to invest the time and heart and money into it to begin with.

The problem is, if even you can’t convince yourself to take a good hard look at the possibility that it won’t work out; how can you ever expect anyone else to either?

People on the outside of the infertility world don’t hear the sad stories. They don’t know the stats (less than 41% chance of success for women under 35) and the complicating factors. All they know are the IVF representations in the media. The Octomom’s of the world.

They see success like that, and just assume it has to work for everyone.

Can’t get pregnant? Try IVF – it always works.

As a matter of fact – not only will you get pregnant, but you’ll probably get pregnant with multiples.

Just like Octomom!

Well... I am living proof that isn’t always true.

From the start, the one thing I heard that I had in my favor over and over again was my age. I would be 27 when I completed my first IVF cycle. I was young, and with the exception of a severe case of endometriosis – strong and healthy. Doctor after doctor kept telling me “You’re so young! Your odds are great!”

Yet here I am. Three beautiful embryos later. One fresh cycle and one frozen down.

Resigned to the fact that the only way I’m ever going to see two lines on a stick is if I draw them in myself.

I am living proof that it doesn’t always work. That throwing $20,000+ at a problem and relying on the best that modern medicine has to offer does not always lead to a baby.

Because it’s not an exact science. Because no matter what the doctor’s say – they really have no way of knowing who it will and will not work for. Because sometimes, they are just as flabbergasted as you that it didn’t work.

Because at the end of the day… it’s a crapshoot.

My first cycle, I was convinced I was pregnant. Convinced to the point that I was telling strangers I was. Announcing to anyone who would listen that I was with child.

I was convinced, because I wanted to believe so badly. But also because everyone I knew was convinced too.

They had a “feeling”. They all "just knew". This was absolutely going to work.

I was pregnant. No doubt about it.

Until the bleeding began. Days before my scheduled beta test. Making it painfully clear that the baby I and everyone I knew and loved had been rejoicing; had never actually been.

That second cycle, I tried to be more realistic. And in the back of my head I think I even knew from the start that it wasn’t going to work. But… that hope. It was palpable. For me, and for everyone around me.

No way would this fail twice. It was IVF! It had to work!

And right up to the very last moment, that hope held out.

You don’t do something like this thinking it’s not going to work. I know that. But the sad truth is – sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it doesn’t more than it does.

It’s a crapshoot.

But the truth is, even after everything – I would do it all again.

No, not a third cycle. I’m not sure I’ll ever have the funds (or strength of will) to take on that gauntlet again.

But the first two rounds? I wouldn’t change anything. Even knowing what I know now, I would still do them.

Because there is something to be said for being able to go to bed at night knowing you’ve tried everything. That you’ve given it your all.

There’s something to be said for not waking up 20 years from now wondering “What if?”

I have no regrets.

But I do know that this myth? It’s just that. A myth.

Because it doesn’t always work. IVF does not always lead to a baby in the end.

I’m living proof.

Living proof that sometimes you can give it your all, and still fail.

But also living proof that you can fail, and still survive.

Which isn’t something I was so sure of before this journey began.

Life is full of lessons. Some lessons teach you things you never dreamed of learning, and some teach you things you will forever wish you could unlearn.

I still wish I believed this myth.

I wish I believed that IVF always worked.

Or that my age was all I needed in my corner to have success.

I wish I believed that everyone who goes down this path comes out the other end with a baby in their arms.

But I know that isn't not true. I know it doesn’t always work.

I know that I am living proof.

And that I'm not the only one.


For more information on infertility, check out Resolves website, and for more information on National Infertility Awareness Week (NIAW), go here.

God is Good

It's been a weekend where I have been robbed of my sleep-ins and pushed to the brink of productivity, but I'm not complaining...

I spent the morning with a good friend at her church for Easter services, and then this afternoon at my church in the nursery with the kiddos.

We had a full room, and lots of rambunctiousness to deal with this Easter Sunday.

It made me laugh, because I remember the point in time when I was terrified of volunteering in that room. Sure only of one thing – that being around children had somehow become a difficult prospect for me, and I no longer wanted that to be the case.

There are still days (or rather moments within days) when spending that much time with other people’s children stings me (there was a point today for instance, when one of the little boys asked out of the blue if I had any kids, and when I said “no”, he pointed out that I should), but for the most part – those hours I spend in the nursery leave me smiling far more than they leave me sad.

I'm remembering that I'm a kid person. That I'm at my best when I'm surrounded by children.

Even if I can't have any of my own.

Still… I didn’t sign up for the next semester of volunteering. I wanted to, but it’s summertime in Alaska, and when it’s summertime in Alaska – I never know from one weekend to the next if I’m going to be here in town, or traipsing about this amazing state of mine.

I’ve got to take advantage of the sunshine while I can.

Truth be told - I could use some sunshine and adventure over the next few months.

So today was my last day with the 3 year olds at church. At least for a few months.

It was a great last day with them though. One of our littlest guys showed up dressed in a 3 piece suit and was just such a cutie I couldn’t help but feel my heart melt.

