You Look Old

A good friend is one who will always tell you the truth.

No matter what.

Right?

I got home yesterday afternoon. After throwing myself into laundry, and unpacking, and eventually heading off to the first night of boot camp (yes, I did sign myself up for a boot camp class that started the same day I spent 7+ hours flying home to Alaska - don't be jealous), I pretty much crashed last night. Then today was an unbelievably busy day at work as I played catch-up and tried to put the finishing touches on a project I want to present this week.

I tell you all this only to say - my brain is fried. I had a blast on my trip to Arizona, but was surrounded by a million people at all times and never really had a chance to pop open my laptop. Now I'm home, and all I want to do is curl up into bed and watch Horrible Bosses.

My brain is fried, and while I have a ton of stories to tell from my trip - I just can't manage to complete a single thought for long enough now to actually tell any of them.

Can you tell?

So instead, I'll just let you know what a good friend my dear DV is.

The boy who always tells me the truth.

No matter what.

When we took those family photos on Saturday, the photographer asked if I would be willing to let her take pictures of my tattoos. Separate from the family photos of course.

She is a new(ish) photographer (a family friend), and said she had been wanting to do some tattoo photographs for a while.

Me being such a fan of my tattoos anyway - I of course agreed.

In fact, I was pretty pumped that she had any interest in them at all.

So far she has only been able to edit a few of the photos (after an almost 2 hour session - you can bet there are a few hundred more still to come), but one of the first she finished up was that photo of my tattoos.

I got it and simultaneously grinned and cringed at the same time.

Grinned because I loved the way she did the entire thing. I loved the format, the contrast, the... whatever. I'm not a photographer; I just thought it was cool.

Cringed because - holy crap did I look tired.

Something that probably wasn't helped by the couch I was sleeping on, the million other people all crammed under the same roof, or the tears I shed about 20 minutes before the picture taking began.

Because I'm all about perfect timing like that.

Let's just say that I've been missing my little brother like crazy lately, and all that missing him may have boiled over into a totally unexpected tear fest right before the photographer showed up.

Again, because I'm all about perfect timing like that.

So anyway, all I could see when looking at this picture were my puffy eyes. But I thought maybe (just maybe) I was being too critical. Because the picture overall - besides my face - was pretty cool.

Maybe my face wasn't actually as bad as I was thinking it was?

I texted it to the devirginator. Didn't say a word - just sent him the picture.

His response?

Almost immediately he texted back "You look old."

Let's not forget this was just a few days after he had finished telling me how good I was looking. So it's not like he was being a dick. I just... I looked old.

Needless to say, this is not my new Facebook profile picture.

It's too bad too, because I love everything else about the shot.

With the exception of my face that is.

Because, you know - I look old.

Modern Family

It's my last day in town, and with my new stepsister leaving tomorrow - we decided to do some family photos today while we were all still together.

I'll share more (along with stories of my amazing trip home) soon, but for now I just couldn't wait to share this one:

Anyone a fan of Modern Family?

Can you guess which couple my dad and new stepmom remind me of?

It's been a long standing joke, and then this photo just seemed so Modern Family to me!

Love it.

And love my family.

Each and every one of them.

I'm heading home tomorrow morning bright and early.

And then back to work Tuesday.

But I just checked the weather, and it looks like Alaska is planning on settling into the 20's and 30's for the next week.

Which I'm pretty sure I can handle.

So goodbye sunshine - I'm heading home!

I Never Would Have Guessed

The sun is shining in Arizona and the heat feels incredible.

I’ve almost already forgotten that just a few days ago I was cursing my car for telling me the temp had dropped below zero.

Oh Alaska, I love you so, but I’d really appreciate if we could keep it in the above zero range. Please and thank you.

I woke up this morning on a couch in my dad’s bedroom. There are literally that many people staying here this year. No room in the inn so to speak.

But I kind of love it. The melding of both new stepmoms family and ours. The warmth. The friendly faces.

The love.

The devirginator and I went out last night. I picked him up at the airport at 11, and then we stopped by a local bar to grab some spinach dip and catch up.

About half way through our catching up, he stopped and said “You look really good.”

I had to smile, because… I feel really good.

In fact, a year ago I never would have guessed that I would ever feel this good again.

My heart was so broken this time last year. I was here, trying to enjoy the festivities and keep from bringing everyone down. I was plastering a smile on my face and attempting to pretend that I wasn’t on the edge. But even with all my efforts – I couldn’t keep the tears at bay. I couldn’t keep my heart from aching. I couldn’t stop my head from telling me over and over again that it was all over – I would never be a mother.

Everything hurt. And when I say that, I literally mean everything.

A year ago, I never would have guessed I would ever feel OK again.

Just OK. Certainly not happy.

But I am. I have my bad days to be sure, but – I really am happy. The smile on my face is genuine. The joy in my heart is real.

I’m happy.

I think for me, stepping back from the world of trying to conceive was the only thing I could do. It was the only option left. I was hurting so badly and up against a wall I just couldn’t climb. The only choice was to accept defeat. Something I had never done with anything in my entire life.

But it turned out to be my saving grace. The thing that helped me to live again. To rebuild, and learn to love my life just as it is.

You always hear the advice to women struggling to find a man being that they need to learn to love themselves first. In all honesty, I think the same can be said for women struggling to bring a child into this world. I needed to learn to love my child-free life again first. I have no idea what the future holds, and I would be lying if I said there wasn’t still a flicker of hope burning in the back of my head, but… I had to remember to embrace all the things I love about being single and carefree. I had to learn to love the life I was given, instead of every day mourning all that was taken away.

I never would have guessed that I would have managed to do that in only the time span of a year.

I am incredibly thankful today for all the love and support I have in my life. My family, my friends, and all of you in this space here. I don’t know much, but I know for sure that I never would have made it through without the amazing backup I’ve been given in this life.

I am unbelievably lucky.

And truly happy.

At least for today. And really – isn’t that all we can ever hope for?

I am blessed. And happy. And in love with my life.

Just as it is today.

I never would have guessed…

Coming Home

Heading out to the airport in just a few hours to brave another Thanksgiving flight home.

I'm thinking this year's trip is going to be infinitely better than last years.

Even if I am leaving at 1 am.

See you tomorrow AZ...



I'll be the girl who clearly hasn't slept all night, but is still totally pumped to be there.

True Love Realized

It has been months of waiting.

Months of excruciating waiting.

Because when you really have love in your heart and you have to wait for it to be realized, it's never easy.

But as of today, I can finally say - my little heart is content in getting exactly what it's been waiting for.

That's right ladies and gentlemen - my brand new energy efficient front loaders have finally arrived.

And I am a happy girl!

So what if I ordered them over Labor Day weekend. So what if it has taken almost 2 months for them to get here. So what if it was never mentioned to me that it might take that long for them to find their way to Alaska. And so what if the fact that I am this excited about some appliances makes me feel like I have officially stepped into the realm of being an old woman.

They are here.

And I am in love.

Now if you'll excuse me - I have some laundry to do.

I Can Buy Porn If I Want To

Yep. That’s right. You heard me.

I am 28 years old.

And I can buy porn if I want to!

I guess the real question becomes; why would I want to buy porn though, right?

Well, the truth is – that’s kind of a complicated question.

One that possibly falls back on the fact that I’ve always been… in the know, so to speak.

