Said the pervy wife to her husband, Dan

Do you see what I see?



A tail as big as a kite?

At the risk of sounding friggin' wicked uncultured (which I am totally comfortable being but not sounding), I have to admit that during my niece's production of The Nutcracker tonight, I was, um, distracted (or utterly, utterly focused). I only wish life's secrets would reveal themselves to me as clearly as white tights do a male dancer's. Though I may sustain an air of maturity while at the ballet, quietly commenting to my theater neighbor about the lines of these athletes' toned physiques and the impeccable displays of artistry and technique, in my head I'm screaming, "Weiner! Weiner! I can see their weiners!"

Not a whole lot of adult conversation today in the Mellederer home in general.

Earlier today:

Dan: You know what I love about this gym? They provide towels.

Me: Eww. Why would you want to use a towel that has someone else’s sweaty ass crack on it?

Dan: They launder them!

Me: It still has ass crack on it.

Dan: This is where you and I differ on how we see the world.

Me: Why would you want to use one of those towels when we have a closet full of clean towels here?

Dan: Why would I want to lug around a sweaty towel and then bring it home and wash it when I could just use one of theirs and throw it in the bin?

Me: Because you know our towels have only touched our ass cracks.

Dan: They’re not ass crack towels, they’re sweaty head towels.

Me: People use ‘em on their ass cracks, I’m sure of it.

Even if there aren't any trace amounts of ass crack to be found, another person's sweat-drenched towel can only get so clean, that's all I'm saying. (Indeed, probably not quite the high-brow dialogue Tchaikovsky was used to.) While I am tempted to make the obvious "Worse still, what if someone's drying off their nutcracker?" joke as a witty closing to this entry, it seems cheap and amateur. Although we've established that I'm uncultured, I'd hate to be unoriginal.

Instead, I will say: Weiner! Weiner! What if they dry their weiners!

Best half a long weekend ever!

Is there any other time of year this stuff gets used?

Wednesday:

12:30pm: Dan and I decide to work half days and meet for lunch in Portsmouth. Dan calls to say he will be late to which I replied, “Fine. Then I’m buying books,” and head to bookshop to get out of the rain, look around and indulge my book-buying addiction. (I buy books like other women buy clothes. Many of the purchases just sit on a shelf, but I have to have them. This explains why I once owned a book called Bagatorials, a collection of musings from brown paper bags.) I use my addiction for good and instead of buying Artie Lange’s memoir for myself (and since I couldn’t find Mary Karr’s latest work), opt to surprise Dan with the The Simpsons: An Uncensored, Unauthorized History by John Ortved when he finally shows.

1pm: Lunch at Flatbread Pizza, a pizza joint known for using “local organic produce, free range and clean meats”. We share a half chicken and black bean and half taco pie and wash it down with a blueberry wheat beer from Maine. (No gluten in pizza or wheat beer, right?)

2:30pm: Armed with a .45 in my ankle holster, we brave the Wednesday before T-day Stop and Shop crowd and fill a grocery cart with Yukon Gold and sweet potatoes, a couple of different sized marshmallows, and what Dan referred to as, “the most dairy we’ve ever had” in the form of skim milk, whole milk, light cream, heavy cream, whipping cream, three different types of cheese and yogurt. Also, mucho butter (and two bottles of red wine).

4pm: Wednesday afternoon nap---‘cuz when do we get to do that?

5pm: The cooking begins. Dishes prepared include:

Mashed potatoes- Having watched far too much holiday Food Network programming over the years, we’ve cut and pasted parts of our favorite recipes to come up with the perfect mashed potatoes. First we peel and cut ‘em and then leave them submerged in a giant pot of cold water for a half hour to get some of the starch out, making for optimal fluffiness. After boiling the potatoes (in a fresh pot of water) we use a potato ricer rather than a masher as both Dan and I our extremely anti-lump. We meanwhile combine and heat our various dairy products (heavy cream, whole milk and whatever cartons need emptying) with a stick of butter, an entire head of minced garlic and rosemary (which we later take out). We add the heated liquid bit by bit and stir it into the potatoes. Oh, and we had a couple (if not a few) bags of shredded cheddar and parmesan cheese. This year we added cream cheese too because why not have a little fat with your fat?

Coconut-covered Sweet Potato Balls: This Paula Deen recipe is so good, Dan owes Paula his left sweet potato ball.

