My house will never be ready to sell, will it? Will it?!

No, we're not crazy - we're not about to have our first baby and putting our house on the market. In fact, I have no desire to sell my house, buy a new one, or move anywhere else. Yet. 

But in time, as we outgrow the space and I graduate and, hopefully, find a job, we're going to be looking for a new abode. And when that time comes, is my house going to be in sellable condition? I worry it won't be, despite all the time, effort, and money we put into it on a rather regular basis. 

Perhaps I'm just being paranoid. But things seem to move at a snail's pace here - even when we're spending hours and hours a week on a project (or 3). For instance, we've been working on the nursery for-ev-ever (forever-ever? Forever-ever) and still the projects continue and pile up. I've been joking recently that we should have the room done by the time the kid's five. But as my due date approaches, I'm finding that less and less and less humorous . . . . 

There are just soooooo many projects on our to-do list. And sometimes I think of it as a to-do-before-we-could-ever-reasonably-try-to-sell-this-house-for-a-good-price list. (See? That's a really stressful list title, isn't it?) 

Brad, the babe, the kitties, and I (and any other babes and kitties that come along in the next few years) will be staying put for oh, I don't know, the next 3, 4, 5+ years. Which is a lot of time, I realize. But it's also not a lot when you consider how busy we are and how much busier we'll be with a tot on the premises. 

I really do love working on our house though (and Brad at least loves the results of working on our house) and I'm proud of everything we've accomplished so far, from installing a new sink/plumbing to refinishing floors to even just painting all kinds of walls that used to be pink or boring old white. 

So for now I'm just going to try to enjoy the projects as we do them, work to improve my renovating/DIY skills, and appreciate the upgrades and changes we make to our space. Because, ultimately, we're not making these changes for someone else to enjoy when we sell our home - we're making them so we can better enjoy the space while it is our home. 

Though, hopefully, when that "For Sale" sign goes up in the yard in years to come, all our work will have paid off in that sense, too. 

An Organizational Disaster

If my house suffers from one illness, it's Atrocious Unmatched Flooring Disease, which can be cured only with time, effort, and money. But if my house suffers from two illnesses (and believe me, there are more than 2), the second is Clutter-itis. 

Not my kitchen, but some days, it might 
as well be . . . . 

Clutter-itis, as you may well know, is a result of Too-Much-Stuff-itis and the People-Who-Don't-Pick-Up-After-Themselves bug, an unfortunate combination that leads to messy spaces crowded with paper, clothing, boxes, and a host of other random items that lead me to say things like, "Why do we even own this?" and "I don't understand how I cleaned this living room two days ago and it looks like a war zone already!" 

With the new addition on the way, Brad and I are in need of some serious O-R-G-A-N-I-Z-A-T-I-O-N. If the two of us have managed to fill up (make a mess of?) four bedrooms, a two-car garage, two sheds (gulp that we even own sheds), and quite a number of closets, imagine what the situation will look like in a few months when we're +1. And you know those babies bring tons of stuff along with them (like, where are we even gonna put the stroller, let alone all those toys?!). 

And so Brad and I have resolved to get organized, de-clutter, and stay on top of (or at least next to) the general mess that builds in the course of a day/week. 

Okay, it was bad, but not this bad 

For the past few weeks we've been working on this in our more or less haphazard way: over the course of several days, I shredded about 4 months-worth of paper; we cleaned out the sheds and garage some (only some, believe me) when it was 50+ degrees out a few Sundays ago; I transformed a wasted bedroom closet once filled with "crap" into a very useful abode for my out-of-season-clothes and about 35 pairs of shoes. 

Not bad, but we've got a long way to go before this house is anywhere near as together as it needs to be. There's still a frightening amount of junk lurking in those sheds, an absurd amount of stuff-that-needs-shredded in bags/boxes in the garage from years ago, and the kitchen cabinet situation is anything but user-friendly. And that's just for starters. Soon enough, though, I hope to have a nursery closet organization project to show . . . it's already underway as of yesterday. Then it's onto that dang kitchen!

Wow. Just wow

Brad and I just heard the most wonderful sound: our baby's heartbeat. 

Yep - I'm pregnant! 

It was so wild, hearing that thumpthumpthumpthump, loud and fast. We taped it with my digital recorder, and when we listen to it, we can't help smiling. That's our baby. Wow. Like, geeze. 

Quick stats: I'm just over 13 weeks along, due mid-May. We've known since early in Sept., when not one, not two, but three pregnancy tests (over the course of about 18 hrs.) showed us 2 pink lines. It took 11 months of trying and happened the month before we were going to start Clomid. And I've been sick for almost 7 weeks. No throwing up, but a constant stomach ache for about 5 weeks which was replaced by horrid, near constant tension headaches (exacerbated by pregnancy hormones) about two weeks ago. 

