Broken silence...and changes.

My last day of regular, full time employment was the 18th. Two reasons: one that is ultra-personal and no one's damn business; the other is school. I put off going to school full time when I left active duty to take the contractor job, because I was terrified of the thought of living on nothing else but $1K a month and six months of unemployment. Not I don't even have unemployment to rely on. But that's okay. I can't put it off any longer. I'm still two classes away from my associate's, and it's about damn time I got started on my bachelor's. I'm 25 years old; I'm not getting any younger.

I've got a gig baby-sitting for the Redhead three days a week with some chores thrown in a few times a month. I've filling out applications for part-time retail jobs. I'm doing what I can to drum up some Pampered Chef business. (So, if you're in the local area, I would love you forever if you booked a party for me. You don't have to spend a dime; make everyone else buy stuff and reap the benefits! Srsly.) Fiance will do what he can to help me with my bills, but for the time being, we're gonna have to be super-frugal, and I'm gonna be one broke student.

I've been cleaning more lately. Mostly in the kitchen. I've been obsessive about keeping it clean. And my bathroom, which used to always look like Hurricane Katrina had been through there, now looks nice and organized. I like being in there now.

I haven't been on Facebook for weeks. I've gotten a couple of concerned messages as a result (I get private messages via text). My blog still feeds to FB, so if you're reading this, you should know that I'll be deleting it soon. My profile, not my blog. It'll be a damn shame; for the majority of the people on my friend list, that's my only way of keeping in touch with them. So if you wanna keep in touch outside of that, shoot me your e-mail address via private message on FB. I'll still have this blog, and my Twitter, so feel free to follow either one. Or both. Or neither. Your call. And if you're military, I'm still in the GAL, look me up.

(And if you're interested in a Pampered Chef party...which would be awesome...we have a brand new spring/summer catalog and twenty-seven new products. E-mail me.)

I haven't forgotten you, Monica!! I'll e-mail you soon!!

For the love of caek.

BRO: bring me some caek

ME: come get it yourself.

‎‎BRO‎‎: you should come down, actually.

‎‎ME‎‎: no.

i'm busy.

‎‎BRO‎‎: well

‎‎ME‎‎: if i leave my desk, chaos will ensue

‎‎BRO‎‎: when you get a minute

get me some caek plzkthx

‎‎ME‎‎: you can't be brought your cake and eat it too

you must earn it.

‎‎BRO‎‎: when you come down, you will see why i earned it.

‎‎ME‎‎: i refuse to be seen getting a second slice of cake.

‎‎BRO‎: ugh. tell them it's for your lazy bro

‎‎ME‎‎: that's exactly what they would expect me to say if i was trying to make an excuse for why i was having a second slice of cake before 0930.

‎‎BRO‎‎: the caek wouldn't be out at 9am unless it wanted to be eaten

‎‎ME‎‎: STOP BEING SO GODDAMN LAZY AND COME GET IT.

‎‎BRO‎‎: help me.

you're my only hope.

...for caek.

‎‎ME‎‎: i will give you my plate and fork.

that is all i can do.

you must do this on your own.

it is your task.

your quest.

‎‎BRO‎‎: well now, which is seriously worse:

someone who works in the vicinity of the caek getting a second piece

or someone who works downstairs, explicitly seeking the caek, then walking through the halls with the caek

head hung in shame, tears falling into the buttercream frosting

‎‎ME‎‎: you could eat it at my desk.

‎‎BRO‎‎: your area is moderately crowded

‎‎ME‎‎: not today.

leach, do you hear that?

it is the cake.

it is calling to you.

beckoning.

begging to be eaten.

to be savored.

‎‎BRO‎‎: i'm going to walk up there and talk to you like none of this ever happened.

then you will tell me there is caek.

and we will get it.

‎that is what will happen.*

*That is what happened.

A very bad morning.

This morning, alone with no witness other than the cats (and they're not talking), I threw a tantrum so epic it would leave a three-year-old in awe.

I got out of bed late. I'm just getting over a cold, but had a growing suspicious that I woke up this morning with a UTI. (As of 1029L, I have discarded this suspicion.) This left me feeling very cranky. Then I went to get dressed, and could not bear the thought of wearing a layer of thermals under my uncomfortably snug ABU pants. Even tucking in my shirt this morning was uncomfortable. I could have buttoned all four buttons with no problem, but buttoning just one was unbearable. I didn't want to be wearing anything that would be tight around my crouch, because of my UTI suspicions.