Sweet Potato Pie (sans the crust) for the purists- Mash em’, stir in a stick of butter (Paula schooled us good), real maple syrup (or honey) and some cinnamon and nutmeg. The best part is the streusel topping (we robbed from a Tyler Florence recipe) made with a stick of butter (mmmhmm), brown sugar, flour and chopped pecans. (Also good licked off fingers.) Crumble it on top and it toasts right up in the oven. We stuck mini marshmallows along the edges (and made a L and a D in the middle) for fun.

Creamed Onions- Blech. Dan, who makes his own cream---no Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup for my man---, makes this for the moms. He’s done it for his mom every year, he’s made it for my mom and this year he prepared it for my brother-in-law’s mom. For the first time in my 28 years I try it---not great but the fact that it is basically a vat of cream helps.

7:30pm: Run back out to Stop and Shop for corn syrup (for Pecan pie) even though I fucking had it in my fucking hand during our first fucking trip to the store but thought we fucking had some at fucking home. We didn’t. Make trip out more productive by picking up Thai food for dinner (like the Pilgrims did on the first Thanksgiving Eve).

8-11pm: Finish all our food preparation (the washing, peeling, cutting, soaking and boiling of 12 pounds of potatoes takes longer than you might think), make pecan pie, eat Thai food, watch Glee, (Dan) does two loads of dishes, drink a bottle of wine and curse ourselves for taking a nap and not starting earlier.

Thursday:

Slept ‘til 9am---holla!

9-11am: Enjoy the Macy’s Parade and a couple of mimosas on the couch with Dan. This tradition started last Thanksgiving, our first major holiday spent in NH. Usually we are traveling on holiday mornings so now that we stay local on T-day we revel in the fact that we can just enjoy our morning and home and not have to stress out trying to get out the door.

11-12pm: Stress out trying to get out the door. Shower, dress, throw everything into the car and head to sister’s house where we are to celebrate with Becky and Jeff and their three girls, Jeff’s brother and sister-in-law and their three kids, plus Jeff’s mom and her husband. In rush to get out the door, pecan pie is left on table.

2pm: Ruin perfect mashed potatoes by adding too much milk during re-heating process. (Perpetrator will not be named but his name rhymes with “fan.”) Lots of jokes about potato soup made.

3pm: Death by turkey, stuffing and cookies.

5pm-1am: Drink lots of wine, eggnog and rum cocktails and eat lots more food. And cookies. Play two hands of Texas Hold ‘Em, a typing game on Bec’s computer (which I shouldn’t be admitting) and Trivial Pursuit…all of which I win. Really. (It should be said that Dan carries our Trivial Pursuit team, pulling out names like Ken Kesey, Jim Carville and Pat Riley. I know that Toni Morrison was the first African-American woman to win the Nobel Prize in Literature and remember that the characters in The Joy Luck Club were playing “Mah Jong.”)

1:15am: Dan drives us home and I somehow don’t fall asleep on the car ride though I do end up walking in the house shoeless, a sure sign of a night well-spent.

2:15am: Oh my god, NBC airs Texas Hold ‘Em games late-night. I am enraptured and can’t turn it off. Dan says I am never allowed to play online poker.

Friday:

8am: Peruse Black Friday online sales over morning coffee and oatmeal (which really is gluten-free.) Dehydrated and sick from too much gaiety, I promise myself I am back off gluten.

10:30am: Take hot bubble bath and listen to the rain. Try to read a book on mindfulness so that I am able to stay in the moment but it stresses me out and takes me out of it. Opt instead for The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows and am able to stay in the moment by transporting to 1940’s England.

12pm: “Nap” with Dan. (I kid…)

1pm: Layered leftovas sandwiches. Two pieces of bread sandwiching together, among other things, a layer of stuffing. No-gluten diet starts tomorrow.

3pm: Lie head-to-toe with Dan on couch reading our books. (Guernsey is such a treat. I am in love with every character and will be so sad to leave them when it’s over.)

3:45pm: Really nap.

6:30pm: Present. I’m not sure what the future holds but I’m pretty sure it’s going to involve pecan pie.

And there’s still two and a half days left!

The kid is cold...

Don't let the adorable nose freckles fool you...

I used to like my seven-year-old niece. After last night, I could take her or leave her.