Or rather, I’ve always wanted to be in the know.

Starting when I was about 10 years old and used to stay up to watch Love Line on MTV.

Do you remember that show? Dr. Drew and Adam Corolla? Dr. Drew still has the radio show (with someone other than Adam), but back in the day – they had the MTV show as well. Same concept (people calling in with all their sexual questions), but just on TV instead.

Obviously not a show a 10 year old should have been watching.

But let’s face it – my mother didn’t have a real clear grasp on what I was or was not doing with my time back then.

Nor do I think she particularly cared.

From Love Line, I learned all kinds of vital information though. At least, vital in my pre-teen brain. About blow jobs, and self-love, and always being prepared for safe sex.

Which might explain why upon entering high school, I walked myself to a local convenience store and purchased a 3 pack of condoms.

Just in case.

I hadn’t even kissed a boy yet, but I felt it was important to equip myself with condoms.

Just in case.

Maybe also because there was a part of me that always liked the shock factor. I liked that I knew more about all things sexual than most of my friends. I liked that they asked me questions. I liked presenting myself as worldly and knowledgeable and totally unafraid of information surrounding our bodies and human sexuality.

There was a point in my life when I actually really wanted to be a sex therapist when I grew up.

Just like Dr. Drew.

I had a very matter of fact outlook on all of it. Which perhaps wasn’t entirely healthy, but who knows – at least I had a clear understanding of the mechanics.

And the upmost respect for safe sex.

Just for the record though – the devirginator did not deflower me until I was 16. Almost 17 in fact. After a good 2+ years of his pushing that agenda. I was actually one of the last of my friends to take the plunge.

So for all that worldly knowledge I liked to pretend I had – the actual doing of the deed definitely still terrified me on many different levels.

This is all really unnecessary information, except to explain that talking about sex, and making sex purchases – never really something that fazed me.

My favorite boyfriend came into my life on my 18th birthday. (Literally that day.)

In my early 20’s, I made a habit of introducing my friends to sex stores (those places really are a wealth of laughs, if nothing else!)

And my college roommate and I owned a porn we proudly displayed with all of our other DVD’s.

As if that were normal.

It was a great conversation starter, and always managed to find its way to the DVD player when there were groups of people gathered at our place.

But the truth of the matter was that when we bought it, we gathered in our dorm room with a group of other girls from our floor and proceeded to watch it in total and utter horror.

None of us were virgins, but still – the images depicted on that video; let’s just say our curiosity was quickly taken over by extreme discomfort.

I honestly have never really been able to figure out the appeal of porn videos since that first viewing. The men picked to play in those things (and the women too for that matter!), the contrived situations, the complete lack of intimacy and emotion – all of it always kind of freaked me out.

No matter how open to anything I always wanted to portray myself to be.

And I was surprised to find that every girl viewing that video with us that night felt the same exact way.

Needless to say – we never did finish watching that beauty.

But whenever anyone mentioned that porn in our collection over the years to come – we acted like it was no big deal. Like we were two strong, independent women totally in charge of (and unashamed by) our own sexuality.

Which is kind of amusing now that I think about it.

I wonder what ever happened to that thing?

Again though, all superfluous information meant only to say – making these purchases and having these conversations; never something I’ve shied away from.

But in the last few years, my occasions to buy porn really haven’t been that numerous. A gag gift here, a joke there.

There have been no serious porn purchases.

And I don’t honestly foresee any serious porn purchases in my future.

So the other day, when I made the decision to purchase a dirty magazine for a friend’s husband; I couldn’t help but laugh. Giggling over the ridiculousness before I had ever even done the deed.

Now, why was I buying a dirty magazine for a friend’s husband you might ask?

Well, some of you might remember one of those dear friends of mine who got pregnant with IVF.

While her pregnancy has progressed, there have been a few walls she’s hit along the way.

And my beautiful, amazing, incredible friend has taken it all in stride – I am infinitely proud of her.

As of this week though, she is officially on some major restrictions for the remainder of her pregnancy (we’re talking still 25 weeks to go).

No excessive physical activity, and no sexy time.

At all.

With the threat of bed rest still on the horizon.

When I found out about all the new restrictions she would be undertaking, I wanted to do something nice for her.

I decided to put together a restriction basket, filled with things she could do while she felt like she couldn’t do anything else.

Books, movies, crafty items – all things to help her pass the time.

And while I was at it, I figured I would throw in some smut for her hubby.

Just because I wanted to keep her laughing through all of this as well.

And let’s face it – he’s pretty much on restriction now too.

So, I went shopping. Picking up loads of items at Target, before then heading to Barnes & Noble to pick her up a few young adult books (I figured some light and easy reading would be the best thing to keep her mind off of all that she couldn’t do).

I planned on heading from there to a local sex shop for the porn. But while at Barnes & Noble, I happened to pass the magazine rack and immediately spied the “Men’s Interest” section.

The magazines with the plastic covers were hard to ignore.

And immediately I thought I could save myself a trip. It was like 0 degrees outside, and I was tired, and this was perfect!

Except, there were 2 men standing in front of the rack already. And this was Barnes & Noble! Picking up smut at some smutty sex shop was one thing. Walking out with a plastic covered magazine in my hands here was something else entirely!

I hightailed it to the young adult section and called a friend. First we laughed about the 5 different cases of “Teen Paranormal Romance” books I immediately discovered (seriously – 5! I am all about Twilight, but wow! This is getting out of control!) Then we laughed about my extreme discomfort with buying porn from Barnes & Noble.

And the fact that in addition to the smut – I had every intention of picking up 2 young adult novels as well.

Because those things are the perfect pairing.

When we got off the phone, I again walked by the magazines. I could see what I wanted, but I couldn’t convince myself to make the grab.

There were just too many people around! What would they think of me?

Not to mention – I had already caught the eye of 2 different guys in the place. I really didn’t need them thinking I was the kind of girl trying to satisfy her own desires for porn.

Classy-class.

So, I went and picked out the books first. Glancing nervously over at the magazines every chance I got.

Until finally, I made a sprint for the rack. Placed my hands on the plastic baggie cover of a playboy and ran as quickly away.

Except at the last second I looked down and realized I had grabbed the lingerie issue.

The lingerie issue! I had just gone to all that trouble, and these girls weren’t even naked!

I turned around. Knowing only that if I was going to buy porn at Barnes & Noble – it was going to be nipple baring porn.

This wasn’t for me after all – it was for a dear friend’s husband who would be needing plenty of spank material over the next year!

I took a deep breath, and I went in again.

And this time, I snagged myself a penthouse.

Now, I only had to make it through checkout.

Which was uncomfortable and disarming and could not have happened fast enough.

I was sure the checkout lady was judging me.

When I got to my car though, I breathed a sigh of relief.

And then I called that friend I had been on the phone with inside. When I told her I got the goods, she told me she was proud of me.

“Damn right!” I said. “I’m 28 years old, and I can buy porn if I want to!”

If only I had been so self assured while actually inside the store.

Needless to say, I put the basket together that night and then gave it to that friend of mine yesterday after we finished watching Breaking Dawn (which by the way, was incredible! My favorite movie of the series so far to be sure! I want to see it again this week!)

It had the desired effect. She laughed, and I received more props on my porn buying skills.

Which really is all it came down to anyway.