Not much of a belly yet, but I have gained 3.5 lbs.! 

So, I've felt better (and I've looked better - my rosacea is terrible right now). But it's okay, b/c I am beyond thrilled. Beyond beyond beyond thrilled. Finally! How exciting! And Brad's favorite refrain is a half-shouted "I can't wait for baby!" 

We're having a baby. It's simply wonderful. 

Finally (!) an Acceptance

No, I have not been twiddling my thumbs over here: I've actually been working my butt off (and, like half of the grad students in my office, I've been sick for weeks), and I'm finally seeing the fruits of my labor - I got accepted to the Pop Culture Association/American Culture Association conference in April! 

My luck with conferences has been, well, no luck at all, and my goal for this semester was either to 

1.  Finally get accepted somewhere after already having been rejected at 5 conferences; or 

2.  Really (depressingly) impress myself with 10 rejections total by year's end. 

I have to say, I'm pleased with the outcome :). 

On top of writing up an abtract for PCA/ACA (which took me unusually long for some reason), I wrote a different one for a conference in Louisville and submitted creative work for their creative panel, and I'm in the midst of organizing a panel on a different topic for the Narrative Conference - a bad*ss international conference being held in Las Vegas in March. 

B/c Narrative is so super awesome it's really hard to get into and they don't have much love for grad students I've been told. So, I'm not holding my breath. Even so, I've got an assistant prof. on my panel and a doctoral student with a number of publications, and I think all our papers sound pretty strong. Basically, I'm keeping my fingers crossed but not gonna freak out over a rejection (besides, after 5, I'm so far beyond freaking out about such things). 

Anyway, good things are happening, and the stress and time suck that is applying to these things is winding down for the time being, especially since I'm not applying to ALA b/c I've got stuff going on during May when the conference is scheduled. Spring already promises to be busy as I'm reading in a creative writing reading series sponsored by the department and most likely presenting in a university program that features researchers on campus as well as from outside the university. 

Finally finally finally! I'm exhausted, but I feel so much less loser-y. And it's a good conference to boot :).

Still trying . . .

The road toward conception continues on its bumpy way - though with no baby bump yet. 

We're 10 months into ttc, and I had an appointment with a new (and great) gynie last week who came with a glowing recommendation from my next door neighbor. Given the un-empathetic nature and downright attitude of my last gynie, Dr. P. is a welcome change.

Today, I had an HSG, or hysterosalpingogram (try saying that 5 times fast. Heck, try saying it once slowly), at Magee-Womens Hospital in Oakland to see if blocked, twisted, or otherwise problematic fallopian tubes are keeping me from getting pregnant. Basically, they do the whole speculum thing, then put contrast dye into your cervix through a tube; they watch on a machine as the dye fills your uterus, and, if all's as it should be, it goes through each of your tubes before spilling out into your stomach or wherever.

The procedure hurt,* as I was told it would, and it was certainly uncomfortable, but my tubes are both open, which is great news. 

Basically, every test Brad and I have gotten done has come back with good results. He got his man-biz checked out months ago, and everything's a-okay in that department. I had my progesterone level tested during my last cycle to make sure I am, indeed, ovulating, and I am, indeed, ovulating. A 10 means you've ovulated, and I was at 11.2, which was good news, although Dr. P. said the higher the better - something like 16 or 17 would be ideal. 

The next step is Clomid. Clomid is a super-ovulatory drug which basically makes you ovulate - even though I'm already ovulating, it will, hopefully, make me ovulate more and possibly better eggs. It does this by increasing your progesterone level. You can take Clomid for a maximum of 6 months at a time, then you need to give your body a rest of a year or so. But, generally, if you're gonna conceive on Clomid, it's gonna happen within 6 months anyway. 

A couple is not considered "infertile" until they've been trying to conceive regularly for a year without success, but my new gynie favors a more aggressive approach than the popular, "We can't do anything until it's been a year," and I'm happy that we've been narrowing the list of possible infertility culprits. Since I'm ovulating and my tubes are open, and since Brad's all good, if we do reach the year marker without getting pregnant, it will be a case of "unexplained infertility." Which basically means, "There's nothing anatomically wrong here - you can definitely make a baby. Keep gettin' busy." 

Thus far I've managed to keep a pretty positive attitude, except for the occasional hormonal bout of emotions when I'm convinced I'll never have a baby and that everyone else in the world but me has one. That usually happens on cycle days 25-29 (it's also commonly known as p.m.s). Brad's as convinced as ever that I'll get pregnant any day now. As for next month's cycle, if there's no tiny bump in my belly, we'll start the Clomid. And in the meanwhile, I guess we'll keep gettin' busy. 