I had to pee AGAIN, and unbottoned my pants and nearly ripped them off in frustration. I was on the verge of tears out of nowhere, and suddenly all I could think was that I would once again fail my PT test this weekend, that I had no energy or motivation or desire to do anything ever again, that I hate my uniform and being in the reserves and just being me in general, that I was fat and ugly, and that it was no wonder I miscarried, because I'm such a big unhealthy mess of a girl.

As I forced my pants back on, I left my shirt untucked and began to cry and scream and rage. A logical part of my brain thought for a moment that it might be a good idea to swing by mental health today to talk to someone. But I quickly dismissed this idea. I cannot bear to discuss the miscarriage, or my feelings concerning it. I'm amazed that I'm even bringing it up here. I'm sure one of my two readers will tell me that yes, I should go talk to someone, but it's not happening. I would advise another person in my shoes of the same thing; but I've never been very good at taking my own advice.

I felt the tears stream down my cheeks, and it was then I snapped out of it. I thought, I'm about to go out into single-digit temperatures to clean off my car; I can't have tears on my face, they'll freeze! (I never said my thought processes make sense.) I calmed down, cleaned off my car, and headed to work.

There was no trace of tears as I rolled thru the gate and struggled to roll down a frozen window. There was no sign of distress as I swung by my regular day job for a cup of a joe and quick chat with Canuck and Ears. And by the time I walked into the wing staff area, you'd never have known that I'd thrown an award-wining tantrum to put Russell Crowe to shame.

But then, I've always worn the best masks.

Skillet Garlic Chicken.

A Campbell's (r) recipe.

1/4 tsp ground sage
1/4 tsp dried thyme leaves, crushed
4 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves (1 lb)
Vegetable cooking spray
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 can Campbell's (r) Healthy Request Condensed Cream of Chicken Soup
1/2 cup of water

Stir the sage and thyme in a small bowl. Season the chicken with sage mixture. (I actually used my fabulous The Pampered Chef (r) Rosemary Herb Seasoning Mix. Love it!)

Spray 12" nonstick skillet with cooking spray and heat over medium heat for 1 minute. Add chicken and cook 15 minutes or until well-browned on both sides and cooked through.

Add garlic to skillet and cook and stir until lightly browned. Stir in soup and water until mixture is hot and bubbling. Serve sauce over chicken.

I am serving this with asparagus. I am astonished at how much longer asparagus stays fresh OUTSIDE of the vegetable drawer. See if I use it again...

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Pocket clarification.

Me: *struggles* Damn phone...won't go in pocket...

Bro: [...] Wait. I thought women's pants didn't have pockets.

Me: Well, that depends on whether they buy them with or without pockets.

Bro: There's an option?

Me: Yeah. If you buy them with pockets, they'll have pockets. If you buy them without pockets, they won't have pockets.

Bro: That...makes sense.

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A joke.

A man goes to church every Sunday to pray before the statue of a saint. He begs the saint, "Please please please, let me win the lottery." Finally the exasperated statue comes to life and tells the begging man, "Please please please...buy a ticket!"

Hm.

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Follow me on Twitter!

@DreadPirateDavi

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O, what a morning I've had, and it's not even 8 AM.

An acquaintance volunteered to drive me to the airport this morning. I wanted to leave at 0400; my flight was at 0600. 0400 came and went with no call or text from the individual. I waited as long as I could, threw my luggage in my car, and hauled ass to the airport.

I was running short on time, so I was forced to park in the closest (and priciest) longterm parking lot. I made it to check-in with ten minutes to spare. It was seven minutes, though, before I realized I was at the wrong airline. So I dashed over fo the right one...

...and was told that because my company had failed to ticket my reservation over two weeks ago, the reservation had been cancelled.

I have been to Puerto Rico twice in the past ten years. When I was requested, by name, for this work trip, I was ecstatic. I booked my flight to leave two days early so that I could spend the weekend with family.

Naturally, I am disappointed to the point of tears. It's not been an easy week for me. I was really looking forward to this trip, hoping a little time under the sun eating delicious Puerto Rican food and seeing my grandmother and cousins would lift my spirits a little.

Whatever.

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My escape from reality, and the...benefits?

Me: I don't want to work.

Brother: You just want to bang on the drum all day?

Me: Nah. Ask me how I spent my weekend.

Brother: I know how you spent your weekend.

Me: O?

Brother: I thought you just hung out at the house for New Year's Eve and then hung out some more.

Me: I laid in bed reading all weekend. That's all I want to do. Just lay around reading. I never wanna stop reading. I want to read until the world crashes down on me. Then read some more.