I found myself having a conversation this afternoon with the other teacher in the classroom in which she was asking me for more details on my last year. She knew I had needed surgery in February, but didn’t know much beyond that. I wound up divulging the other details, but somehow did so with a smile on my face.

Pointing out the blessings along the way, rather than the heartaches.

• The donation of meds for my first IVF cycle.
• The way the timing came together so that I could still attend the wedding of someone I cared about a great deal.
• The enormity of warmth and support those close to me have shown.
• The incredible doctor who seemed to swoop in like a knight in shining armor to relieve me of my pain when I needed it most.
• And the increased knowledge of health and nutrition I don’t think I otherwise ever would have sought out.

I recited off this list of blessings (and more) as I saw her face sinking over the failings. I didn’t want her feeling sorry for me. Didn’t want her pitying me. So instead, I reminded her (and myself) of the good things that have happened over the last year as well, declaring at the end “God is good!”

The truth is – I don’t know if I believe that. Not necessarily that God is or isn’t good, but that the blessings outweigh the heartaches. I know over the last few months especially, I have had an incredibly difficult time focusing on those blessings, and have instead found myself over and over again lamenting all that has been lost.

I haven't necessarily faltered in my faith, but I have faltered in my committment to that faith. In my ability to continue turning towards God, when in so many ways I've felt that He has turned away from me.

Those old issues of abandoment always cropping up to rear their ugly head in the strangest of ways.

And while I can recognize the strength that has been gained in all of this, there are also days when I don't want to be any stronger. When I just want to be happy.

But I would like to be able to do what I did today more often. To be able to focus on the blessings instead of the heartache. On the physical pain I’m no longer in because of one amazing doctor, rather than the emotional pain I still feel daily at the hands of infertility. On my current state of relief from endometriosis, rather than all the things this disease has ripped away from me in the past. On the people who are by my side and do love me unconditionally, rather than the ones who aren’t and don’t.

I want to make an effort. An effort to remember that God is good, and I am blessed.

I just think that some days it’s harder than others.

But summer is here, and a new season is beginning.

The Lord had risen, and God is good.

I hope everyone had a wonderful Easter.

I know mine was surprisingly special.

Putting Humpty Dumpty Together Again

I’m sore.

Really sore.

I had my second Rolfing session this morning and then went straight into a reformer class as soon as it was done.

And this is on top of the advanced mat class I took last night.

The advanced mat class that I was nowhere near advanced enough to be taking, which led to a lot of embarrassment on my end.

It’s good though. A good sore. I was driving home last night and thinking about how healthy I've been feeling the last few weeks. How strong.

And how good it is to be feeling that way again.

I started back on gluten and dairy free this week at the urging of Teeny and Dr. Naturopath. I can’t say it’s going to stick (and in fact, we’ve already discussed the healthy grains I can add back in a few weeks from now – after a cleansing period to get my liver good and happy), but I’m actually doing pretty well on it. No real cravings or food frustrations at all yet.

Knock on wood.

We started up a Biggest Loser over at the community too, and that’s got me even more motivated to get my butt in gear. Knowing all those lovely women are on the train to getting back in shape with me somehow makes it that much easier to stick to a plan right now.

If you’re by chance hoping to get back into summer weight here soon as well, we would love to have you join us. We’re only one week in, so you could definitely hop in this next week no problem. Just check out the details here, and let us know your goal.

For me? That goal is dropping 13.5 pounds. I weighed in at 148.5 on Monday morning (although, to be fair – I would like to believe that at least 2 of those pounds were period weight.) For the last 4 years I have fluctuated pretty steadily between 145 and 155. I haven’t weighed below 140 since I was maybe 22? But I remember liking it there!

So that’s the goal – 135. Happy, healthy, and rocking the body I had long before any of this infertility stuff ever began.

At my first session with McDreamy, he was going over my body and discussing my history before pausing and saying “Don’t worry – we’re going to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”

(Courtesy of navigatethenewnormal.com)

I busted out laughing. Had this man seriously just called me Humpty Dumpty? This married man who I was definitely (secretly) crushing on?

Yes, yes he had.

But I’ve been saying it myself ever since.

I’m putting Humpty Dumpty back together again. I am feeling healthy, pain free, and ready to take on the world. I am not going to take for granted the blessing this last surgery gave me. I am going to embrace every moment, and get my life (and my body) back.

So yeah – I’ve been working my butt off. The new skin care regime (which is working amazingly!), the Pilates workouts (to which I began to add some light cardio this week), the Rolfing, and the diet… It’s all part of the plan. The plan to take back some of the power in this situation. Some of the control.

I may not be able to have babies. I may not ever be able to have babies.

But you know what? If that’s the case – I am going to hold my head high.

I’m going to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

And I’m going to be rocking a fantastic summer body before you know it.

I would rather have stretch marks and saggy boobs and a baby in my arms any day – and that is the sincerest of truths.

But if I can’t have that – I’m going to look like I did when I was 22 again.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

But Humpty Dumpty will get put back together again.

Just you wait and see.

Stings From The Past

I like to believe that I outgrew my mommy issues years ago.

A lifetime of therapy and a basket full of a million other blessings – you would think I would be over it by now.