*While I was on the table today, I thought to myself, "How in the world is a baby gonna come out of there if this hurts as bad as it does?" All you mamas out there, you are truly amazing.

Meditation on an Approaching Birthday

For years, I loathed birthdays. I dreaded their approach for days in advance and often cried on the big day itself. I figured that, as I aged, things would only get worse. But at some point in the past few years - 26? 27? - I stopped hating my birthday. No, I wouldn't say I love my birthday now (let's not overdo it here), but I find myself having a pleasant attitude toward it in general and, specifically, its approach this year. 

Next Tuesday I'll turn 29, which will officially put me into the almost-30 realm. For me, that's a little frightening but also a little exciting. My 20s have been good to me - marriage, a house, several degrees, the start of a career - and I'm looking forward to the plans I have for my 30s. 

I've found quite a bit of truth in things I've read about life becoming more enjoyable as you age. For a long time this seemed to me like nonsense propagated by people who were jealous of the young. Sort of like, "I'm 35 and hate it, and in an attempt to convince myself that I don't want to be 25, I'm going to say being 35 is the best thing ever." But within maybe, I don't know, the past year or so, I've experienced a number of random moments where I've thought just that: this is so much better than it was back then. 

In the past few years, I've achieved greater self-confidence and comfort in my skin, a fuller sense of direction in my personal and my professional lives. It's a cheesy thing to say, I admit, but I've figured out - even if just a little bit - how to appreciate the journey instead of rushing to the end. Like a lot of people, I rushed through high school, rushed through college, and kept rushing rushing rushing through much of my twenties. There wasn't a specific moment when - poof! - I stopped doing that, but thinking about the difference b/t then and now, it seems that I must've asked, "What am I rushing toward?" and decided instead to take the scenic, 25 mph route. (Which sometimes feels like the back route . . . to an unfamiliar destination . . . haha.) 

And I've become more grateful. These days, I'm a lot more conscious than I was in the past of the wonderful things I have. And, no, I'm not just talking material possessions, though a warm home, nice and clean clothes, and a working (though piece of crap) car are certainly things to be grateful for. 

I'm talking about a supportive family, a funny and generous husband, kind and caring neighbors, understanding friends, time to myself (every once in a while), a strong mind, a healthy body, creativity. A lot of women live in frightening, unsafe, unhealthy situations from which they can't escape; I'm grateful to be surrounded by positive people in a positive environment.

Sure, I miss things about being, say, 20, like my smooth, clear skin. I've got a lot more wrinkles these days (especially from furrowing, sigh), and my cheeks are a mess from rosacea that suddenly appeared at around age 25 and just won't quit. But I think overall I've gained more good stuff than I lost. 

I've got a lot to work on, this coming year and in the years after. One thing that comes immediately to mind is my body image. Even though I don't obsess about food and working out like I did a decade ago, how I look has way too much impact on me, and I struggle to feel good about myself when the scale goes up 2 or 3 pounds. This has been a problem for many many years, and although I haven't changed it yet, I'll continue trying to. 

And that's where I am: still trying. I've got to credit Lumosity with giving me the inspiration for this post - in the form of a quote by Thomas Edison - "I have not failed 10,000 times. I have successfully found 10,000 ways that will not work." Turning 29 gives me a whole new year to search for ways that do work. 

And hey, maybe the next celebratory day to get a major makeover in my mind is New Year's/New Year's Eve which I hate with a passion. Though I wouldn't take that to the bank.

When this is the kind of day you're going to have . . .

Why get up at 6:30 in the morning? 

A bit of exposition:  It's not for nothing that I have stated over and over again, across the years, that no matter the circumstances I can at most accomplish 6 hours of work a day. Usually, I don't come anywhere close to 6. Three and a half is a much more realistic (and depressing) estimate; sometimes, even that's pushing it. 

When I say "doing work," I don't mean doing some reading for class, then checking my e-mail, more reading, then grading a paper or two, reading five stories about celebrity babies, checking my e-mail, more reading, all while texting back and forth with my hubby and people from school. I definitely do all of that - and almost exactly like that - on a pretty much daily basis (wherein we find much of the problem). I'm talking about only the actual work part of all that - reading, grading, responding to student e-mails, researching, writing a paper/assignment, developing a paper/homework/in-class assignment/activity. 

Given that, this semester, all of the classes I'm in; the course I'm teaching; the hours I spend tutoring in the Writing Center (by mandate of my fellowship . . . sigh); and my office hours all take place on a very long Tuesday and an even longer Thursday - given that, I spend three of the week's workdays at home "working." Hell, ask me what I'm doing on any random Saturday or Sunday, and there's an 72% chance I'll say "doing work" and a 100% chance that, if I've got something else going on, I'll add, "And then doing some work." 