I am 28 years old, and I can buy porn if I want to!

I just hope I don’t want to again anytime soon.

Embracing My Inner 12 Year Old

I’m at the movie theater.

Right now.

Like, this instant.

Watching Breaking Dawn.

Very likely loving Breaking Dawn.

Embracing my inner 12 year old.

For a second there, we were actually considering going to the midnight premiere last night.

But then – we all realized we were too old for that.

I have a bedtime after all.

(Actually, to be fair – Mrs. King did make it to the midnight showing. Pregnant and all. She’s kind of my pre-teen hero. I just couldn’t do it.)

So instead, the rest of the ladies and I decided we would just take off from work a few hours early today.

Yes, we used PTO to see a movie.

A movie based on a series of books written for little girls.

And I am not ashamed.

Although, I do think I should take this moment to point out that tomorrow night, I have tickets to see The Rocky Horror Picture show.

A live performance.

A night out with the girls.

For a little bit of adult entertainment and fun.

At a local bar, known for drag shows and outrageousness.

Just to counteract the pre-teen squealing I am probably doing today.

Right now.

Like, this instant.

Embracing my inner 12 year old.

I'll Pick You Up

The devirginator and I were having a conversation a few days ago.

Talking about our plans for next week, and the fact that I’m going to borrow my stepmom's car to pick him up from the airport since he will be getting into town pretty late the night before Thanksgiving.

I figured I would save his parents the hassle of having to trek to the airport so late at night.

Plus – I kind of miss that boy.

So, as we were going through the plans, he stopped me and said “OK, I just want to make sure we’re on for Wednesday. I can tell my parents that you’re picking me up at the airport, right?”

“Yep.” I said. “I’ll pick you up. We’ll get a drink. Then I’ll take you home.”

There was a pause.

“Wait.” I said. “Did you hear how bad that just sounded?”

That’s what I started to say anyway. But the DV interrupted me before I could even finish the sentence.

“Slut.”

He said it so matter of factly. So plainly. So dry.

And I busted out laughing.

I don’t know what I would do without that kid.

And I’m kind of excited that I get to see him in just a week.

It’s All Fun and Games…

Until the weather channel starts talking about wind chill.

Or rather, weather.com in this case. But still – same difference.

I was so ready for winter.

So excited.

So prepared.

And then today it got cold. Like, really cold.

With weather.com reporting wind chills of 15-30 below.

And suddenly, I’m not so excited.

I had to take my car in for a minor repair this morning (nothing I did - I swear!) When I picked it up, the guy handed me the keys to my now frozen vehicle (I definitely get spoiled having a garage) and said “Your tire pressure warning light is on now, but don’t worry – it’s just because it’s so cold out.”

Well gee, thanks. That’s reassuring.

The sad thing was, when I dropped my car off in the morning it really wasn’t that bad. But as the day wore on, I noticed more and more people coming back into the office complaining about how cold it was outside.

So I got online, and that’s when weather.com reported the bad news:

“This coupled with the cold air mass will create wind chills of 15 to 30 degrees below zero across the Anchorage Bowl and Matanuska Valley before winds begin to diminish on Thursday."

Screw you weather.com. Screw you.

When it was finally time for me to venture outside to pick up my car, I swear my pants froze to my leg.

And I know my eyeballs just about froze shut.

My car informed me that it was 13 degrees out.

I called my car a liar.

I got back on weather.com. It was reporting the temperature at 10 degrees, but then right below that it said “Feels like -22 degrees”.

What in the hell is the point of reporting one temperature if it “feels like” something 30 degrees colder than that? Nobody cares what the actual temperature is if it feels like a totally different temp!

I got a text message from a friend saying she had planned on taking her pups for a walk until she got outside and realized they would all freeze to death if she did.

I responded by telling her I had been planning on going to Pilates, but couldn’t now because of how cold it was out.

“Isn’t Pilates indoors?” She queried.

“Shhhhhhhhhhhh” I responded.

The point is, it’s cold out.

Bitter cold.

Ugly cold.

The kind of cold that really takes all the fun out of those new snow clothes of mine.

If you ignore the fact that right now, in this moment, I am actually sitting around my house in my brand new smart wool long underwear and snow pants.

Just because they’re cozy.

And I'm kind of pumped that I finally own snow pants.

But not as pumped as I was yesterday before I realized that I hate winter.

The sun came up at 9:06 this morning. It set at 4:22 this afternoon. Every day for the next month, we will continue to lose about 6 minutes of sun a day. Winter has only just begun, and already we are at the bitter cold stage.

And suddenly, the excitement I had just yesterday as I was ripping open my package of new snow things (all of which I loved except for a jacket clearly 2 sizes too big that will need to be returned – I wanted big enough to fit layers underneath, but wound up with big enough to fit a whole other body into); well, let's just go ahead and acknowledge that that excitement is fading.

I’m ready for summer.

Or at least, for Thanksgiving.

Where those I love in Phoenix are currently experiencing temperatures such as this:

Bastards.

It might be time for me to start rethinking my entire life plan.

Because I’m not entirely sure I’m built for this.

But that whole wind chill nonsense?

It can kick rocks for all I care.

On The Regular

Something strange happened to me today. I found myself thinking about last year’s horrific Thanksgiving flight, and had a moment of panic wondering if Jack would again make an appearance this year while I was mid-air.

Obviously, if he did decide to show, it wouldn’t be nearly as traumatic as it was last year. I haven’t needed anything more than an ibuprofen to cope with the pain of Jack in months, and I’m not dealing with the same emotional turmoil I was last year with that first appearance of blood (and the ever-present reminder that I was bleeding because I was not in fact pregnant – despite all my best efforts just a few weeks prior).

If Jack arrived mid-air this year, I would be fine. It wouldn’t make for the most comfortable flight, but I would be fine.

Still, I’d like to be pre-warned if that’s something I should be expecting.

So this afternoon, when the thought crossed my mind, I pulled out my phone and took a peak at my handy-dandy period tracker.

My period tracker which is projecting Jacks arrival on the 30th of this month.

Two days after I arrive home.

And here is the strange part: I actually believed it.

For the last 8 months, I have averaged a 32 day cycle.

And for the last 8 months, with only 2 exceptions (that new moon induced 34 day cycle a few months ago, and one 36 day cycle shortly after surgery) I have had cycles I could count on.

For 8 months, my body has worked like clockwork.

For the first time in my life.

And even with those two outliers – it is still the most regular I have ever been.

One of the reasons I went on the birth control pill so young in the first place (beyond the sheer volume that Jack was capable of producing in those early years) was because of how completely irregular I was. A 48 day cycle here, a 12 day cycle there – I was all over the place. Never knowing when to count on Jack’s arrival at all.

And nothing was any different when I went off the pill at 25 (after 2 egg donations and the decision on my part to stop doping my body up with hormones – before I ever knew there were any other problems to worry about). At one point I went 3 full months without a period (my first indication that something just was not right). There was no rhyme or reason though. I could typically tell when I was ovulating, but short of that – I had no idea when Jack was coming or going.

Which is why it is such an amazing feeling to know that in this one thing, I can finally count on my body.

It is doing exactly what it is supposed to be doing.

Behaving as a “normal” body should.

Producing Jack on the regular.

And while I still plan on slowing down for his visits, and know in my heart that it will probably never be easy when he is in town – I’ve found myself loathing his arrival less and less.