Over who she was (and more importantly - wasn't) to me.

Over her.

And most days, I truly do believe I am. I don’t think about her. I don’t yearn for a conversation with her. I don’t ever find myself missing her.

If anything… I sometimes miss who she was supposed to be. The mother so many of my friends seem to have. The one who is there, and supportive, and loves them unconditionally.

But my mom? There just isn’t much there for me in terms of longing for more from her.

Because I know what she’s capable of. And the sad truth is – it isn’t much.

I don’t remember things about her really. I couldn’t tell you her birthday if my life depended on it. I don’t know if she’s a Pisces, or a Leo, or an Aquarius. I don’t know what she does for fun, or how she earns a living. I can't even really remember what she did for work when I was growing up.

Some days I think that all I do remember, is how it felt the day she let my dad pack up my bags without putting up a fight at all.

The day we drove away, and I knew… my mother would never be a part of my life again. She had given up. She had actually given up years before, but that was the day.

The day she officially decided she had better things to do.

I was just a kid, but I acted so strong. So tough. Because there was no way I was ever going to let her know how much she had hurt me.

But we weren’t a block away before I broke down. Before my dad had to pull over in a 7/11 parking lot and hold his sobbing 13 year old daughter until she could breathe again.

I like to believe that I’ve healed that piece of my heart that she broke so long ago, but sometimes something will happen and it brings it all right back up to the surface for me.

The feelings of abandonment.

Of being tossed aside.

Of not being loved enough to be worthy of being fought for.

To be worthy of being a priority.

And it always slaps me in the face. Leaves me sitting in shock and thinking “I thought I was over this?”

My mom is not a bad person, and she never actually means to hurt anyone. In fact, I really don't think she has a cruel bone in her body. But… she doesn't have a maternal bone in her body either.

She just doesn't know how to do it. How to be a mother. How to think about another person's needs or feelings. How to stop for one moment and evaluate her actions in terms of someone else. She doesn't know how to put anyone else ahead of her own wants and desires.

She never did.

It's not an act of cruelty on her part. It's just an act of not knowing how to do any better.

And I know that. I know that she just isn't capable of more. Which is why I tend to think I’m over it. Because it just is what it is. She just is who she is. You can’t even be mad at her because… she just doesn’t know any better. She doesn’t know how to be any different.

She just is who she is.

And most days, I don’t even think about it. I don’t even think about her.

But today I was out running errands when I passed the Hallmark store. And we all know what a draw the Hallmark store is to me. So, I ducked in – telling myself I was just going to check to see if there were any new Fresh Ink cards. I wasn’t going to buy; I just wanted to look.

Which for the record – is what I tell myself every time.

I quickly discovered that the Fresh Ink display had been packed away though, and I couldn’t figure out why. I did 3 circles around the store before finally asking the clerk where my favorite cards had disappeared to.

She explained to me that they had been packed away but would be back after the holiday.

“What holiday?” I inquired. Still completely and totally clueless.

The lady looked at me like I was stupid, and then she said “Mother's Day. We get more cards in for this than at any other time of year.”

Yeah… I don’t really pay attention to Mother’s Day. Even walking into the store, I had somehow managed to avoid noticing the signs and balloons all over the place.

I think I must mentally block Mother's Day out. Because most years, I swear - I don't even realize it's happening at all.

I sheepishly walked away, feeling like the idiot I had portrayed myself to be. So for good measure, I stopped at a rack of cards just to look like I was seriously considering which one to buy.

I leafed through a few, simply biding my time and scanning the lines before I inexplicably found myself sucked in. Picking card after card and indulging in the sappy sentiments.

(Courtesy of stamping.thefuntimesguide.com)

I couldn’t help but get choked up. Reading those words (those odes to mothers everywhere); it hurt. Because there was nothing generic about these cards. Nothing short and sweet, or straight and to the point. These cards were declarations of love and adoration. They were detailed accounts of everything a mother should be.

Everything my mother wasn’t.

I sat there reading the cards and realizing that even if I did get a wild hair and wanted to send her one… none of them would work. Because they all spoke to traits and qualities that she didn’t possess. Fond memories that we didn’t have.

I read these cards feeling left out. Yearning for the mothers described within the words. The mothers who would do anything for you. Who would wipe your tears and hold your hand. The mothers who are loyal and true. The ones who don’t give up. Don’t walk away. And don’t throw you in the trash like you never mattered at all.

The mothers who mean it when they say they’ll always be there for you.

I read these cards, and I was overcome by sadness. Mommy issues brimming to the surface and choking the back of my throat with tears.

Some days I think I’m over it. That it doesn’t matter and I don’t care. That I am strong, and capable, and happy without a mother at all.

But then some days I wonder…

Do the mommy issues ever really go away?

I’m a Diva Girl

To be honest – the entire concept repulsed me.

Me. A girl who has now collected jars of her own urine not once, but twice – finding new and innovative tricks along the way that quite possibly made urine collection more of an art form than a disturbing science experiment.

OK, so it was still a disturbing science experiment, but the point is – I don’t gross out easily.

Especially when it comes to my own bodily fluids.

