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In the meantime, please enjoy this little laugh, compliments of the United States Government.



BUSH PRESIDENTIAL LIBRARY DESTROYED BY FLOOD

Crawford, Texas -- A tragic flood this morning destroyed the personal library of President George W. Bush. The flood began in the presidential bathroom where both of the books were kept. Both of his books have been lost. A presidential spokesman said the president was devastated, as he had almost finished coloring the second one. The White House tried to call FEMA, but there was no answer.

Question from a lunatic

Someone please assure me that I have not just decreased my chances of conceiving a child from the IUI I had this afternoon because I was crawling on my hands and knees in my wet, leaf-covered grass at 11 p.m. trying to coax my INDOOR CAT from underneath my back porch. Please tell me that the sudden increase in my blood pressure, heart rate, and anxiety level due to aforementioned cat's escape into the great outdoors did not, in fact, slow the sperm, strangle my egg, or cause the lining of my uterus to disintegrate. And please let me know for sure that this er, cautious behavior is the behavior of a sane, balanced future mother and not one of those nuts who follows her child around 27-7 with a first aid kit and a pillow to cushion potential tumbles. Please, I beg you. Ease my mind.

Things that make me laugh so hard

Tonight's hilarity brought to you by Will and Grace.



Karen to Jack: "Hey mister, I wore my Doc Martens down to the nubs goin' to gay bars lookin' for a date for you! I inhaled so much glitter my boogers look like disco balls!"



I laughed so hard I think I might have pulled something.

Om for the holidays

I'm supposed to be packing for my Thanksgiving trek to points south where I will spend the next three days with my dad's side of the family, but in spite of the piles of clothes strategically placed about my bedroom and the open suitcase on my bed, here I sit talking to "my friends in the computer," as the bloggers say.

Here's the thing--I'm already starting to freak out about Christmas. It's not even Thanksgiving yet, and already the "what the heck am I going to get (fill in the blank) for Christmas?"/"when am I going to put up the tree?"/"maybe I should host Christmas this year..." tape is playing in my head. I'm blaming the commercials. Have you noticed? Every commercial, from department store jingles to new car ads, features some allusion to the red and green holiday. Target may be the worst offender, but Walgreens is the most frightening. Is anyone else disturbed by their series of commercials featuring people walking into their dark back yards plucking wrapping paper and batteries from trees? And the radio stations are adding insult to injury--they've been playing nonstop Christmas music since Saturday. I know, I know, I was listening to Christmas music weeks ago, but not constantly!

And then there are the crafts. You see, my family is crafty. My mom is extraordinarily creative, and she passed that gene to my sisters and me. But there is an aberration in the gene. Inevitably, at least around the holidays, we wait until the last minute to begin the creative process, thereby finding ourselves wide awake at 3 a.m. on Christmas morning making that year's gift du jour. It is not unusual to stumble upon the following scene at my mother's house on Christmas Eve: Mom at the sewing machine surrounded by fabric with pins in her sleeves and the iron on full blast; Charity in front of a canvas covered in paint; Megan huddled on the floor with her bead box open and a pile of magazines and an open jar of decopage glaze in her lap. By this time I've already pulled my all-nighter, or else I have wrapped written descriptions of what I'm going to make for everyone over Christmas vacation, and I'm wandering around from project to project guessing who is making what for whom.

But it's not really any of that. I enjoy all of that. I even like a few of the commercials. My problem is the rapid rate at which the season approaches, and the alarming speed at which it passes. I know the advertising world thinks that by beginning Christmas just after Veteran's Day they are giving us more time to enjoy the season. What they fail to realize is that the moment Christmas officially starts, time warps into supersonic speed. We could begin hanging greens and stringing lights in March, and December would still arrive seemingly without warning. People would still start their Christmas shopping late, the calendar would still be full to overflowing with parties and drop-ins and open houses--and my mom and sisters and I would still stay up until four in the morning making stuff. When are we supposed to truly enjoy the fruits of our labors?

