Though the snow has hampered actual visits, I have of course been continuing to think about how to remake the house to be gorgeous on a modest budget. In that search, I found this fascinating venue. Anybody out Baltimore way interested in architectural salvage? Another infertile gal (whose identity is secret from the internets! Hahahahaha!) and I are planning to go, so drop me a line if you want to join in.
Also, I have to share something important with all of you. My love affair with Weird Al's parodies began when I was but a wee teen and heard "Trigger Happy" for the first time. So I arrived at the scene late - I think I was still a toddler when his first album came out. So sue me. Anyway, it seems obvious to me that the man is a genius; at minimum, extremely gifted. As far back as I can remember, the morally upright thing for extremely gifted people to do was get very high marks in math class and do their homework religiously. As an adult, and particularly an adult who has had her notions of vocation and life plan called into unexpected question, I find it fascinating that people find such very varied things to do with their, in many cases, considerable gifts.
Clearly, in this master-work, Mr. Yankovic has shared something of particular value to the infertile community. While the first verse is heavily scatological and might be something you don't want to hear for the first time in mixed company, I think he encapsulates in verse an experience that resonates with many of us. Elsewhere, he touches on unorthodox marital and procreative arrangements, and there, too, my heart was warmed. I suppose that "Alabama" fit his syllabic requirements better than "West Virginia" would have done, so I can forgive the cultural inaccuracy.
Other than my consumption of this and similar artistic triumphs, I have been enjoying homemade hot cocoa, doing the odd bit of shoveling, inhabiting my couch, reading library books, and pondering the subject of paint colors (ever the meditations on my house - no offer yet, though I have lately renewed my commitment to the tan house, and in particular to its location, for reasons I would probably find hard to explain).
I will not defile this space with comments about how I managed to have a twenty-two day cycle on the tamoxifen. The reason I couldn't figure out when peak day was was because it evidently was on day eight - yes, the day after I took my last tamoxifen pill. Since I'm not taking any medicine this cycle, it's looking strongly as though day seven will be peak day. I know that perimenopause brings shortened periods, but I was not under the impression that they shortened instantly and by half. I also wasn't aware that the laparotomy to remove the adhesions could bring on perimenopause that was not previously in evidence, but the entire infertility journey for me has been one of discovering never-mentioned side effects only after they have become irreversible and dire, so this would really be nothing out of the ordinary. Fortunately, however, I am not going to discuss any of that.
I will, however, accept prayers for my half-siblings. The sane(r) members of my family have discussed attempting to intervene in the inevitable custody proceedings, but we can't even come up with a good outcome to lobby for. In ten years when they are promiscuous and involved with illegal drugs, I am going to cry, because I knew it would happen; and I know what will happen now, and I want to head it off, and I don't have a single idea what to do. I think these kids would actually be better off if both parents were hit by a mack truck tomorrow. God forgive me, but I do.