If only because when he arrives on time again month after month, I can’t help but feel a sense of pride.

Pride in my body for doing what it is supposed to do.

And pride in myself for getting there drug free.

I may not be able to ever get pregnant.

And it’s possible that somewhere down the line, endo is still waiting to take me out once more.

But for the time being, I am choosing to revel in small miracles.

The wins that I myself can claim.

And as silly as it sounds – I’m pretty damn proud of my regular cycle.

If only because, it’s one thing about my body that I can finally count on.

Jack’s arrival.

Every 32 days.

On the regular.

I Gave It All Up For a Pumpkin Cheese Ball

I have been doing so well.

Seriously – a rock star at sticking to the new food restrictions.

Three weeks of perfection.

And then today – I went and blew it.

I gave it all up for a pumpkin cheese ball.

(Courtesy of myrecipes.com)

This last week was the first week I was allowed to start reintroducing things. Peanuts, citrus, walnuts, and clams were on the week 3 reintroduction list. I don’t care about clams even a little bit, so I tossed those off the list immediately. I started with citrus, mostly because I like to cook with lemon juice. So I was sad when almost immediately I realized I was having pain with urination. Which is a fairly common symptom for me when Jack's in town – I’ve always associated it to the inflammation I get during that time, and the endo that I know is on my bladder.

After 3 days of this increased pain, I had no choice but to deduce that citrus really is one of those things I should be avoiding. (For those of you thinking interstitial cystitis though – I know it’s not that. Dr. Cook tested me for that during this last surgery, and I didn’t have any of the markers. This was just regular, run of the mill, inflammation. Brought on by a stupid citrus sensitivity).

Not something I was particularly happy about, but at least I knew. The truth is that if you had told me before I would see a difference from reintroducing any of these foods – I wouldn’t have believed you. So at least now I knew.

The peanuts went off without a hitch though. No additional problems at all. Which I was happy about, because I kind of have a thing for peanut butter.

In the week to come, I was planning on adding in rice and garlic and corn. All essentials in my diet that I have been missing desperately over the last few weeks.

I’m telling you – with all the things on this list of items I was supposed to eliminate, I’ve been eating nothing but fruits, veggies, and plain chicken breasts!

Gluten and chocolate were still another week out from reintroduction, and dairy – well, I knew I was screwed on dairy. Thanksgiving was coming a week before I would technically be allowed to reintroduce dairy. And I’m sorry, but there is just no way I am going home for a holiday and restricting myself on something fairly essential in most normal-people cooking. So I kind of figured that with dairy, I would restrict until then (so that I didn’t confuse any dairy symptoms with something else while I was reintroducing other foods) and then after the first of the year I would do the dairy again for 6 weeks. Which would be easier as long as I wasn’t eliminating everything else at the same time as well.

I’ve been doing so well. And on top of everything else – I’ve managed to drop 5 pounds in these last few weeks. Dipping below a weight I have hovered at but never dipped below for as long as I can remember.

I was a happy girl that day for sure.

Thinking that maybe, just maybe, Dr. Naturopath was on to something when she said that a lot of these foods were contributing to inflammation and water retention for me.

I was doing well. I had a plan. A plan I was comfortable with. A plan I was committed to.

I was doing well.

And today, I gave it all up.

For a pumpkin cheese ball.

I can’t really say where things started to go wrong. It all happened so fast. The Princess Bride was playing at my favorite theater in town. The one that serves beer and wine and food. Food that I have to admit – I have a special soft spot for.

I’ve never actually been there without eating.

But today was a girl’s day. An outing to watch a classic with some of the ladies I love.

I figured I would be fine. I could do this. I could avoid the dishes I love and munch on carrots while my friends all indulged in my favorites.

I could do this.

But then, I made one fatal error.

I looked up the specials online before we left.

And there it was. A pumpkin cheese ball. Sounding exactly like something my life would not be complete without. And only on special for 3 more days.

“I don’t need it” I told myself. “It would ruin the plan” I reasoned. “I can live without it” I commanded.

And the whole drive there, I spoke these words as well. To my friends. To myself. To the universe.

But then… other words started to seep in too. “I am going to let dairy back in again in a week for Thanksgiving anyway” I stated. “This really wouldn’t be that big a deal” I postulated. “I probably won’t have a reaction anyway” I proclaimed.

The next thing I knew, I was ordering a pumpkin cheese ball for the table.

It sounded so good; my friends decided we needed 2.

The sad part of this story?

It really wasn’t that good at all.

Highly disappointing in fact.

But that didn’t stop me from then going on to eat tasty little garlic treats (a favorite of mine – complete with dairy, garlic, tomatoes, and gluten; all still on my no-no list), guacamole (with corn chips – also not cool yet), and an ice cream pie (this was of course shared, but still – self explanatory why I shouldn’t have been indulging; adding in the chocolate just for kicks).

In all, I blew 6 food items today that I was supposed to still be restricting.

All at once.

So if I have any reaction at all – I won’t be able to tell which food caused it.

And I’ll have to go back and restrict them all from the beginning again.

Because there’s this whole thing about the gut needing to be healed before you can reintroduce. Or some nonsense such as that.

I was doing so well.

I had a plan.

And this week, I was going to be able to start reintroducing some big ones. Foods I’d been missing and would really like back in the regular rotation.

Instead, I gave it all up for a pumpkin cheese ball.

And for that, I only feel kind of bad.

Lesson Learned

I like to say that it’s because I have a hard time acknowledging winter has arrived.

That being a California girl at heart, there is a part of me that needs to hang on to the beach mentality as the temperatures begin to drop.

For as long as I possibly can.

The truth is though – it probably comes more down to the fact that I’m lazy.

And that laziness manifests itself as a loathing for shoes.

In part, because I really do like my toes to be out in the open and breathing.

But mostly because I just really hate having to sit down to put on and take off footwear.

And living in Alaska – there is a lot of putting on and taking off. Because you would never want to traipse around someone else’s home (or your own for that matter) in your wet, muddy, snow-covered shoes. And of course, you would also never want to go outside with your toes bare and exposed either.

I say "of course" because most would assume this is logical thinking.

But I never really claimed to be all that tied to logic.

Which is why sometimes, even in the depths of winter, I still insist on wearing flip-flops.

Now don’t get me wrong; in my day to day life I have adopted wonderfully adaptable slip on shoes for the winter months. No fuss, no muss. Slip on, slip off.

Just like a kindergartner I tell you.

If you’ve ever been to Alaska, you have probably observed the fierce loyalty to Dansko’s.

(Courtesy of dansko.com)

Most in the lower 48 would roll their eyes at these beauties and wonder why on earth anyone would ever spend so much money on clogs.

I own 6 pairs.

Although, to be fair – 2 of them are the heels I wear to work:

(Courtesy of dansko.com)

And 2 are the boots that I adore more than any other possession I own:

(Courtesy of dansko.com)

I have this thing about finding shoes I like and then getting them in both black and brown. It’s more of a need really.

Because if I don’t do it, my shoe rack looks uneven and it stresses me out and I will inevitably find myself wishing one day that I had that shoe in (whatever color I failed to get it in).

Adding to the fact that I never claimed to be tied to logic, I also never claimed to be completely mentally stable either.