This Christmas season I'm applying what I learned in yoga class to my holiday approach. Taking lots of deep breaths, making slow deliberate movements, staying in one place for as long as I need to stay there. I doubt I can slow time, but I can slow me, and perhaps that's been my problem all along. So happy Thanksgiving, people, and Namaste, and Om, and if you know what's good for you, when those damn Christmas commercials come on, downward facing dog is a nice way to pass the time.

Things that make me laugh so hard

Meet my new favorite comic strip, "Pearls Before Swine," specifically two of the daily strips from last week that made me laugh out loud while waiting for my take-out in a local deli and caused people to stare at me in the way one might stare at...well, a person standing alone at the deli counter laughing out loud.

Read more of "Pearls Before Swine."

Corey update

It's not much. The latest news is that Corey actually lives with his father, who is not a drug addict but who IS homeless. Also, Corey's mother, who IS a drug addict, was not quite 13 when he was born, making her not quite 17 now. Sheesh. Corey's great-aunt and grandmother have discussed options for Corey's care with his father, and he has said he "wants to think about it for a few days." As I mentioned in my "2 things" survey, I have no patience and the unknown frightens me, so while this might seem like a step in the right direction, it makes me nervous and anxious. It's hard not to simultaneously get my hopes up and totally freak out, and since I'm probably having an insemination in the very near future, I can't do what I really want to do (gulp vodka), so I'm doing sun salutations and watching my girl Geena in "A League of Their Own." (Odd, isn't it, how she just seems to be everywhere right before an insemination? I just watched her on an "Ellen" show from last week, and then I stumble upon "League" while channel surfing. Excellent omens.)

Namaste.

The power of 2

I've been tagged by Calliope, and it's a good thing, because I sure as hell can't think of anything witty to write today.

2 names you go by:
Heather
Dee

2 parts of your heritage:
Italian
Scotch-Irish

2 things that scare you:
tornadoes
the unknown

2 things you're wearing right now:
my favorite hoodie
fleece pants

2 of your favorite bands or musical artists (at the moment):
Joan Baez
Jack Johnson

2 favorite songs (at the moment):
Beg to Differ (Patty Larkin)
Little Black Crow (Divine Maggees)

2 things you want in a relationship (other than real love):
sense of humor
patience with me

2 truths:
Rawhide chews are not just for dogs.
I cannot watch a show, movie, or commercial where there are children without dissolving into tears.

2 physical things that appeal to you (in someone else):
curly hair
hands

2 of your favorite hobbies:
reading
taking pictures

2 things you want really badly:
kids
patience

2 places you want to go on vacation:
back to Italy
somewhere where there's clear water and white sand

2 things you want to do before you die:
live in London
be a mom

2 ways that you are stereotypically a chick:
my shoe addiction
my insistence on having painted toenails

2 things you are thinking about now:
why on earth I have allowed myself to get so hungry that I have a headache
why I STILL have not yet eaten

2 stores you shop at:
Target
Eddie Bauer

2* people you would like to see take this quiz:
Megan (Torching Time, Talking Rhymes)
Amanda (For the Byrds)
Trista (An Accident of Hope)
Jen (Addition Problems)

Just so you know, 4 is divisible by 2; hence, I have almost followed the numerical rules of this activity. And just so you know, it's a miracle that I know the mathematical definition of the word "divisible."