But the idea of the Diva Cup? It repulsed me.

(Which is where the disclaimer comes in boys – this post is about my period. About all the varying options women have in terms of handling the bloody aspects of their period. Turn away. Turn away now. There is simply nothing here for you to see today.)

I just could not wrap my head around the idea of a cup sitting up inside me every month collecting the… drainage.

But then – I learned how much more terrifying tampons are.

A fact which truly threw me for a loop, because all my life – I have relied quite happily upon those little wads of cotton.

It’s true that once the issues with endometriosis began, I did realize that my cramps seemed to be worse when I had a tampon in. And that part was disappointing (because as anyone with endo will tell you – anything that makes your cramps worse is not a good thing), but… I was lazy. And tampons were convenient. Or whatever.

I think it might have had more to do with the fact that everyone else uses tampons.

They were kind of all I’d ever known in terms of period control.

But once I learned how truly evil they were (especially in regards to endometriosis), I vowed to throw my stock pile away and never look back.

I was serious.

Until I spent an entire period using pads.

Feeling like there was a diaper in between my legs.

A diaper that shifted and moved anytime I tried to embark upon any kind of athletic activity at all. A diaper that left me feeling itchy and… moist. A diaper that I convinced myself had to smell. Had to be making me smell.

Because yes, these are the things I worry about.

And while I couldn’t get anyone I knew or loved to either confirm or deny this suspicion, I feel like I got my answer when upon visiting Loo one night (Loo, who flat out refused to get close enough to be able to tell me whether or not she could smell period on me - despite my proclamations that a good friend would do it) I was attacked by a strange dog just outside her front door.

A strange dog that practically dragged it’s leashed owner to the ground in its desperate attempt to stick its nose all up in my lady business.

All the while, Loo stood by laughing hysterically – knowing exactly why this dog had been so intent upon coming up and molesting me in public.

And it was at that moment that I decided – something had to be done. Tampons were toxic enemas and pads were nothing more than… well, nothing more than bloody diapers clearly meant to act as canine aphrodisiacs.

Thanks, but no thanks.

So, I bit the bullet. I ordered myself a Diva Cup on drugstore.com and waited.

Patiently waited to see what kind of horrific contraption would arrive in the mail.

When it arrived, I was pleasantly surprised at how unassuming it was. I’m not sure what I expected, but this thing didn’t look nearly as scary as I had pictured it in my head.

(note: all photos taken before use!)

And the material was bendy enough that even I (the girl with those pesky pelvic floor muscle spasms) felt comfortable getting it up inside me.

You know, when the time came.

Until then, I tucked it away in a drawer and waited.

Worrying and wondering and painfully curious as to how this experiment was going to play out.

Unfortunately, there is very little that is predictable about my periods. I can usually tell when I ovulate, and then I know that my period is a few weeks away. But the length of my cycles has never been regular, and what may take 35 days one month could inevitably be 50 the next.

Although, according to my Period Predictor iPhone App (because yes – there’s an app for that), I’ve been averaging 36 day cycles.

Which is better than I would have though.

Either way though – this month I spotted for about 7 days around when I otherwise should have been ovulating. I’ve heard of women who spot around ovulation, but it’s never been me. In fact, while I used to spot mid-cycle from time to time when I was on the pill, this is the first time it’s ever happened to me while off those synthetic hormones.

So, I wasn’t really sure what was going on. Or whether or not to count it as ovulation.

As far as I was concerned – the arrival of Aunt Flo was entirely up in the air.

And the opportunity to use my exciting new contraption may as well have been years and years away.

But then… I woke up Monday morning to cramps and a low backache.

And I knew.

The crimson tide had arrived, and it was officially time to start using “the cup.”

I hesitantly walked into the bathroom and eyed the pretty purple bag containing my Diva Cup.

Did I really want to do this?

But yes – I was resolute. I was going to at least be able to say I had tried.

And so, I removed it from its bag and reached below my sink for the handy Diva wash I had ordered with the cup.

Because if I’m going to be a Diva girl – you had better believe I’m going to order all the bells and whistles too.

I washed the bendable piece of silicone and then sat down on the throne – preparing myself for what I was convinced was going to be an uncomfortable endeavor.

I scanned the picture instructions for what seemed to be the millionth time before folding up the Diva Cup like a taco and inserting it into my… well, into my taco.

It went in just fine, but then that’s where things got tricky.

I could tell the cup hadn’t expanded out of its taco shape into cup shape, and I couldn’t quite figure out how to resolve the situation. According to the instructions, I was supposed to rotate the cup a full 180 degrees at this point to ensure the seal, but I couldn’t figure out had to get a good enough grip to rotate it once it was all up in there.

What came next I’m fairly sure isn’t suitable blog material.

Let’s just go ahead and say that it’s possible I had more of my hand up my own hoo-ha than I had ever really intended.

And I still didn’t do it right. Because just a few hours later, I was spotting. And adjusting. And trying to figure out just how to enact this "seal" I kept reading about.