Last night, Chucky, I mean Molly, said the meanest, nastiest, ugliest words that could ever be spoken to a writer (particularly one who is constantly trying to convince herself, despite all evil inside voices to the contrary, that she is a writer…and also a contributing member of society).

“You don’t work,” she said from the backseat as I drove her to ballet.

“I do work,” I said, in the kind of faux-nice aunty voice I’ve had to muster before when she’s said something like, ‘Why does your bathing suit have so much space at the top?’

“I write and I take care of you every day.”

“Have you been published?”

Get outta my head, kid! Did my therapist tell you to say that? Is this some kind of test?

It took everything in me to keep from saying, “At least I can spell published… Jerkface!”

It wasn't said out of curiosity; that innocent way with which seven-year-olds usually inadvertently slay adults. There was a sharp judgyness to her tone. Her delivery was an impeccable blend of high-school-reunion-bitchy meets anorexic Ralph Lauren sales clerk. It wasn’t a kick in the chest, it was a verbal Chinese throwing star to the self-esteem.

I wish I could say that I saw this for the teaching moment that it was. I wish my confidence was such that my instinctive response was to say, “I’m living my dream, Molly. I’m going after something I’ve wanted since I was a little girl. Did you know you can do this? Reach for the stars and all that la-de-fuckin’-da.”

I wish I could say that I delivered the following monologue (while an orchestra built to a thunderous crescendo behind me):

Oh, young Molly, my beautiful and inquisitive niece, I understand how life can seem confusing sometimes; how, perhaps, against the backdrop of society’s dreary banality, I may seem like a different, more radical and youthful sort of adult than you’re used to and not just in that cool-aunt-who-knows-how-to-make-balloon-dogs way that you’ve always seen me.

Molly, I am living my dream.

(Cue Music. Stage darkens and Lola walks downstage into spotlight.)

When I was a little girl, I knew I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. In fact, I was your age, a wee second-grader myself (who rarely if ever made cold and hurtful remarks), when I entered my first writing contest. (My piece featured two boys, Dan and Dave---named after the hunkalicious Hatch twins, still the stars of my fantasy threesome---, and a little girl who wants to play baseball despite a bully’s taunting. A work of post-modern feminist literature focusing specifically on gender egalitarianism on the playground, I really was ahead of my time. I think there was also a talking fish involved. I still don’t understand how I lost to that fourth grader who wrote about a talking house but I digress…)

The point is, as an adult I am both living and still pursuing that dream. Most adults lose sight of their childhood hopes, Molly. Though it took me almost 20 years since that writing contest to realize that seven-year-old Lola knew what she was talking about, I am finally doing right by her and going for it completely (and enduring the insecurities, neuroses and constant feelings of inadequacy that come with it).

(I was talking about writing there, not the threesome with the Hatch brothers.)

See, Molly, you can do whatever you want with your life. Here I am, proof that you can be whomever you want to be (provided you like noodles and butter). Whenever you feel like your dreams are out of your reach just think of your ol’ Aunty Lola (doing laundry at your house) and remember that anything is possible.

I wish I had explained to Molly what it means to pursue art and how money isn’t the only driving force. We were on the way to ballet class, the life lesson was practically laid out for the teaching.

Instead, open and bleeding, I sulked in the front seat and grumbled something about the old newspaper job.

When she lobbed this next one at me, “Do you wanna hear me sing There Was a Little Bird That Sat on a Fence?” I answered, I’m ashamed to say, with a sarcastic, “Naaah.”

(Only 10 seconds of silence sat between us before I said, yes, please sing it for me, and she did.)

I can laugh about it now but it took a full car ride home of blasting the Glee soundtrack and listening to Don’t Stop Believin’ seven times in a row for me to recover. Still, it’s a little horrifying to realize that were life a sitcom I would be the wacky aunt or the underachieving sibling with the scruffy facial hair whom everyone is waiting for to snap out of it and “get a real job.”

In my most oppressive moments of insecurity, when fear is plugging my nose and doubt is covering my mouth, I’ve even had these thoughts myself. Maybe it is time for me to grow up…

But then the image of a little seven-year-old girl who wanted to be a writer comes into my head and whenever I think of taking out the ol’ resume and using bullet points to paint a picture of someone other than myself, I can hear her raspy voice in my ear:

“Bitch, please… ”

Screw light therapy, this show is going to get me through the winter blues.

Fair and balanced.

November, last year. (That fridge is hard evidence that I am, in many ways, becoming my mother.)

