I slowly and silently peek my head around the corner. Damn! Still there. No amount of wishing, hoping, and praying is making THEM disappear. My stomach rolls at the thought of Them waiting for me. My already pallid color slips a little closer to being a true green. This must be another test the gods have placed before me. My dog looks on in sorrow. She is silently working on an epitaph that can do my woes justice at my pyre. I take a deep breath, grind my teeth together in determination, and stepped into the kitchen. They were still waiting for me. Silence reigned the house. Gazes locked in a fierce battle of wills. I would win! I would be victorious. Cue Chariots of Fire as I reached out in agonizingly slow motion and gripped Them firmly. I wrenched the cap off the bottle. I shook out one horse sized prenatal vitamin and I swallowed it. Dry! I am woman! Rawr!

Twenty minutes later the dog is consoling me as I heave my guts out in the toilet. Again. I shall be victorious tomorrow.
-e

I find myself embarking on another one of life’s little excursions. After being married for nearly five years, my husband and I decided that we should try for children. Ah, the wonders of inflicting the world with our progeny. I had little visions of piano lessons starting at age three, violin lessons ate age four (some start at three but I would prefer the hands to develop more strength first), a first solo concert consisting of all self-composed music, maybe even a Scriabin worthy opus by age six. Age seven would be just about right for my little prodigy to compose his/her first Latin Mass. There was no question that music would become as important as breathing. There will also be a strong understanding of literature and visual arts as well. As you can see, there was a lot of thought put into this.

We learnt something extremely important that both of us had been ignorant about. There are two types of women out there. The first is the woman who seems to be able to get pregnant merely by doing something as banal as talking about it. Then there are those that may equate the experience as being something kindred to blindly shooting an arrow at an unknown target and hoping you ‘might get lucky.’ Guess what one of ‘those’ women I happen to be.

To save you the relative ennui of a long story I’ll sum it all up by saying twelve months, many ovulation kits, and quite a few pregnancy tests later, I had a positive result. After I called every person that would answer their phone and watching my husband nearly faint pass out from the mortification, terror, panic excitement, we realized another problem. We concentrated so hard on getting pregnant that we were clueless bout what came next. I know that sound terribly immature and not very responsible but please understand that the doctor had been telling me that my chances of conceiving a child was very slim. Naturally that was where all my concentration went.

So a trip to the book store and a significant amount of money later I (my husband) lugged my new treasure trove of books home and much reading ensued. I read, he looked for updates on Diablo III “because when the doc puts me on bed rest I may get board” or something like that. The books told me what I already know- I was going to get sick, I was going to be tired, et cetera. What the failed to say was that there is no morning sickness. Haha. No. No no no. There was “Morning, Noon, and Night sickness. There was no feeling a little tired. No. Sweet god, no. It was an I-can’t-drag-myself-out-of-bed-before-noon kind of fatigue.

I may also have to admit to developing somewhat of a despotic nature to my personality, but I really have not gone so far as to be considered pugnacious. My husband agrees purely because he hasn’t the energy to argue semantics.

I thought it would be wonderful for him to take one of my prenatal vitamins. I thought it would be joyfully educational for him to experience the same heartburn and nausea. I envisioned him bonding with me as we both heaved our guts out. Can you believe he won’t take one? Says he’s worried about who will hold my hair if he is so indisposed. On the plus side he agreed to suffer through decaf coffee with me. He’s twitchy but no worse for the ware.

These lovely books describe the wonders ginger tea, or even sugared ginger will do for ones nausea. I pose this question- Is it worrying if I bypass all the “fluff” and just gnaw on a piece of ginger root? I’m only in my first trimester ladies (and men), the fun has just begun. I’ll update when I can pull my head out of the toilet for a nominal amount of time.

I would love to hear your cures, advice, suggestions, and stories.
Thank god for fanfiction- Its keeping me sane!

Hugs to my loves -e

(Ishca, Nola, and whoever else, I'll have the next chapter up Saturday- sorry for the wait!)

So…My hubby informs me that we may be moving to Japan in 6 months. I squealed so loud he had to wait for his ears to stop ringing to finish the conversation. It’s ambiguous. We’ll know the day before we need to be there most likely. This had better work out! I have my heart set on it. There are so many things I would love to do over there! I have family that hasn’t been seen in over 40 years (my aunt visited with her brother on a business trip and refused to come home), friends I would love to visit, sights I would love to see, and musicians/actors I would love to stalk see.

Anyways, I’ll update with more info when I know. *bounces around with a grin that would do the Cheshire cat proud*

*headdesk*
Writer's block. I've contracted writer's block. Is there a chocolate flavored miracle cure?
*sniffles*

 I gave my dog a bath today. I'm the one that ended belly up on the lawn covered in doggie shampoo. I lay there looking up into the sky as a happy not-so-wet husky slowly smothered me to death. I though about being a kid again, and how much I would have enjoyed rolling around outside making eucalyptus smelling mud in the green grass. I was saddened by the fact that my first thoughts were how much work this mess was going to be to clean up, and that I would have to do laundry. When I was little I would have added more water and hollered for my sister to come join the mess. 