Alas, with the winter months come the retirement of the Dansko clogs. For being such an Alaskan fad, they pretty much completely lack any tread. And attempting to wear them after there is snow and ice on the ground has landed me on my butt more than once.

So I tend to pull out my much cheaper rocket dogs once winter has arrived. And most days, they get the job done. Really they do.

Except, they are (if at all possible) even uglier than the clogs.

Still, they slip on and off and make my life easy peasy.

So why (why I ask you!) do I still insist on donning flip flops from time to time during the winter months?

Well, it’s easy really.

I’m lazy.

And I like my toes to fly free.

And there is still that part of me that is a California girl at heart.

Or something like that.

The truth is – I only do it when I have no intentions at all of being outside for very long. And even then, only when I (for some reason or another) am also wearing pants that don’t go past the calf.

Like my yoga capris, which to be fair – look hideous with those slip on rocket dogs.

And there is just no way I am taking the time to lace up my tennis shoes or snow boots unless I have some serious intentions of getting physical outdoors.

Which is still something that is a rarity for me once the white stuff hits the ground.

So anyway, when I was heading out the door to Pilates on Tuesday night I stopped at my shoe rack for a second contemplating.

It was cold that day. Like, really cold. The coldest day of winter so far to be sure.

I’m pretty sure I heard we were in the single digits that night.

Yet still, I stood there thinking. Pondering. Wondering if I could pull the flip flops off, if only just to get to and from my car at Pilates.

I’ll give you two guesses what I decided.

Now, this was also after wearing my heels to work in the morning with only the thinnest of nylons for warmth.

Warmth which was quickly eradicated when I stepped out of my car and got all that new snow we had just received right in my shoes.

My toes were already cold.

They had already been exposed to the elements.

And here I was – walking out the door with them bare and showing to the world.

I thought it was fine. I thought I was fine.

Sure they were a little frosty and sore during the foot work at class, but I had only been outside for a few minutes at best.

They just needed to warm up.

Of course, by the time I got home those poor toes of mine were nice and chilled. But I crawled into bed thinking nothing of it. Rubbing them together under my covers until they seemed to warm back to a reasonable temp.

And in the morning, when I realized they were sore as I stuck them into my heels, I still didn’t think much of it.

Except, they remained sore throughout the day. And were sorer still on Thursday.

The soreness has continued, and this morning an itchiness set in (yes, my toes are itchy). Being 99% positive that I don’t have some sort of weird foot fungus (I swear), it finally dawned on me what I had done.

And after a little research, I think I confirmed my diagnosis.

It may sound over dramatic.

But I still don’t think it’s wrong.

I’m pretty sure, I managed to frost bite my toes.

Just the mildest of cases of course. Not anything I’m overly concerned or worried about at all. The skin looks fine, and I have feeling throughout.

They are just the teensiest bit swollen, and sore, and itching with what I can only assume is the healing process.

I suppose that’s what I get for my insistence on wearing flip flops.

In Alaska.

In the winter.

With ice and snow on the ground.

I would love to tell you that my lesson has been learned.

To be fair – it probably has been to some extent.

I’m sure I’ll think twice the next time I stand at my door considering bare toes and those flip flops I adore.

But let’s be honest:

If it’s over 10° and I have only a short distance to go?

Well, I am a California girl at heart after all.

11/11/11

Once upon a time there was a girl. A girl who believed in happily ever afters.

Despite a life that had made her skeptical all the same.

This girl had never been one to dream about her wedding day. Or the dress she would wear. Or the ring that would one day be on her finger.

Those things had always seemed a bit superfluous to her, when all she really cared about was the honeymoon.

And the mister of course.

Whoever he should turn out to be.

It had always been hard for her to picture someone who would stick around forever. A love that would be hers for keeps.

But she still liked to imagine the day when he would one day find her.

And even though the details of walking down the aisle were fodder she never cared much to plan out, the chance to one day say “I Do” to the man of her dreams was still a hope she held close to her heart.

This girl, she picked the date for her wedding long before she found the man.

Years and years (possibly even decades) before he would actually arrive.

In part because she had a thing for numbers, and 11/11/11 seemed like it would hold a special kind of magic no other day could replicate.

And also because, in her mind – 28 seemed like an appropriate age to settle down.

To get married.

And to start a happily ever after.

She talked about this date for years. Always half joking, and half wishing for it to be true.

11/11/11

The day forever would begin.

And from that moment forward, the life and the babies and the dreams come true would all be soon to follow.

As cynical as this girl liked to pretend to be, she couldn’t help but hang her hope on that day. Believing it to be something special. Wanting it to be the day she pledged her love to someone worthy of keeping.

Needless to say, I am not getting married today.

But to be fair – I kind of came to that realization a while ago, so it’s not like it came as a huge shock or surprise.

Not like the mister up and disappeared on the day the I do's were meant to be spoken or anything. I pretty much knew yesterday that today would not be the day I pledged my love to someone else.

A year ago I did not get pregnant on this day either though.

Despite the magic that I wanted to believe 11/11 held.

But I’m OK.

Happy even.

Happier than I ever thought I could be again, that much is for sure.

Still wishing on 11:11.

No matter how silly it may be.

And still waiting patiently for the mister to get his act together.

Although, when he does, I'm thinking more and more that we're going to need to have a good long talk about punctuality before that happily ever after begins.

Because really - that man is taking his sweet ass time.

And I am getting tired of waiting.

In Case You Missed It...

Did anyone catch the moon tonight? I was driving home from work and it literally took my breath away (helped I'm sure by all the new snow we currently have, and the hint of light still poking through from the yet to fade away sun). It was seriously the most beautiful thing I've seen in a while.

I tried to snap a picture, but my point and shoot just couldn't do it justice. A friend of mine from Seattle commented on Facebook about the moon though. And another friend of hers from somewhere else remarked that it was amazing there too, so - did you see it?

Because if you didn't, you might want to pop your head outside and see if it's still that fantastic shade of yellow and so giant in the sky that you almost can't look away.

Not to wax poetic about the moon or anything, but - it was pretty fantastic.

On another note entirely, a friend of mine posted a video on her blog yesterday that was intriguing and scary and sad all at once. All about women and the media and how our portrayals on both screen and print make us feel. Which sounds far more uber-feminist than I tend to be. But I have to admit, this one made me think. If you've got a few spare minutes, you should definitely check it out.

Also, BlogHer has selected a winner from the Facing The World With Confidence campaign CoverGirl ran last month. Yvette Way has already been notified that she won, so if you entered and aren't Yevette - better luck next time!

And finally, for those of you who may have been concerned; Taco Bell turned out not to be necessary.

Holy crap.

Not even kind of necessary.

But that, is all I'm going to say about that.

Who’s Up For a Little TMI?

It’s been a while since I’ve shared too much.

Or at least, I think it has been.

I suppose it depends on what your definition of over-sharing is. And how sensitive you are to reading the details of someone else’s body that you would typically never learn.

One thing I’ve realized though – in the effort to share the details of one’s infertility journey and battle against a disease of the lady bits; it is almost inevitable that you will eventually cross that line.

And being that I am typically an over-sharer anyway, I’m pretty sure I cross that line regularly.

But I think it’s been a while since I’ve gone too far.

Rest assured though, I’m about to cross that line tonight.