Thursday 13

Thirteen Things about hd

1. I have a large, enormous, really big, huge, gigantic crush on Tom Selleck.
2. When I drive by housing developments that have huge brick or stone entrances and archways and gatehouses that are larger than every house I've ever lived in, I become apoplectic with rage. I shout, "Pretentious! Pretentious!" and ask aloud, whether there is anyone in the car with me or not, why it is necessary to spend that much money on such superfluous structures when there are hungry children and homeless people living on American soil.
3. I often ask questions aloud while driving alone, and frequently I respond to my own questions, and I hope that passersby will assume I am singing along to the radio or using a hidden hands-free device to talk on my cell phone.
4. I knew in the 10th grade that I wanted to be an English teacher when I grew up.
5. I got stood up on Wednesday night for the first time in my life. My friend Linda entered our monthly dinner date on the wrong day in her PalmPilot (I know this now), and when I called after waiting for 45 minutes she wasn't home, so I ordered anyway and read my book and sipped tea, and it was all good.
6. I have never seen Gene Wilder's "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory," but the recent Tim Burton interpretation with Johnny Depp is FANTASTIC. When it was over I wanted to push "play" and watch it all over again.
7. I am terrified beyond all reason of tornadoes.
8. My friend Joy recently heard the Dalai Lama speak in Washington, DC. (I realize this isn't about me, but I think it's a pretty damn impressive experience to be in the same room with the Dalai Lama, so I felt it deserved recognition.)
9. I can do the full Upward Bow yoga asana, but whenever I'm in the pose all I can think is, "What if my arms give out and I fall to the ground? Will my neck snap? Oh my god, what if it does? I have to get out of this pose right now."
10. I have small scars on my left eyelid, on my left eyebrow, and on the left side of my nose from a dog bite I got when I was four. I was trying to make the dog sit down by standing in front of it, putting my hands around its neck, and pressing on it's butt with my hands. It didn't wanna, so it lunged and bit me in the face. It was old and mostly blind, and I think I screamed, but mostly what I remember about that day is sitting on my screaming mother's lap watching the washcloth she was holding on my eye turn bright red. (There are A LOT of blood vessels in the face.)
11. I have a larger scar on my right cheek from a Big Wheel accident that occurred when I was around seven. I had been bathed, dressed, coiffed, braided, and polished for professional portraits and was told I could not, under any circumstances, step off of the front porch while my mom showered. My neighbors, all boys, were riding their Big Wheels down the gravel hill in front of our house, and they convinced me that I could take one spin down the hill before my mom finished showering. Spin indeed. I hit a big rock halfway down and my Big Wheel and I parted ways. I finished the ride face first in the gravel. I got spanked, grounded from my beloved Batman Big Wheel, AND I still had to have my picture taken.
12. In a pinch, say, on a really busy morning when I'm running late, if given the choice between wearing a shirt that needs to be ironed and a shirt that has been in the dirty clothes basket, I will wear the dirty shirt. Okay, okay, I would do this on a normal morning. But not if the shirt is REALLY dirty, and not if it is wrinkled, because that would just defeat the purpose of wearing a dirty shirt.
13. I do not frequently wear dirty clothes. Just so you know.
    

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A mighty wind

Yesterday I--

It has been--

Let me start by saying--

See, now this is why I haven't posted in a week. It's been a very full week. I am not sure where to begin, and mostly I'm not sure I've processed everything the week has been full of, so I've avoided the blog. That is, until yesterday, when I received a comment from Jen on last week's windy Thursday post claiming that the wind must have been so strong that it "blew away all of your words." My, but I do love a smartass.

Let's see if I can give you a brief recap. On Wednesday when I called my doctor to report that, no, I wasn't pregnant, and yes, I was quite positive a new cycle had begun, I told the nurse on duty about the cramps I'd been having since six days past ovulation. Yes, that's right--for over a week before I started my period I had mostly dull but sometimes pinching abdominal cramps. I was convinced they were the result of implantation and all that follows, but alas, no. The nurse scheduled me for an exam on Friday with my regular doctor to make sure my ovaries weren't being invaded by cysts. My appointment was at 4:15; at 4:30 the triage nurse took me to an examining room, gave me the stunning exam ensemble, and told me the doctor would be right in; at 5:00 I was still waiting. Did I mention I was only THREE DAYS INTO A NEW CYCLE? I've never been more uncomfortable on an examination table. While I waited for him I stared at picture after picture of the babies he's delivered in the past year, neatly tacked or taped to a giant bulletin board next to the exam table, while listening to what sounded like a giant bird ruffling its wings coming from the air duct overhead. When he finally arrived at 5:15, apologizing profusely for making me wait so long, he did the exam (oh, the humiliation!) and pronounced my ovaries "normal" in spite of the fact that I'd been having freaky pinching pain on my left side all day. I think my ovaries might have some sort of psychosomatic disorder.