In a laps of mental control and a fit of nostalgia, I scooped up a big mud ball (infused with eucalyptus extract and lemongrass) and smacked it right on top of my puppy's head. She grinned lovingly at me in that glassy-eyed, pleased-beyond-all-measures way that only a devoted companion can- glops of mud and all. The neighbor kid was staring at us doing the best impression of his darling little goldfish he dubbed Snuggles (I like this kid). 

"Miss E! Miss E! Grownups aren't supposed to do that," the little dear said. I couldn't tell if he was castigating me or tiring to convince himself. In the end he settled for a pout. 

I'm not? Wait?!? I'm a grown up? Well crap...when did that happen? 

The grim and horrifying moment was soon saved as the hairy beast (that being my husky) that had been rolling on top of me as if I were some horrible offending odor that she wanted to bring in the house with her. She (said hairy beast) did a flying tackle and wrestled the goldfish boy to the quickly forming bog. We were laughing so hard I might have torn something. All was cut short by a "WHAT do you think you are doing!?" 

It was asked like a question, but having a mother myself, I knew the tone was not asking for an answer. In fact..to answer meant death. It was silent for a good three heartbeats in which I had the time to mentally wonder if my sister would care for my animals after my eminent demise. At the end of the third heartbeat she turned the hose on full blast and informed us that we needed more water.

When all was said and done, three people walked away smelling like eucalyptus (and lemongrass) and the dog came out no more, and no less dirty than when I started. Meaning...I still need to giver her a bath. 

After I do laundry.
Hugs to my loves- e

Why can't I do what I was trained to do? I worked so hard with my music. My piano. My saxophones. My oboe. My flute. My Theremin. My violin. My composing. I feel like someone cut my fingers off. It feels so futile. What good is a woman who has stacks and stacks of music that will never be performed? Never be played. I finished a catholic mass. It’s beautiful. But I'll never hear it. Hard to pull a children’s choir out of my back pocket. I'm working on a full orchestral piece now. It will never be performed either...I can't afford to hire an orchestra. 

I don't mean to be all doom and gloom. I'm just fighting a one sided battle with otosclerosis I started losing my hearing in my teens. Now I’m 25 and have to read lips to ‘hear.’ I was a member of various ensembles in college. I remember one of the community sponcors critisized the orchestera director about my being on stage shoeless. Everyone in their tuxes and beautiful dresses and there I was having to play barefooted to better feel the vibrations. The man didn’t care how talented I was. He didn’t like my look. The director and the conductor refused to replace me in the orchestra so the jack ass withdrew his support. I locked myself in my practice room with a crappy upright for three days.

What will I do when I can no longer hear my piano? When I can’t compose for myself who will I compose for?My family wants me to forget music. My mother wants my to publish my writing. My father wants me to continue with my painting. I enjoy doing both but its not music. *sigh*

I’ve got the blahs. I think I need a hug. Hugs to my loves -e

Someone asked me what my favorite color was. When I fondly and wistfully confided my not-so-secret affection for the color orange, I was told that I had made a nonsensical choice that was ‘devoid of competent thought.’ The BASTARD!!! Orange has been my favorite color since grade school. Of Course its lacing ‘competent though,’ I was six when I decided that I liked it. And I stuck with it. He asked me what my next favorite color was and I boldly told him grey.

Well…That apparently was even more ‘devoid of competent thought’- grey not being a color and all.

I can’t win!

So, from here on out, I will not-so secretly continue with my obviously wrong lustful passion for orange, but when asked the dreaded- WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE COLOR?- question from hell. My only response will have to be Burnt Sienna!

Burnt Sienna!

So…Take that. Kiss my ass because I don’t care!!!

Ok. Wow. I made it through the various holidays in one piece. It was close. I almost threw my hands in the air and said ‘to hell with it all.’ I didn’t, though. Nope, I held together. It’s my first year so far away from my family (they are in OR I’m in SC). My husband was at work like 24-7 and I was single handedly trying to hold desperately onto Christmas cheer. Eventually that cheer had to be pounced on, hog-tied, and forcibly held hostage. What was once a sweet and simplistic smile on my face soon became replaced with a maniacal gleam.

I tried everything. I baked cookies- only to find out that my oven is possessed. No! Really, it is. It’s not an ill intended possession, nor a sad haunting kind of thing. He (it just feels like a he) just flits around here and there occasionally poking his nose into things. Anyways, he’s an acquired taste. I really think he livens things up. Well, he was trying to help with the whole holiday mood and our ideas seemed to clash. I was baking chocolate chip cookies. I thought that that would make the house smell nice, ne? Nope! He wasn’t having any of it. We had a temperature war. I’d set the oven for 350 and he’d turn it off. I’d set it back then he’d turn it to broil. What the hell!?! So I lost the chocolate chip cookies. Turns out he wanted ginger snaps. So I made ginger snaps and he was at least a little bit helpful (as in he stopped throwing flour around the kitchen and left the oven alone).