I would say it took at least the first day (and possibly part of the second) before I figured out how to insert this thing correctly so that it didn’t “leak”. I wore a panty liner for the entire period as well – just in case. Even when I didn’t manage to get it in right though, and the seal wasn’t perfect, there still wasn’t much leakage. No more than what you would see from minimal spotting. Nothing a liner couldn’t handle while I struggled to figure it out.

And I have to be honest – this thing was ridiculously comfortable. Which may sound insane, and perhaps comfortable isn’t the right word, but… once it was in, I couldn’t feel it at all.

You know how with tampons, there are times you can feel them riding too low, or sponging off your insides in a less than cozy manner?

Yeah, that doesn’t happen with this thing. I couldn’t feel it at all!

No pad “moistness” and no tampon “suckage”.

It was incredible how much of an improvement this was in the comfort realm. And even beyond that - I felt completely secure and protected by it. I didn't have any qualms or worries at all about it shifting or coming out on its own. In fact, I was pretty convinced I could have run a marathon with it in just fine. You know, if I was even remotely motivated to go and do something crazy like run a marathon.

Plus… I kind of liked not having to worry about a string hanging out of me. For reasons I’m not even sure how to explain. That string though? It’s always kind of grossed me out. It just hangs there, waving in the wind every time you go to the bathroom. And then tucking back into your nether regions, all wet and covered in urine.

That’s nasty, right?

But with this… no string. I would say it’s about the size of a shot glass, with the end tapering off like an egg. And then at the very end, there is a piece that's almost like a stick attached. The piece that’s there to help you grip it.

That part is small though, and once this thing is inserted – it’s fully inside of you.

Nothing hanging out collecting urine for the road.

I dig it.

The real test came later though – before removal.

Knowing how much the events of the day had broken me down, Loo had shown up at my house and insisted I extract myself from underneath my covers and go on a walk with her to clear my head.

I grudgingly agreed, wiping my tears and trying to make myself presentable for the outside world.

I didn’t do the greatest job.

Once out in the ever-increasing Alaskan daylight though, Loo went to her car to let BeeZee out.

BeeZee. Loo's Rhodesian Ridgeback pup.

Or “The Horse” – as we like to call her.

Well wouldn’t you know it – within seconds of being released, that beast of a dog was all up in my business.

Not so much as when I was wearing the diaper, but still… definitely aware that something was going on.

So… apparently the diva cup does nothing to hide the period scent perceptible (hopefully) only to those of the canine persuasion.

Either that, or dogs in general just get some other kind of signal that tells them when you’re bleeding copiously out of your coochie.

And they like it.

I would probably know this if I was a dog person.

I pushed BeeZee's snout out of my crotch and implored Loo to put a leash on her so that she could drag us around the lake.

I silently took one checkmark off of team Diva… Simply because I felt kind of let down that my current state of menses had still been so detectable to the canine species.

Of course, this was all before I had to deal with the actual emptying of the cup.

The part I had been dreading the most.

The picture I had in my head of how this was going to go down was repulsive. You can leave the Diva Cup in for up to 12 hours, and all day at work I just kept thinking about the mess I was going to have to deal with when I got home.

There was a part of me simply horrified at the idea of what was still to come.

But… I think there was another part of me that was also sickly fascinated.

And so, when I got done with my walk and booted Loo from my home, I went upstairs and braved the bathroom.

I sat down, reached up inside to find that little gripper stick, and pulled.

Slowly of course, because I had no idea what I was going to find.

And I was mildly afraid there would be an explosion of some kind when it came out - kind of like the popping of a champagne cork.

I have to admit that taking it out wasn’t the most comfortable experience ever. There was something actually remotely unpleasant about the whole thing. Not painful exactly, but not necessarily smooth sailing either.

Once it was out though… Well, I was left there holding a cup of my own blood.

No joke. In 12 hours time that thing had gotten good and full.

As gross as that seemed to me though… I was also almost a little fascinated at how little it really was. I get incredibly heavy periods, and my entire life I’ve always thought that I bled a great deal more. But this?

Well, it just didn’t seem nearly as disturbing as I thought it would.

And I was left to wonder how it is that I go through so many tampons and pads a month when that is all the blood I'm actually emitting throughout the day.

Do those things not absorb at all, or what?

It was probably the very first time that it truly dawned on me not only how much money I could save by using this thing - but also how much waste I could avoid.

And the best part? I tipped it over and almost all of the contents slicked right out and off of the cup into the toilet.

I had been picturing this huge messy ordeal, but the truth is – the cup and the blood were like oil and water. As soon as I turned it over, the undesirable contents spilled right out.

From there, I got up and gave it another rinse using the Diva Wash (per the instructions) and put it back in for round 2.

An endeavor which got easier and easier with each new insertion.

And now, Aunt Flo has left the building. The Diva cup is housed once again in its little purple bag under my sink, and I am pretty positively sold.

The truth is, even though the Diva Cup did not work to turn off the period beacon sent out only to dogs, it was still far superior to the alternatives in every other way.

Safe. Chemical free. Imperceptible once inserted. And capable of being left in for 12 straight hours.

Ding Ding Ding – I think we have a winner!