It's 10am on Sunday morning. The sun's been shining since 7am when I woke up and sleepily made my way over to the little table by the window where I am now, to write. (I don't want to jinx it, but how fabulous has this November been?) I am trying not to be crushed by a shelf full of Bookish pressure but the fact is that this deadline seems unreachable given the holiday and the surrounding festivities and visits with friends coming up this week (never mind the last three months of poor time management). Still, I'm not quite giving up and plan to put my head down these next few days and hopefully pull something together. The plan for today is to work into the night. (I hate calling writing 'work.' I cling to the term 'work' sometimes because of its validating properties, but I reject it for the same reason. 'Notha entry, 'notha day.)

Dan, husband of the century, just left with three Santa sacks of dirty clothes, sheets and towels and went to the laundromat after my tantrum-y declaration that not only would I not be doing laundry today, but I probably wouldn't be doing it all week. I didn't say the words "So turn your boxer shorts inside out and deal with it," but my tone offered exactly those sentiments. He volunteered to do it and I thanked him while I separated the whites from the delicates. (I'm too much of a control freak to give that part up.) He said, "It's only fair. You always do it." Good answer, Dan. Good answer.

We may try to squeeze in a walk in the sun when Dan gets back (get your Vitamin D while you can, people) but we both have our own projects going on today. Yesterday, Dan and I picked up multiple bags of chocolate chips, tubs of peanut butter, crates of eggs, bars of shortening, cans of evaporated milk, large paper sacks of flower and sugar, and lots of pecans, almonds and walnuts in preparation for a day of baking. This afternoon the apartment will be rich with the smells of Dan's famous brownies, peanut butter balls, (more) fudge, various cookies and banana bread (my contribution if I can get my act together). All Dan's treats are famous. He plays as naturally in a kitchen, as a dancer on a stage. Watching him, it often seems like a choreographed routine of turns and pivots from counters and bowls to the oven and table as he moves from melting a pot of chocolate to the brisk and deliberate stirring of heating fluff and eventually onto a finale of thick, glossy batters being poured into their various receptacles. (His homemade chicken soup and its knee-weakening creaminess is a story for another day.)

Now that he's off and laundering I'm sort of wishing he was here starting his dance, the festive and sometimes melancholy arrangement of Christmas music, his soundtrack. He'll come over to me at my window where I'll still be writing (god-willing) and give me spoonfuls and bites of each still-warm treat. There will be lots of sweet kisses as the hours pass and the sun lowers into night. That will be this year's picture of a Sunday in November. Dan cooking, me writing---I could live a life of Sundays like this.

When Dan woke this morning and saw me at my table he said, "I love seeing you sitting there. It remind me of our dream house where you'll be sitting at a bigger table, at a bigger window with a better view."

Then, noticing how my table rocks due to the sloping hardwood floor he said, "And it will be balanced."

From where I sit, all is in balance today.

'Tis the season to be jiggly.

I bet any insomniac knows who this guy is.

Dan made his first batch of fudge of the season and left it in a plastic tub on our kitchen table...all day...in the same apartment where I live and work and often seek distraction. I had no less than seven pieces. I had to finally ask him to get it out of here. "Put it in your car if you have to!"

I know my limitations. Resisting fudge is just not something I'm capable of. The one-inch cubes are so small that I can actually convince myself that I didn't really eat anything because something that small doesn't count and couldn't possibly do harm. It's not like I'm swallowing a heaping ladle of sugar. (That's exactly what it's like.) As the days shorten, my body starts doing that carb-craving thing (pretty sure fudge is a 'good' carb) and in the past few years, as womanhood has become me more and more, I've noticed a fun little pattern of putting on winter weight. (Oh, the fun of estrogen never ends!) I'm really trying not to do that this year. Tubs of fudge---delicious, fresh, creamy fudge made on my own stove top---don't help.

So far it's just been about 4 o'clock sunsets and spaghetti and meatballs but next week marks the start of the holiday season (the goddamn, mother-fucking, hap-happiest season of all) and that's when things get really hard. What am I supposed to do then, skip all the parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting and caroling out in the snow? (Let's be honest, I haven't hosted a party since I was 20 and the only hosting duty involved knocking on the neighbor's door to let her know we'd be loud---nothing short of a Valium could get me through one now---and aren't marshmallows more of a summer thing?) But even if I skip those, there will still be almond crescent cookies for yumming, peanut butter balls for gumming and gigantic piles of blow.