In the days preceding my doctor visit I had been worried about my ability, or lack thereof, to reproduce since try #5 yielded no positive results, and I know the worry is not good for me. It's getting old. So I made the decision that after try #6 I'm taking a break until the spring. I said as much to my doctor, and he was supportive but told me he hoped I wouldn't have to "pull a Ross and Rachel." I asked him if he would mind performing my next insemination in the back of an El Camino, with me stoned or drunk and wearing fishnet stockings and a tube top since that seems to work for a lot of the girls I teach. Without cracking a smile he said, "Does it have to be an El Camino? Because I think a Chevy truck and a turkey baster make a nice combination." I do love my doctor.

He sent me on my way with a prescription for Clomid, and while part of me does not want to publicly announce the details of my next insemination, because I am trying really hard not to worry and obsess, I will tell you (as if you could not figure it out on your own) that it should be around next Monday or Tuesday. Your good vibes and positive energy and prayers are appreciated. I'll let you know if the rabbit dies. Otherwise, we will not speak of this again. Amen.

~

The weekend progressed uneventfully, and on Monday morning I began my new twice-weekly 6 a.m. exercise regiment. Yes, that's right, I am actually getting up at the ass crack of dawn and hauling myself to the gym. Amazingly enough, I've enjoyed this new routine so far, and I have not been a total zombie on the elliptical machine, and I've gotten to work even earlier than usual. Oh, and MY BODY HURTS.

~

And now for the biggest, scariest news of all. On Monday while Gayle was doing some work at her church, the secretary, who is a good friend of hers (we'll call her J.), told her the story of a small boy named Corey. It seems that four years ago, J.'s sister's son got a 14 year-old girl pregnant. He was 19 at the time and did not marry her, nor did he play much of a role in the child's life. He has since married and had a daughter with his new wife; the girl he impregnated has since become a crack addict* (like her own mother) and often leaves her now four year-old son with J.'s sister (his paternal grandmother), or J. herself, for days and weeks at a time. He is skittish and timid. He will not get out of bed or up from the dinner table until he is told to do so, even if it means lying awake for hours or wetting himself, so afraid is he of getting into trouble. He has never been to the dentist, and only recently went for his first checkup since age 6 weeks. His father and step-mother do not want him. His mother and maternal grandmother do not take care of him. His paternal grandparents can't take care of him. So J. and her sister have decided that Corey needs a new family. And that new family might be me.

I said here on this very blog that I could never be a foster parent, and I still believe this to be true about myself. If he comes to live here with me it will be for keeps; J. is aware of this and agrees, and she is gathering information and asking all the right questions of all the right people in an effort to make this a reality. Surreal, isn't it? I could be the mother of a 4 year-old this time next week, or at least on the path to motherhood, and the really crazy part is that it feels like the right place to be. When Gayle called to report J.'s story something shifted inside of me, and it wasn't that place that longs to bear a child--that place is still intact, and I won't stop trying. It was something altogether different, and I couldn't explain it if I tried.

I mentioned a few weeks ago that thanks to Joy I am now receiving a daily message from The Universe in my email box. Last Tuesday, when I was still convinced I might be pregnant, The Universe said, "True, not everyone is 'meant to' have their own. For many, even dreaming of such things is virtually impossible. Fortunately, you're not one of those people. Prepare the way." At the time I thought, "yes, this is it, I AM pregnant!" But I wasn't. Then the call came about Corey. Today this message came from The Universe: "H., is it my imagination, or are you being 'tugged at'? You know, by those feelings that tell you either to 'have at it,' with the zeal of a lion... or to finally turn the page - the entire page - not just dog-ear it. You know, 'tugged at'? I thought so. Well then, may I suggest you act on it, as if nothing else mattered?" Whoa.

Just so you know, I don't believe in coincidence. I'm taking a deep breath...I think the winds are changing.

*Corey is NOT a crack baby. As far as we know he is as healthy as he can be under the circumstances.