Seriously, if Dr. Cook called me up tomorrow and informed me that tampons were now deemed completely safe and there was no reason in the world for me not to use them – I think I would still stick to my Diva Cup.

I liked it that much.

So much, that I actually wish I had taken the plunge and tried it years ago.

As far as my period this month?

It was a cakewalk. My low back hurt pretty much the entire time, and I did need to pop some ibuprofen on Monday for my cramps, but other than that… smooth sailing.

Leaps and bounds better than my pre-surgery periods.

And for that, I continue to be eternally grateful to Dr. Cook.

At the end of the day, bleeding out of our lady bits every month sucks.

There’s a reason women used to be banished to period tents until the bleeding was done.

But I have to admit… the Diva Cup makes it suck just a little bit less.

And it’s nowhere near as gross as I feared it would be.

So yeah, I’m a Diva Girl.

It’s cool… I think I’ve decided to go ahead and embrace my inner hippy.

Peace. Love. And Diva Cups.

Sorry For The Disappearing Act...

It’s been a rough few days, and for the first time in a long time (the first time ever since starting this blog) I just didn’t know how to put into words what I was thinking and feeling. Even more than that – I didn’t know how to throw together a bunch of fluff and pretend like nothing was going on.

So I didn’t do either.

I’m not sure that I’ll ever get into the details of what exactly happened here, mostly because there is a piece of me that still doesn’t understand. And as much as I keep looking for the blame to place upon myself (feeling like I must have done something to cause this - to deserve it; like at the very least, I should have done a better job of protecting my heart) I just... I don't understand.

All I know is that it hurts like hell.

Which I realize is insanely cryptic, and I’m sorry. I just don’t know what else to say.

But, I'm back. Because I need to be putting something on paper. Because it's what I do.

Hold my head high and keep moving forward... no matter what.

Because life moves on.

And people do too.

It’s just the way it is I guess.

And that, is all I think I’m going to say about that.

Stay tuned for tonight though. Because adding to what would already have been an emotional few days for me, I also started Aunt Flo on Monday.

Gotta love my period and its impeccable timing.

But I was able to put my Diva Cup to good use for the first time ever.

And tonight – I plan on sharing with you all the bloody gory details. In as upbeat and humorous a fashion as I can possibly muster.

Because right now?

I really need something to laugh at.

And tomorrow?

Well, I’m hoping that tomorrow is the start of something new…

The Mystery Date

I mentioned a few nights ago that I was going on a date (at the time, that was my excuse for not being able to finish up the birthday story).

I haven’t said any more about that date since because; well because the date itself was quite literally nothing to write home about.

It was a blind date.

(Courtesy of adivastateofmind.com)

A set up.

And I hate set ups.

Yet, that doesn’t keep my friends from trying. Despite my many protests and proclamations against blind dates, some of my nearest and dearest seem to always come up with someone they think I just have to meet.

And rarely are they ever anyone I would actually be interested in.

This date was no exception.

Loo has tried to set me up before, and much to her chagrin... she has failed miserably. The first guy she swore up and down I would adore showed up in a muscle shirt with a thick silver chain around his neck and designer sunglasses propped precariously above his overly gelled head.

He then proceeded to spend the next half hour bashing his ex wife.

I was not impressed.

Then there are the countless guys Loo meets on planes or around town and invites out with us simply because “They might be fun!”

I am definitely the more anti-social one out of our little two-some.

Loo and I have had the quality over quantity talk before, but it never quite seems to sink in.

She's a quantity girl… convinced that if she keeps looking and taking chances, Mr. Right will find his way to her that much sooner. Plus, she's just one of those people who makes friends with everyone. An admirable quality which really is just one of the many things I love about her, but... who has the time for that?!?

I on the other hand am a quality girl. Content enough in my singledom that I see no need to rush out on dates with every boy who seems as if he might be interested. I'm the same way with my friends. I'll take a small group of truly amazing friends over a large entourage any day. I don't need (or want) 10,000 facebook friends and hundreds of numbers in my phone that I'll never actually dial.

I'm all about the quality.

Beyond all that – Loo and I have completely different taste in men. She has more than once scrunched up her pretty little nose at the guys I usually find attractive (bearded, manly, and sometimes a little bit dirty), and I in turn have scoffed at her men of choice (men who [quite likely] spend more time getting ready in the morning than I do.) It works for us – we never have to worry about being interested in the same man at all. The two of us can go out together without ever for a second fearing competition from the other.

Except… Whenever she tries to set me up, she almost inevitably attempts with a guy who is far more her type than mine.

And I am left spending my time on a date I never would have agreed to go on in the first place had I met the guy out and about town on my own.

Which is why I told her a while back that set ups were no longer an option.

Period.

End of discussion.

Story closed.

But then she started talking about this guy she was working with. A competitor of hers, thereby making him off limits in her mind. Tall. Smart. Funny.

She raved about him. And wanted desperately to set us up.

So a while back I agreed, but only if certain conditions were followed. I was not going on a blind date. No way, no how, not happening. But if she wanted to invite him out with us some night for a group thing, I wouldn’t be opposed to meeting him then. Just so long as the circumstances were completely pressure free and as non-date-like as possible.