Quick side note before I begin: Thank you thank you thank you for all the concern regarding the massive Alaskan storm. There is no need for worry though (at least not for me – I am sure those affected would still greatly appreciate your thoughts!) Alaska is a pretty big state (seriously – you could fit 3 of Texas inside the boarders of AK), so most of the time when you hear about something major happening up here, it’s nowhere near me. There was a massive earthquake a few months ago that was the same thing. It rated over a 7, but was so far away that I never even knew it had happened until someone tweeted me asking if I was OK. Typically, if there is something that’s going to hit me here, they will mention Anchorage in the reports (since we’re the most populated city in the state). If Anchorage isn’t explicitly mentioned though, I’m probably in the clear. As it is, those storms you’ve heard about on the news are hitting way on the other side of the state from me. We may get the tail end of things (in fact, the weather is predicting snow for the next few days), but we won’t get hit with anything like what they got. There are a lot of small villages along the coast that were hit though, so I’m sure any prayers or good vibes you have to send their way would go a long way!

OK, now back to the topic at hand.

Me over-sharing. For about the bazillionth time.

I do want to preface this with one small fact first: I don’t poop.

Period. End of story. No discussion necessary.

Girls don’t poop, and I’m a girl, so therefore – I don’t poop.

That is my story, and I will stick by it until the end of days in the presence of just about any member of the male species. If you ever try to tell them differently about me – I promise I will deny it to my grave.

I don’t poop.

I am shameless about a lot of things, but this is not one of them. My digestive tract and its functions are something I shy away from discussing, alluding to, hinting at, or acknowledging in the company of men (and most other people) at all costs.

There’s actually a funny story about a night when the ex was over at my house and went to use my bathroom only to discover it clogged with a giant turd.

One that I swear – I thought had gone down.

At the time, I was living by myself. There was no roommate to blame. No one but me to take the fall.

And I damn near burst into tears from the embarrassment of it all.

In fact, now that I think about it – that moment was clearly the beginning of the end for the ex and me.

There’s just no recovering from a moment like that.

Which brings me back to my point: I don’t poop.

But that said, I am backed up.

Big time.

It’s been building for a while. A few weeks, or maybe even months. I can't really be sure.

I ignored it at first, because the truth is – I have never had this problem in my life. Everything in that arena has always run pretty smoothly for me. Despite the endo and the scar tissue and the amount of damage done to my insides – I’ve never had a problem getting things moving.

A fact which has actually surprised most doctors. Every time they review my records (or cut me open), that is always the first question they ask me. “Are you pooping OK?”

To which I of course tell them that I don’t poop.

But then I give them the eye and the nod to let them know that all is working fine in that area, and that we shouldn't discuss it any further.

Around the time I started experiencing that massive tiredness though, the old digestive tract started to slow down. It was nothing to be too concerned about at the time, but I did mention it to Dr. Naturopath when I met with her. That, combined with the tiredness, combined with the elevated TSH numbers is one of the things that led to her upping my thyroid medication.

The exhaustion does seem like it’s getting a bit better (although, I am still really struggling in the mornings), but since I cut out all those “bad” foods the tests showed I had sensitivities to – the digestive issue has only gotten worse.

We’re talking crampy, knotted up, rock-hard tummy and an inability to eat anywhere near the amount of food I would typically be putting down.

My diet is cleaner and healthier than it has ever been in my entire life, and yet here I am, unable to do the thing that I swear I never do anyway.

Let me just tell you this – when I was eating dairy and gluten, this was not a problem.

I finally broke down and told Teeny today how bad my stomach was starting to hurt. I had been avoiding really revealing too much, because of the aforementioned aversion to discussing all things poop related. But I could keep this to myself no longer – something needed to get things moving for me.

Turns out that in acupuncture college, Teeny was referred to as the pipe cleaner. No joke. She claims to be skilled at solving these little issues for people.

So she rolled down the sheet and started kneading my belly with her hands.

Making faces at me the entire time and exclaiming “Oh… Oh… Oh yeah, this isn’t good.”

We discussed all the possible causes. It seems too far past this last surgery for it to be scar tissue (and the issue seems like it’s originating pretty high up anyway, where there was work done – but not nearly as much as down lower). The issues definitely started before the big dietary crack-down, but they have no doubt gotten worse since. Theoretically, my diet is incredible right now. But in cutting out gluten entirely, I also cut out a lot of my main sources of fiber (any gluten I ever ate was always whole grains with lots of extra fiber). Now, I am getting apples, and veggies, and beans, and quinoa – but I’m still not sure it’s equal to what I was eating before. Plus, I am eating a lot more meat than I ever have before. Not particularly because I want it, but because my diet is so restricted and I have to be able to eat something that will fill me up. So chicken has been a near daily meal, with turkey turning up in a lot of lunches. For a girl who was a vegetarian for 13 years and then moved on to eating maybe 1-2 meals with meat in them a week – that’s a big shift. If I personally were to put money on it, I would say that that’s the problem.

By the time I was set to go, Teeny was trying to talk me into an enema.

For a girl who refuses to admit to pooping – I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen anytime soon.

So instead we discussed the options between me writhing in pain, and me writhing in poop.

And here I sit – with a castor oil pack on my belly and a cup of smooth move tea in my hands.

Tea that was especially fun to purchase considering I had absolutely no other groceries to pick up.

It basically felt like announcing to the entire store that I’m constipated.

I was hoping against hope that they would also pick up the whole “I don’t poop” vibe from me as I was checking out.

Maybe they thought I was picking up the tea for someone else.

Like a boyfriend. Or a child.

Or a sworn enemy.

The good news is – I stepped on the scale this morning, and backed up or not I was actually weighing in at less than I have weighed in 8 years.

Which was kind of an amazing feeling.

So it would appear as though the cutting out of all those foods Dr. Naturopath thinks may be contributing to inflammation for me was a good thing.

And the new treadmill in my bedroom hasn’t been hurting either.

But still, I can’t help but think that when I was eating the foods that my body actually craves (the cheese, and yogurt, and whole grain breads and pastas, and garlic, and tomatoes, and corn) as opposed to eating solely for sustenance (the spinach, and chicken, and black beans, and beets), whether or not I had pooped today (or yesterday, or the day before, or…) was not something I had to be overly preoccupied with thinking about.

Because again – I don’t poop.

So as I was walking out the door from the clinic tonight, promising Teeny that I would give her pipe clearing methods a try, I turned around and shouted out in one last reply that if this didn’t work: I was going to Taco Bell.

Because I’m pretty darn positive, that would do the trick.

But Baby It’s Cold Outside

That extra snow I asked for just last week?

Well, it's here.

It came in abundance over the weekend.

Coating everything in winter.

And... I'm kind of loving it.

In direct opposition to my "Debt Free By 30" plan, I finally outfitted myself in all the necessary gear for enjoying winter in Alaska (although, to be fair - I shopped some mega sales, wound up saving a ton, and am fairly sure that if I skimp the rest of the month I can still make it in under budget - which will be easier when I am home for Thanksgiving eating my dad’s food and pilfering from his wallet while I'm at it!) I figured that with this being my 4th winter in Alaska - it was probably about time I bought myself a pair of snow pants.

At the very least.

So this winter, there will be no more excuses. When friends ask me to snow-shoe, or snow-machine, or even try my hand at skiing or snowboarding; I'm in.