Brother: You could be a book critic. Leave this life of [security discipline] behind you and just absorb books until your brain can't fit in your head anymore. Then your brain would live in a glass jar, for all the world to see.

Me: Hm. And what would the world gain from viewing my brain?

Brother: They could touch the glass and hear you yelling at them telepathically to leave you alone because you are reading.

Me: *laughs* Or perhaps a custodian might be appointed, one to watch over my brain until one worthy enough of the knowledge held therein could be found. And once they are found, they would consume my brain, and absorb all the knowledge I had collected through my lifetime. As was done once, in more primitive times.

Brother: About books.

Me: Yes. I suppose I should start reading the classics, in preparation. I'd hate for some youth to go through all the troublenof choking down my brain, only to gain nothing more than cheesy romance novels and Harry Potter.

Brother: Or worse. Fanfic.

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The end of a year...and the death of hope.

I always knew, in the back of my mind, that my first pregnancy would not be a bright thing. That it would end in misery, not in joy.

As we speak, my body reabsorbs that which is not viable, that fading spark of life that had been my one hope, my one chance at motherhood. I will never know what it is to bear a child in my womb. I will never hold it in my arms, never feel a mother's love.

No, that last part is wrong, for I knew it briefly. From the moment I saw that plus sign, I loved that tiny spark of life with every fiber of my being. Unplanned as it was, I was so grateful for the chance...a chance that will never be.

I only write this to get it all out at once. I do not seek sympathy or pity. I do not relish explaining this over and over. I'm ripping off the scab all at once. I do not wish to discuss this. I do not crave consolation. I just want to get on with my life...and forget as quickly as possible.

That is all.

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Pirate Spawn at six weeks.

I am six weeks pregnant today by my calculations (or should I say, by the calculations of the apps I'm using on my phone).

I still have 34 weeks to go...ugh! Which is 238 days...double ugh!

I'm starting my seventh week of pregnancy, and the embryo that will henceforth be dubbed "Pirate Spawn" looks like an alien with a tail and a large head with nostrils and lips and eyes. It has a beating heart (!) and is developing it's liver, kidneys, etc. It has developed it's placenta and amniotic sac, and the placenta is burrowing into my uterine wall to leech the oxygen and nutrients from my bloodstream.

So basically it's my very own sweet pea-sized parasite.

Oh, and did you know that up to 50% of pregnant women get hemorrhoids? Yep, that's right. If you thought pregnancy was all glowing skin and and content mama, you thought wrong. We all thought wrong. We were lied to. Damn you, society!!

So far, the worst of my symptoms is lethargy and occasional cramping in my leg due to a lot of the blood in my body making a beeline for my womb. Also, ever since my mom told me to drink lots of milk, that's all I want.

Watched a fascinating documentary the other night called "The Business of Being Born". It takes harder look quality of maternal care in this great nation of ours, and gives it a poor score. Here are a couple of things states in the documentary:

The United States has the second worst newborn death rate in the developed world.

The U.S. has one of the highest maternal mortality rates among all industrialized countries.

Since 1996 the Cesarean section rate has risen 46%.

The documentary also explores the benefits of natural births assisted by midwives. After watching that, I am seriously considering it. I am fortunate that my health insurance will cover that...the trouble is trying to find a birthing center or a midwife via the website. I guess I'll just have to talk to the doctor when I see him on Monday.

Merry Christmas, all!

Net Neutrality.

http://www.theopeninter.net/

Let's do it for our kids.

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I might be in way over my head.

Just a little...

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The beginning of a new chapter in the adventures of this pirate.

I am pregnant.

A little over five weeks.

The embryo is the size of on orange seed.

Estimated due date: sometime in August, by my math.

I have 8 months to do what has not been accomplished in 25 years of life: grow the fuck up.

In-flight private jokes.

There I was at gate A4, waiting to board my flight go Detroit, when what to my wo/andering* eyes should appear...but the same Delta employee who was so "helpful" in getting myself, Deer Hunter, and Canuck "re-routed" for our Korea trip.** Naturally I texted them.

Deer Hunter: Tell him not to lose your bags this time!

Canuck: Make sure he doesn't fuck with your bag!

To which I responded, "I'd make a special trip back here just to cut off his face. [...] He would not live to see 2011."

Upon my arrival at Detroit, I texted them again.

"I finally made it to Detroit to catch my connecting flight...only took me four months!"

*I can't remember if it was "wondering eyes" or "wandering eyes" in "The Night Before Christmas". I'm 90% sure it's the first one, tho...
**Reference late-July 2010 blog post entitled "May Delta Airlines burn..."

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