A few weeks back, she did invite him out with us. It was actually the night we met the waiter, and would have been the perfect time for a simple get together. Except he bailed, claiming to Loo that he was an awful dater and was too nervous to show up.

Which is pretty much when I lost any potential interest.

I like shy guys. Guys who aren’t cocky or too presumptuous. But… I do not like guys who lack confidence completely.

So I was pretty sure that book was closed. And I was completely OK with that.

Until Loo called me Wednesday night and told me I had a date. Thursday night at a local restaurant. With the coworker.

I scoffed at her, reminded her of our rules, and then explained that I already had plans Thursday night. I was taking one of my favorite teenagers to a movie. And I was not about to cancel those plans for a date with the mystery boy who just a few weeks ago had been too nervous to meet me.

“I’ll call you right back!” she proclaimed, before promptly hanging up the phone and cutting me off mid-sentence.

When she called back 5 minutes later, she started talking before I had even finished saying “Hello.”

“Tonight” she blurted out. “7:30. The reservation is under your name. Be there. You can’t cancel now, because I already had to reschedule with him.”

She’s lucky I love her.

So I went on this date. Reluctant and dragging my feet the whole way.

When I first walked in the door of the restaurant I saw him, and for a split second I actually thought “maybe…”

He was tall. Well dressed. And on the briefest of initial inspections… a possibility.

But then, he started talking. And I almost immediately lost interest.

He was nice. Sweet. Definitely a gentleman. He treated me to an expensive meal, refused to take my credit card when I offered to split it, and I dare say he was going out of his way to woo me. Ordering 2 desserts simply "because" (when I had already announced I needed none), and then proclaiming that he wasn't much of a sweets person before handing me the spoon.

We all know I inhaled those desserts, right?!?

But I just wasn’t feeling it. Nothing. No spark. No attraction. No zing of anticipation over getting to know him more at all.

Nothing.

For the record - I have dated plenty of guys who weren't textbook attractive. Men who many would look at and probably wonder what I saw in them. But there has always been something. A look they give me. A way that they smile. Something about their eyes.

There has always been something that has drawn me in.

And with this guy, there was nothing.

Which is why, when he asked if I wanted to go with him for after dinner drinks somewhere else, I declined. Made up some lie about having to be on the road for my business trip at 6 the next morning (when in reality – I didn’t leave until around 9.)

Like I said, he was nice. On paper, he was probably even someone I should have been interested in.

But… I am a girl in need of a spark.

A girl who enjoys her single life enough to not feel any need to try to force that spark.

And the truth is, I did sit there analyzing him for a minute trying to determine if I could picture myself kissing him.

But I couldn’t. I had no interest. At all.

After the meal, I called Loo and broke the bad news to her. She was sincerely disappointed. I think she really thought this one would do it for me. She wanted me to give him a second chance.

But as I explained to her… I know myself, and nothing will come out of a second date. I have a strong enough intuition about people to know when there is something there worth pursuing. And I have had the butterflies in the stomach feeling enough to know that I really do need it in the beginning stages of getting to know someone. If there are no butterflies… there’s really nothing there worth pursuing.

And there are a million other things I would rather be doing with my time than trying to force something that just isn’t there.

No matter how nice the guy is.

So there it is. Maybe I’m too picky. Or too closed off. Maybe I’m destined to be alone because I didn’t give enough men chances in my life.

But I don’t think that’s the case. I think he’s out there. Waiting. Biding his time until I find him.

And I think that when I do… there will be a spark.

And I’ll know.

Until then though… I’m OK with being a quality girl.

And I’ll keep loving Loo and all her quantity too.

No Words...

For those of you following the story of Elizabeth and her baby boy Elliot, after 10 days of fighting for his life (and only 2 weeks of being in this world at all) he passed on this evening.

Please keep Elizabeth and her family (including Elliot's twin sister Vivian) in your thoughts and prayers.

I've got no more words than that right now...

The Rest of The Fuzzy Story...

So… where was it we left off?

Oh yes, an intoxicated S.I.F. and a table of 4 men.

The girls were all quite smitten with The People’s Choice initially. He was sarcastic, attractive, and funny. But the truth is… I was digging the guy to my left. He was quieter. Shy maybe. He just struck me as kind. And sweet. And at some point into the conversation, he reached across my lap and started holding my hand.

I love when boys hold my hand.

So the decision was made. I was jonesing for the guy to my left.

The Pilot.

OK, so technically they were all pilots, but let’s face it… I’m probably not ever going to date any of these other guys.

So this one can go ahead and take the name.

I remember The Pilot telling me that he was 37. That he had never been married, and didn’t have any kids.

At that point I’m pretty sure I cracked a joke about him having a wife and babies wherever it is he goes home to on his 2 weeks off and away from Alaska.

If I didn’t… I should have. Because the truth is; there is something I don’t trust about a man who has reached that age without ever settling down at all. Especially when that same man has a job that has him traveling back and forth between two different states every two weeks.

That's prime double life material.

From there though – I have to admit it all gets really fuzzy.

More fuzzy than it already was.