This takes me to the title of this post, which I guess we'll call Rising Action:  Brad's alarm (that is, my husband's alarm) goes off at six a.m. I am wide awake. I continue to be wide awake through the sounds of his morning routine (the running water, the creaks in the floorboards, the footfalls on the stairs). So, my enterprising side takes over and - voila! - I decide to get out of bed at 6:30 a.m. even though I have nowhere to be today, just so I can get a headstart on my work. 



In the moment before I swing my feet off the bed, I muse, "Wow, I could get like 12 hours of work done today!" What silly silly folly. 

The part of the story that is probably most interesting is the part I will leave out. (Brad has long accused my fiction of too much subtlty; I can't say the reaction in my MFA workshops were usually much different. Pardon me for crediting the reader with a nuanced understanding.) Well, maybe I'll sum it up in a sentence just for continuity's sake:  the speedometer on Brad's Blazer isn't working when he leaves this morning, so he takes my Honda, and I end up spending my morning at Monroe Muffler finding out the myriad defects plaguing the car (we're talking probably $1200-$1500 parts and labor for a car that - oh, I can't even go into this car right now) only to decide, with Brad, that we need to take it to my dad's "guy" (that is, the mechanic who has fixed my family's cars for 15 years and is located an inconvenient 50 minutes away) who will not rip us off, and so I leave with a car still broken and 11:00 on the clock. 

That was a long and somewhat digressive sentence. So is my nature. 

All of this by way of pondering why - when I know I will never get 12 hours of work done (or even 7) - do I still get up at the crack of dawn, set myself an ambitious plan for the day, think about how much stress will be relieved when I get this work done, etc. etc., and by way of all this get my hopes up? 

I'm inclined to say all kinds of things about the desire to inflict pain on myself and/or being delusional. Instead (and this is coming 10.5 hours into my day, after having worked for maybe 2 hours) I'm going with hopefulness. I like the sound of hopefulness much better. I mean, if I'd gotten up at 10 as I am wont to do on Wednesdays and then left the house at noon, the car problem would still be the car problem. I'd have still ended up at Monroe and the car would still be a whole bunch of crap. 

That's part of my philosophy of trying, I guess. It (whatever it is) ain't gonna happen if you don't at least make the effort. Sure, it's probably not gonna happen anyway in 99% of cases. (I've actually gotten less work than usual done today.) But you can't win the lottery if you don't play. And I actually don't play the lottery, but I've got some faith, however, little, in getting up before 7 a.m. with high high hopes. 

(The conclusion? When a day can't get worse, it will. A great pair of Steve Madden flats (which I've worn only four times) suffered the fate of an increasingly wet, gross, salt-laden parking lot while I stood outside discussing on the telly what to do about the car. A brief lament, not in iambic pentameter: 

Half-ruined those precious 
flats be. Woe, oh woe is me.)

If you try really hard despite all roadblocks, then we should talk

It only makes sense that I'd have writer's block when trying to write my first blog post. I mean, nothing is ever easy, right? I suppose blogging is no exception. But I'm going to press on. 

As for nothing being easy, well, nothing is, but I'm trying hard these days. I'm trying to make it through 4 and 1/2 more years of an English lit. PhD program, despite being on year 22 and 1/2 of school already (that's more than a little sad, I know). I'm tired, and I'm underpaid (me and every other teaching assistant out there), and I can't even imagine coming up with a dissertation topic. (Ideas?) 

I'm trying to write a novel. Though at this point, I'd settle for a complete poem. Time and mental energy are a bit elusive these days. I'd call it writer's block, but even that seems like I'm giving myself too much credit. 

I'm trying to make a baby. I've got some help here from my hubby, of course. We're on month four; I'm getting a little impatient. And of course, every woman at Target has a new baby, a whole brood, or the cutest little baby bump that ever made me gag (jealousy looks particularly bad on me). I usually just have an iced caramel macchiato. 

Some lesser efforts: trying to figure out why my husband enjoys Monster Hunters 3; trying to get up the energy for Zumba, to take the Christmas decorations down, to put the laundry away; trying to eat something other than potato chips or fries for dinner. 

Some of these things are going better than others. The wallpaper in our powder room is halfway down (and has been since August). The freezer's got a half gallon of Heath ice cream, some wings, and not much else. My husband swears he's going grocery shopping tomorrow, before the Steelers take on the Jets. Of course, he also swore he was going today. I'll give the guy a break: he drives 60 miles each way to work five days a week. Basically, we're trying.