Next step was decorations, right? So I set up my fake tree and did a nice red and gold motif. I was proud that I pulled it off myself and it didn’t look like a three year old did it. I left the living room to string up lights outside. I’m on a step ladder half way through a strand when I hear this god-awful crash coming from in the house. I immediately yell at my dog who whined in indignation under my feet. She was outside with me. I got inside and what did I see? All my ornaments back in their boxes safe and sound. The tree on the other hand… The tree didn’t fair so well. My specter had trashed it. Ripped it to shreds. A fake tree wasn’t good enough for him. He wanted the real deal.

Two days and a real tree later I could be found back outside with my dog trying to finish the lights when I could hear banging coming from the general vicinity of my kitchen. I climb down the latter thinking ‘what have I done to tick him off this time.’ I get inside my kitchen were he was throwing pots and pans to the floor. I yell “what do you think your doing!!” It should be noted that I have never had cause to fear from him and have felt nothing be affection and the often mild irritation. All noise ceased instantly, which surprised me. Really, he never minded me before. Right then my cell phone (that was on the kitchen counter) rang and it was my mother. She told me that my grandmother was rushed to the hospital because her kidneys shut down and she was fighting a severe infection because of it. I couldn’t do anything. Just sit by the phone for updates. My husband found me that night crying on the couch clutching the phone in a death grip.

Mom spent Christmas in the hospital with my grand mother. She’s going to be alright now. They are just worried about her infection returning. My dead (I think he’s dead…he could have always been like this, I guess) house guest was nice and cleaned my kitchen for me and was on absolute best behavior all the way to new years. He loves fire works. He kept us up all night long flicking through the different channels watching balls drop (don’t be perverted) and firework displays.

I made it though the holidays. I just had to have a little help. I hope all of you are doing great! Hugs to my loves –e

P.S. I am not crazy. Really! You don’t have to believe me. Some of you might understand. My husband ignores our guest. His opinion is if he doesn’t acknowledge it than it isn’t there. (It’s not working)

Hummm. So I thought that I should sit down and type out a new update-post-thingie like the diligent and dedicated person that I am not. Right. I worked an hour on the damn thingie. Well, I lost it during my spelling corrections. I’m very dyslexic and have a tendency to flub up the simplest phrase and/or word. Words that an eight year old would (and have) correct me on. 

Horse = esroh or sometimes Horse = hroes
It looks right to me. I can read it. I fail to see why others can not. I’m slightly scarred tormented, agitated, boggled, exasperated, distraught, and unbalanced from years and years of teachers telling me that I just didn’t ‘apply my self fully.’ Senior year in high school someone finely said ‘lets test you and see if you’re dyslexic, shall we?’ Guess what folks…I am. The test says 'yes she is' but what is the point when it doesn’t say what to do about it? Any one out there know? Anyone? Is there some miracle food I should eat? Should I hop in a circle clockwise every time some one sneezes? Leave a bowl of cream* outside my window during the new moon? Any answers?
 

 Sorry, I lost my point. 
 So yeah, I lost my original post. I’d like to say that this is the first time to have flubbed up but I have...once or twice more times than I have fingers and tows. I had originally written something about me writing a Catholic mass** (see profile about music degree) It’s sounding quite lovely. Even if my Kyrie sometimes is spelt Eiryk or my Agnus Dei sometimes reads Ied Sunga. I assure you that I am professional enough to have corrected all errors BRFORE my work makes it to the publishers. My other hurdle is otosclerosis. What?!? How does she write and play music with that?!? That, my friends, will be for another time.

 Hugs to my loves –e

*My name is Irish. Look up Celtic customs before the catholic/protestant reformation(s).

**I am, in fact, not catholic. I am in no way, shape, or form trying to insult those who are. It is pure fact that the music of the western world was driven and shaped by religion. To study music is to study religions and cultures throughout the world.

You can't cure stupid. It's this huge epidemic in our very own backyard. It used to be just a couple. You know what I mean... you could spot them coming from a mile away. Walking down the street. Serving your coffee. Teaching people's children. But soon, stupid attracted stupid and they are now a significant portion of our population. Eventually stupid got tiered of stupid and now concentrate on plaguing the not stupid. And we, the non-stupid (or not so stupid), have to suffer for it. This isn't just a small problem people! This is world wide! Stand up to the tyranny and the bullshit!! Say no to stupid people. They are like FUCKING COCKROACHES!!!!! *pulls hair*

Ok. I may be just a little upset. Someone I know (and care about) is letting her son drop out of high school. Why? Why!?! He doesn't like having to put forth the time and wants to get a job. This is 'Nowhere Central' people! It’s honestly home to more cows than people. His job choices are between ‘bottle boy’ in the local grocery store and a ‘gas station attendant.’ His mom says "he can always decide to get his GED later." He is almost done with school. Arrrrhhhhhhggggg! Stupid people!!! I'm sorry. I'm done venting. *big long sigh*

A hug to my loves-e