A fact that greatly distressed the DV when I explained to him my plans last night. Not only because I called it snow-machining (apparently that's an Alaska thing?), but also because he's more than a little concerned about me taking my lack of coordination to the slopes.

He suggested I wear a helmet. Every single time I decide to venture outdoors this winter.

Thanks for that friend. Thanks a lot.

But despite the fact that my new take on winter may result in serious injury or dismemberment - I'm ready.

In fact, I can't wait.

4 winters in, I think I finally have the hang of this. I think I'm actually ready to take on the snow.

But maybe not so much the cold, because I've got to admit - there was a pretty hardy nip in the air today. One that I was not such a huge fan of at all.

Still - while I have always felt at home here in the summers, I think I am finally starting to embrace all that winters have to offer as well.

I haven't even been called a Cheechako (for the record - we're going to go ahead and go with the first definition there, not the second) in a while.

I'm pretty sure I'm a full fledged Alaskan now.

Which is why today, when I spotted 3 different people getting out of their vehicles to help push a car whose wheels were spinning helplessly on the new ice unable to get traction; I was proud to be an Alaskan.

Until I realized that while they were busy pushing, my first thought had been to dig my camera out of my purse and snap a picture.

Oooops.

But baby it’s cold outside…

One Month Later...

And I'm in love.

Seriously.

Addicted.

Hooked.

Happier than I ever expected to be.

With the Shellac that is.

I have nails. Actual nails. My hands, for the first time since I can remember, actually look like a woman's hands. 

Rather than a neurotic pre-teens bitten down nubs.

Of course, I still can't convince myself to delve into any colors. The clear polish works well enough for me. I really just wanted to have nails - I didn't care so much for having bright and fancy hands.

The Shellac served its purpose though. It has kept me from tearing away at my nails and destroying them before they ever even have a chance to grow.

I will admit that it chips faster than I expected it to. I've been going 2 weeks between appointments, but I would probably want to go more like every week if I was using a color. As it is, when it starts to chip I've been painting it over with my own clear polish to keep me from peeling it more between appointments. That seems to work just fine.

I mean, hey - I've got nails! So something is working!

I've never been a girl to engage in the kind of primping and pruning that bi-weekly nail appointments entail, but this is something I'm pretty sure I'm going to keep up.

Because one month later:

I'm pretty much in love with Shellac.

Fix It

There might have been a breakdown yesterday.

An incomprehensible, unexplainable, out of the blue with no rhyme or reason to it at all breakdown.

I still can’t figure out what happened. I’ve been doing so well. Feeling so good.

But yesterday – something hit me and totally took me down.

Hard.

I woke up feeling great. Loving the fact that I had gotten a much needed sleep-in, and looking forward to my appointment with the healer who I hadn’t actually been in to see for a few weeks.

I was more than ready for a good, long, all-about-me massage.

But I swear – the healer tapped into some emotional heart trigger or something, because within just a few hours of that massage; I was a mess.

It’s happened before. I’m fairly sure Teeny has done points on me in the past intentionally trying to get me to let go. Because I admittedly have an issue with bottling things up and moving forward in an attempt to always be “OK”.

Intentionally or not though, the healer definitely got me blubbering.

At least, that’s the only thing I can think of. Because otherwise – there was no trigger. No explanation. No plausible reason for why I would have broken down in such a grand fashion.

I was at a jewelry party a friend was hosting when it hit. With a group of women looking at a bunch of beautiful pieces that I myself would never actually buy (if only because I’m allergic to everything, and anyway – I’ve just never fully embraced a love of jewelry). But everything was fine. I was socializing, and looking around, and trying my best to pretend that I was one of those girls who found any of this interesting at all.

But somewhere in there, the sadness started to seep in. Sadness, and helplessness, and loneliness that I haven’t felt in a while.

There. In a room full of women and friends. A loneliness I couldn’t quite understand at all.

I managed to keep it together until it was time to leave, but I wasn’t more than 2 blocks away before the tears began.

Tears brought on by things I usually try to force myself not to think about. Things set far in the future that I obviously have no way of controlling or knowing at all right now.

This fear that I will always be alone. That I will never have children. Never have someone in my life who loves me, and means it, and stays. This sadness over the state of my life in juxtaposition to that of all my friends.

This dissatisfaction with a life that most days I really am quite happy with.

If only because as happy as I am with it right now – I know it’s not what I want forever.

And yesterday, for whatever reason, I became so afraid that it was a life I would be condemned to living until the end of time.

The single, independent, childless woman forced to watch all her friends finding enduring love and happiness, building their families and embracing that next stage, all while trying to pretend that my life is fabulous and care free and exactly what I always wanted.

Like I said, these are things I don’t normally allow myself to dwell on. I am only 28 after all. I never really saw myself getting married or having children before 30. I always thought I would spend these years untied down. Growing as a person and learning what it was I really wanted out of life before walking down whatever path comes next.

Something about facing the loss of that part of life I always thought would eventually come though… it leaves me sad sometimes now. Wondering what else of the life I once pictured will end up remaining unobtainable for me.

It’s made me more than a little afraid that the life, and love, and happiness I once pictured for myself will be forever out of reach.

Even though none of those things were ever dreams I really pictured having for myself at this point in my life anyway.

It’s funny how sometimes when life kicks you down; it has a way of shaking up all the perspective you once so proudly carried.

But why any of this weighed so heavily on my heart yesterday, I still cannot explain.

All I know is that as I felt myself tumbling, I picked up the phone. Dialing numbers at random looking for someone (anyone) to talk me back down.

And it was, of course, the devirginator who picked up.

As I blubbered out my list of fears/complaints/glimpses of the future (“Everyone who says they love me is always going leave me.” “I’m never going to be a mom.” “I’m never going to be good enough for anyone.” “I’m always going to have to watch everyone I care about have children, and I’ll never be anything more than an auntie to any of them.” “I’m crazy and irrational and no longer even making any sense at all.” – OK, so that last one wasn’t one I acknowledged yesterday, but it’s pretty clear to me now), the devirginator patiently listened. Without laughing or poking fun or even once calling me crazy.

Which is exactly what I was in that moment.

And finally when I was done, I took a deep breath and then I said:

“Fix it.”

Not the first time I have uttered these words to the DV. In fact, I vaguely recall a night somewhere in my twenties when I showed up on his doorstep in tears after a particularly bad breakup muttering that same phrase. And many other moments before and since when I have found myself sinking into the abyss knowing only that for reasons I will never understand, the DV would be able to pull me out.

“I could get all Godly and spiritual right now.” He started. “I could tell you that everything happens for a reason, and that one day you’ll understand why you’ve had to deal with some of the things you have.”

This only made me cry more, as I sputtered out “But I do believe that! I do!” Feeling suddenly the need to somehow prove how much my faith lies in that very theory.

“I know.” He said. “But the truth is… it sucks. It just sucks. What you’ve had to go through sucks. The fact that you can’t have kids sucks. It all sucks. And it’s OK to admit that sometimes.”

I can’t say that my tears instantaneously dried up, because they didn’t, but suddenly – I did feel like I could breathe again. That the band around my chest tightening with each “why am I feeling like this?” thought, suddenly lifted.

We started talking about going home for Thanksgiving. About the hiking, and drinking, and eating we’re going to do in just a few weeks time. And somehow, by the time I got off the phone with the DV, I was calmed.

He had fixed it.