Not a good day for people with hair

The Weather Channel warned this morning that a front was "blowing in" and that there might be occasional gusty wind in my area. Occasional my ass! The "gusts" are constant, cold blasts of gale force winds that no hairspray or styling gel can combat, so that 20 minutes I spent trying to disguise the fact that I should have gotten a trim two weeks ago was for naught! They still won't let me park my car next to my classroom and crawl in through the window, AND I have an outside duty before the first bell rings, so I'm sporting the rock star look today. And not the cool, sleek rock star look of, say, Madonna, or even Melissa Etheridge with her gorgeous newly grown spikes. It's more a shorter Keith Richards/Mick Jagger/eighties metal thing, and I'll tell you, it's not good.

But it doesn't stop there. The humidity in my building is 98%. I guess I should be thankful, as I can already feel my Mick Jagger hair falling under the weight of the moisture. I just hope it doesn't collapse into some sort of Donald Trump comb-over formation. But there are bigger problems than my hair at hand. The air is heavy and warm, and the faint smell of mildew in the halls will soon be mixed with the odor of sweaty adolescent boys and the overwhelming scent of the awful cologne they will pour on themselves in an attempt to get rid of the other smells. Come to think of it, it's not really a good day for noses, either.

Thirteen Things about hd I am so thoroughly under the influence of Aleve at this moment that I would not be surprised if the next 12 things I tell you about myself are a)extremely repetitive, b)painfully dull, or c)written in tongues. Sometimes I buy a tub of Duncan Heinz chocolate icing and put it in my refrigerator and eat a spoonful of it once a day until it is all gone, and it is WAY better than ice cream. I am so exhilarated after watching "Commander in Chief" on Tuesday nights that I have trouble falling asleep. I want to live in Mackenzie Allen's America. Actually, I want to be a part of her staff. I, like my sister, am a geek. Although I am less of a closet geek than she is. My geekiness is more obvious. I think she is way cooler than I am. I have to go back into the house at least once every morning after I have already gotten into and started my car because I have either forgotten something or can't remember if I turned off the stove. When I get a new e-mail message, Matt Leblanc's voice says, "Nice lookin' mail," and I just got a new message, and the sound of Joey speaking from my computer scared me so badly I almost dropped the laptop on the cat. When I visited my grandparents as a child I always slept on a pallet my grandmother made for me on the floor right next to her side of the bed, and I can still see in my mind the orange and yellow flowered sheets and the brown fleece blanket, and I can feel the cool of the fabric on my feet, and to this day I won't sleep on a pallet in the floor because no other pallet can ever compare to that one. I would really like a Bailey's Irish Creme on the rocks, or a Crown and Coke, but since it's been so long since I drank liquor, and since I am currently on drugs (see #1), I am afraid I would still be drunk tomorrow, and they frown upon that in the public schools. Sometimes if my animals are sleeping very deeply and they look like they are not breathing I will poke them to make sure they are still alive, and they will open their eyes sleepily and look at me like, "Woman, can't you SEE I'm sleeping here?" Note to self: must overcome this neurosis before birthing a child. I am allergic to cats, but I am not allergic to my cat, and no one knows why. I secretly worry about my mom. Every time a new Harry Potter book is released I re-read the entire series leading up to the newest volume, and every time a new HP movie is released I re-read the book on which the movie is based and re-watch the other movies marathon-style before going to the theater to see it. See, I told you I was a geek. If you picked "b" on #1 you are tonight's winner. I am painfully dull. Tongues would have been much better.

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Not pregnant.

Because I told Calliope I would...

...a poem about my grandfather

Russell Square

The song playing on the country radio station
was "Drivin' My Life Away" by Eddie Rabbit.
It was raining hard, like in the song,
and we were buying day-old hot dog buns
at the Wonder Bread Bakery Outlet
across from the Woodrow Wilson duck pond. I sat
in the middle of the truck seat, close as I could
get to your denim jacket and Old Spice,
and you stroked my bare arm with your thumb
to the windshield-wiper cadence of the music.

I don't remember the season, my age,
or if you had already lost the borrowed kidney
that would be your end--just the comfort
of my small frame against your presence,
and the sound of your whistling, and nothing
in particular filling up our days. If I could
I'd go back there to the red truck and rain
and resting my head on your arm--back to ordinary,
everyday, before I grew too tall to sit on your lap--
before your lap became a place in my memory.