In fact, if it weren’t for the pictures on my camera – I would have no idea that we had even kissed.

Which yes, I realize is probably not the healthiest thing to admit.

I remember thinking he was sweet. And that I wanted to get to know him better. But… I don’t think I was exactly in the right frame of mind to do anything at all about it.

As the hours passed, the girls started drifting off in their own directions. Most of my friends up here are married with kids. And with their husbands waiting patiently at home – I don’t think any of them felt overly comfortable hanging out with a table full of strange men.

Which was fine. The girls all made me promise I would call them if/when I needed a ride home, but they were ready to call it a night themselves. I wasn’t ready to do the same, and I was feeling pretty comfortable with these guys.

Plus, we knew the bartenders at this place (because in a town like this, the people who grew up here all know each other), so at the very least – we knew they would be looking out for me.

And at this point, I was pretty darn convinced that The Pilot and I were going to wind up talking into the AM.

But the next thing I remember, I stood up from the table by myself, shakily walked out the door, and almost immediately hailed a passing cab.

I woke up the next morning alone, in my bed, with a hangover to beat all hangovers.

Classy class.

And… that’s it. Seriously, that’s all I remember. I know I got in a cab, but I don’t remember what prompted my leaving. I know I got home safely, but I can’t figure out why I was alone. I woke up the next morning to discover my clothes strewn all around the room (somehow I had taken off my jeans without taking off my boots… a feat which I’m fairly convinced involved some kind of magic, seeing as I had actually squeezed myself into a pair of far too tight size 6’s at the beginning of the night). I was 99% positive that I had lost my camera and my wallet for half the morning… until I found them both tucked under my pillow. And my first adventure out of bed, I threw up on my toilet. You read that right. On. Not in.

Guess I just wasn’t quick enough on the draw when it came to lifting up the lid.

As for The Pilot, I wouldn’t even have remembered his real name had it not been for Loo.

Loo, who apparently requested his driver’s license and took a picture of it before she too left me behind.

She said she wanted proof of his identity, in case I wound up kidnapped or molested.

I seriously love my friends.

The random good luck is that he has a fairly unique name. Unique enough in fact, that he’s the only one on Facebook with that name. I was able to find him within seconds of Loo texting me his details.

And since then?

I've checked his profile more than I care to admit wondering if I should drop him a line.

But never quite building up the courage to do so.

The thing is… I have no idea at all what happened when I left the bar. It’s possible that I just determined I was too drunk and managed to exit the building and hop into a cab before anyone realized I was even contemplating bailing. I could have pulled an epic Cinderella move, leaving The Pilot wondering if he would ever see me again.

Or… I could have thrown up on the table and all over him before being hauled out by security.

It's a toss up.

Which I suppose should be my lesson learned for drinking to the point of memory loss.

Sadly… I thought I had learned that lesson at 22.

The fear that I did or said something humiliating prior to my departure has kept me from e-mailing him though. Well, that and the fact that I have rules about being Facebook friends with guys I’m romantically interested in. I just don’t do it. There are links to this blog on Facebook, and we all know how I feel about the men I’m dating knowing about this blog. I keep my Facebook profile on super stealth lockdown for a reason… I don’t want people being able to find me unless I want to be found.

And with this guy – I’m not sure I was sober enough to be able to determine whether or not I want to be found.

Besides, it’s been almost a week now. Despite how into me my friends keep telling me he was, I’m not sure what I would say. Or that it would be worth the risk of embarrassment to learn that I really did do something humiliating before leaving.

Sometimes a fuzzy memory is a blessing.

Plus – there’s the whole wife in another state thing. I’m still not convinced that isn’t a distinct possibility.

And so… The Pilot will likely remain a guy I kissed once upon a time on my birthday. Nothing more, and nothing less.

It’s kind of more fun that way anyways, isn’t it?

Imagining myself as Cinderella. The one who got away.

Instead of a girl who got so drunk she literally can’t remember how her night ended.

And picturing The Pilot as Prince Charming. Desperately wondering if he’ll ever see the girl again.

Instead of a man who likely has a wife and 2 kids in diapers back home wherever the heck he’s from.

I prefer the fantasy.

Don’t you?

To Tide You Over...

I just got home (a few minutes before 10) after what has been a very long (but totally fantastic) day. I'm about to wash my face and head to bed, but I wanted to leave you all with some pictures to tide you over until I can get some real keyboard time tomorrow night and the rest of this weekend.

When I left for Seward this morning, the sun was shining in Anchorage and I was so looking forward to a bright, sunny, fabulous drive.

About 30 minutes later, I was driving in this:

I'm telling you - blizzard. Out of nowhere. For at least an hour of driving.

No Bueno. It's the middle of April!

Thankfully, things cleared up on the drive back and looked more acceptable:

(How does water get that green? Seriously?!?)

And this is why I love Alaska.

If only the summer would just hurry up and get here!

As for the movie tonight - Soul Surfer - Amazing. One of those movies that makes you want to be a better person. I already want to watch it again.

But tonight, I'm sleeping. It's already past my bedtime.

Tomorrow I'll finish up my previous story friends... promise.