If only by reminding me that – it sucks. And sometimes, it’s OK to acknowledge that. To have a little pity party and cry over what’s been lost. The hurts inflicted by both life, and the people who were supposed to care. And the hopes and dreams that may not ever come to be.

It’s OK to be brought down by that. Even inexplicably and out of the blue.

Just so long as once the tears subside, you’re capable of pulling yourself out of the funk and getting back to living life.

Which is exactly what I did last night. Driving a bit out of town to visit with friends in the process of stripping land they just bought to build their dream home. An endeavor that is currently at the stage burning all the wreckage that has already been removed.

Resulting in a bonfire to end all bonfires.

And wine.

And laughing.

And breathing.

And forgetting.

Because it does suck. And sometimes, you just have to cry about it.

But when the tears have passed, only you can pick yourself back up and keep on living life.

Finding joy in what you do have. What you have been given. The life you are blessed to live.

Even if every once in a while, you have to reach out to someone else. If only to say:

Fix it.

So What if I'm a Sap...

I can't help it.

This song makes me swoon.

Debt Free By 30

I remember a time, which seems so very far in the past now, when my friends and I used to hold on to the belief that we would be financially secure once we reached our 30’s.

Able to buy the clothes we wanted, go out to dinner on whims, and take vacations whenever and wherever we pleased.

That was our idea of financially secure after all.

We assumed that our 20’s would be the time when we would struggle to establish ourselves. Living paycheck to paycheck, scrambling to pay all the bills, and treading water more often than not when it came to financial concerns.

But our 30’s? That would be the time for breathing easy. The point in life when we would be sitting pretty with not a financial care in the world.

Yes, it was naïve.

But in a sense – it was also slightly etched in reality.

So what if our idea of financial security was missing a few key components (I’m pretty sure that never in our fantasies did we ever conceptualize the idea of a savings account utilized solely to build a safety net just in case that security ever waned), but the basic theory wasn’t so far off.

We struggle in our 20's to solidify ourselves as adults and find a way to make ends meet. But I think most of us hope that by our 30's, we'll have more or less figured it out.

Attained whatever idea of "financial security" it is that we each carry around with us in our heads.

And the truth is – most of my friends are still a year or two away from that highly anticipated year 30 mark, but have already achieved their own level of financial security.

With a mixture of what we once dreamed it would be, and a little reality added in for good measure.

Because let's face it - none of them are jetting off to Greece just for kicks.

But my circle of friends are no longer the bunch to live paycheck to paycheck, struggling each month to pay the bills as they come through. They have instead become a group capable not only of planning financially for the future, but also of enjoying the spoils of their hard work in the present.

If there's ever a one in the group concerned about the costs of any given adventure on the horizon - you can almost always bet it's me.

Just to be clear, I am speaking right now mostly of my friends up here in Alaska – where the economy simply did not take the same hit the rest of the lower 48 did. The friends I have in California and elsewhere however, are mostly still steeped in the financial struggles that we always imagined our 20’s would hold for us. For many, it's worse than we ever imagined - with layoffs and college degrees that no longer seem to mean what we once thought they would.

But my friends up here – most of them have entered into that next phase.

There are vacations, and dinners, and money fairly regularly spent without too much concern about adhering to a budget or paying off another bill instead. There are houses, and cars, and savings accounts and 401ks. Kids with college funds and private hockey lessons to boot.

For the most part – those in Alaska who I am blessed to call my friends have made it firmly into the comforts provided to the middle (or even upper-middle) class.

And at 28, I can honestly say that I would be there too.

If it weren’t for the last two years of surgeries, and IVF’s, and endometriosis and infertility and… spending a lot of money on a goal that never was reached.

It added up so fast. Not just the money spent on IVF, but also the money spent on overall health. It gets expensive after all. The supplements, and appointments, and treatments.

And while in the end, all of that has proven to be more than worth it (unlike the fertility treatments, which despite their unfortunate results, I still can’t bring myself to regret), I am still left with a mountain of debt I never imagined having as 30 approached.

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t regret spending any of it. Not a dime. I have found a way to treat endometriosis as naturally as possible, which is something that I truly believe is priceless. And as far as those failed IVF cycles; I never would have known if I hadn’t tried. I needed to try. My future ability to cope with infertility depended on it.

Still, I went from being a girl who carried nary a credit card balance, to one who now holds a maxed out card, a bank line of credit, a loan from the fertility clinic, and a grandmother who I am determined to one day reimburse in full.

Like I said; it all added up. Fast.

And while I diligently make all my monthly payments, and still find myself with money left over to spend or add on to the top, it’s not dissipating nearly as quickly as I would like.

Meaning, I can either continue to slowly chip away at the debt I accumulated in 2 years over the next 10-15 while I try to keep living my life as though that debt doesn’t exist, or – I can buckle down, sacrifice, and put an end to it all before that dreaded year 30 finally comes to pass.

I’ll give you 2 guesses which path I have decided to forge.

Debt free by 30.

That is the goal.

Giving me about a year and a half to find ways to pay off a debt that still (even after a year of payments) totals about a quarter of my annual salary.

Still, I think I can do it.

I’m not going to worry about the debt I carried with me prior to embarking down this path. The car and the house and the student loans – those are all fairly typical burdens that everyone else I know also carries. But the debt I accumulated on the road to health and baby making?

It has to go.

I’ve made a few moves in the last few days to help aid in this goal. Transferring the loan from the clinic to a 0% for 12 months credit card – with the explicit intention of having that completely paid off before those 12 months are up (even though the current loan terms are set to extend out for 2 more years). Tweaking my budget so that I no longer count on the roommate’s monthly rent contribution as income, but rather ignore those funds entirely and instead plug them straight into the debt every month. Learning more about the envelope system, and taking the steps necessary to implement it entirely by January 1, 2012.

I even set up an appointment tomorrow at the bank to review the possibility of refinancing my mortgage. When I bought my place two and a half years ago, it was under a FHA loan. I think now though that I could pull off a conventional loan and shave off a percentage point or more from my current APR.

One thing I am at least proud of is the fact that even in the act of accumulating all that debt, I have always managed to maintain a credit score that should give me a bit of wiggle room when it comes to making changes like that happen.

But we shall see.

I have to admit that more often than not, I tend to look at that debt with shame. I’ve always been responsible with my money. Always been a savvy financial planner. And while I know that every cent I’ve spent on this journey in the last few years was necessary, it’s still hard for me to face how it has affected the bottom line.

How it has altered that financially secure in my 30’s dream.

Which is why it’s time for me to really bite the bullet and do what I need to do to wipe the slate clean.

Why I need to talk about it here in order to remain accountable for my goals and actions.

Because let’s face it, when a friend wants to go out to a fancy dinner or an opportunity to travel comes my way and the money ostensibly seems to be in the bank – I have a hard time saying “no”.

Especially now, when it seems that more and more, those in my inner circle are in the position of being able to say “yes”.

But it’s time. Time for me to get better at watching what I spend. Better at assuring anything I have extra is going into debt payoff, rather than an ever growing list of wants.

It’s time for me to catch up.

And anyway, 30 isn’t that far away.

Besides, I’m a pro when it comes to setting goals and reaching them.

So debt free by 30.

That’s the goal.

And I'm either going to get there through hard work and dedication, or...

I'm going to marry rich.