I still see you sometimes when I stop
to mind the details of my life: you come
while I am moving soil into the garden,
mailing letters, making grocery lists,
mowing the grass--and once I even saw you
walking away from the tube station
at Russell Square. You met my stare
and smiled, then someone walked between us;
when I found you again you were headed for the bakery,
whistling an old country song in the London rain.

1999

Sweet Charity

Today is my sister Charity's 20th birthday. TWENTY. I'm not sure which is more unbelieveable--the fact that she's two decades old, or the fact that I can clearly remember things that happened two decades ago. She fulfilled my life's greatest wish--to have a sister--and she's been fulfilling that wish since. There is no one on earth like her, and for that I am sorry for the rest of you. She is beautiful and smart and funny as hell, and I raise my glass to her today.

Charity, c. 1987

What does your music say about you?

I listened to this on the way to work today. It might seem odd, but as soon as the first note of the first song began to play I knew it was a good move. Now if only the weather would cooperate....

What are you listening to?

DUDE!

Did you ever have one of those really nutty history teachers in high school--the kind who got just a little too excited about the subject matter, the kind who showed up the first day of the Civil War unit dressed as Abe Lincoln and stood and talked like Abe Lincoln all day long, the kind who, in your senior year, dyed his dark brown hair blonde and started hanging out with a former student and wearing ripped jeans and chains? Ever have one of those?

Neither did I. My history teacher was a 50 year-old single lady who wore her hair in a bun, pinned a butterfly broach to her collar every day, lived with her mom, and looked exactly the same in 1992 as she had in 1958 when she graduated from the high school from which she eventually retired. But the man described above taught next door, and he was all of that and more. He was so exhilarated by United States history that he practically buzzed--twitched--with energy each time a bell sounded to begin class. Friends who had him said they never knew what he might do during a lecture: leap onto his desk and then hurl himself off again to depict those who leapt to their deaths the day the stock market crashed; run from the room and not return for several minutes; cry. Outside the classroom he was equally unpredictable. I knew him because I was a TA during his planning period, so I often ran into him in the office or the library, and he was always friendly, perhaps a little too much so. He never simply said "hello" to me; instead he bowed dramatically, spoke in a wacky accent, or shook my hand. Of course, he was this way with everyone. It wasn't unusual for someone in my circle of friends to utter, "Mr. W. is insane. Do you think he's on something?"

Turns out he was. CRACK! That's right, crack. The history teacher was a crack addict. Hand on my heart, I am not making this up, not one single word. And do you know what the sad thing is? I didn't even blink when I heard. I probably even said something along the lines of, "Oh. Well yeah, sure he is. It makes perfect sense." Actually, the truly sad thing is that THE HISTORY TEACHER WAS A CRACK ADDICT, and I wouldn't be surprised if there were more out there like him--poor souls who love what they teach but can't deal with the bureaucracy and red tape that comes with the job, not to mention the "I really couldn't give two shits" attitude so many students have these days. It's a wonder we're not all on crack! I for one will be looking at my colleagues in a whole new light tomorrow.

I know I am but what are you?

A friend and co-worker asked me this afternoon if I felt as bad as I looked. What, I ask you, are you supposed to say to a question like that? The truth is, I don't feel well, but I wasn't aware I was sporting the death-warmed-over look today. Sure, my hair is getting a little shaggy on top thanks to its superhuman growth rate, compliments of prenatal vitamins. And yes, there is that giant zit on my cheek that refuses to be concealed. But I didn't skulk from the house this morning thinking, "God, I wish I had a Scream mask." Her concern for my health and well-being was lost in my reaction to her observation of my appearance. It's hard to say, "Yeah, thanks for asking. I'm feeling sort of droopy," when all you can think is, "Uh! That's so mean. What do you mean I look bad?" I'm going home to my animals, who are happy to see me even first thing in the morning when I appear to have been electrocuted during the night, and to my Reece's Egg-Pumpkin, because chocolate does not discriminate.