The pressure is unbearable. How am I supposed to not drink wine when it's just sitting there in someone's cellar waiting to be uncorked? Who do I look like, Candy Finnigan? (Such joy every time I am able to use her name on here.)

In this month's O Magazine, Dr. Phil told me to say this to my loved ones when facing holiday eating pressure or cravings (HEP-C): "I have a lot invested in what I'm doing, so please don't take offense if I either bring my own food or turn down something you've worked hard to make. This is really important to me, and I appreciate your support." I'll let you know how that goes down with my foodie family...

The fact is that I want to indulge. I want to play. With all due respect to my digestive tract (which will certainly make its opposition to this known) I'm going to bend some of my own rules. The days of no gluten, no eating after 8, and no spiked nog before noon will have to return after the new year. I could use some holiday cheer and by that I mean holiday cheese. Everything in moderation---blah de bloo de blah blah.

But, though I want to loosen the reins, I don't want to loosen my belt if I can help it. I've learned too much and worked too hard to get a giant ass for Christmas (especially since I wanted a pony). (I like this one better.)

So, with the start of the holiday season comes the start of a new exercise routine: Tony Horton's Power90 Boot Camp. It's absolutely as cheesy as it sounds. It's a 90-day at-home video program. I alternate between a cardio video and a weight-lifting video, six days a week. I'm starting off at level 1-2 of the "Sculpt!" and "Sweat!" videos (as well as the "Ab Ripper 100"...I swear to gawd!) but eventually will move up to the level 3-4 videos (as well as, you guessed it, the "Ab Ripper 200" video). I'm not the gym type (except for when I had a $10/month membership and went one time because I lost power in my apartment and didn't want to miss Ellen) so at-home videos work for me.

(If you think that's dorky, you should see my unitard. My mom used to do Jane Fonda videos, it's genetic. I promise a care-package of fudge to anyone who can find me an online video of the song "There's so much more to you than meets the eye" from the Jane Fonda "New Workout" video. I don't think Jane is the singer as I seem to remember another brunette taking center stage, but it's foggy. I looked all over and couldn't find anything. Seriously, I'll send you fudge.)

I officially started Sunday so the program, if I stick to it, will bring to me February...just in time for bathing suit season. If I can figure it out I'll try to chart the progress here. I'm not sure I'm up to talking weight (I once got kicked out of gym class rather than let my P.E. teacher, a man whom I loved and still consider a conquest I'd like to land in this lifetime, weigh me) but maybe I can do some sort of pounds lost kind of thing. (This, of course, assuming there are pounds lost which, considering the whole calories in/calories out concept, might not happen until January.)

So, now that I have a plan, who's coming with me? I said, WHO'S COMING WITH ME?! C'mon, you know you've seen the infomercials and were thinking of buying the videos anyway. I already tried to get Dan and my sister Bec on board but apparently the week before Thanksgiving isn't the ideal time to solicit exercise partners. Who knew? I suppose I'll have to rely on cyber-support from the message boards.

No matter what, it's on. I wrote it here. That means it's in stone. Wait, wasn't there another promise I made here that involved a three-month commitment?

Melliterary Spew

The 12 days 'til Bookish are such a pain to me! I'm going to need fuel. Since the days of smoking butts are over (four years on Christmas Eve---holla!), whatever shall I use?



Seriously, can you blame me?

Loved this movie.

It was just so good.

More inappropriate blogging.

The results:
Just to be clear: “There are no signs of breast cancer.”

Yesterday I experienced two significant milestones in the life of woman. (No, they weren’t making out with a girlfriend “just to try it” or breaking into my husband's e-mail account to find what needs finding ---check and check.) The first one is a matter of life and death and the second is an issue of sperm and egg.

Last week during my appointment with Jodi I showed her a lump on the side of my breast---it felt more like a jelly bean than the pebble I was supposed to be looking for---and after she felt it she sent me to get a breast ultrasound at the York Hospital Breast Care center (since I’m still too young for mammograms…and anal). We both agreed that it was probably a lymph node (after the appointment I found a similar “lump” on my other breast) but since it has been there for more than a year she decided I should get it checked out.

Yesterday I went in and, as expected, it was indeed a lymph node. In the week leading up to it I wasn’t worried at all and when Dan asked if I wanted him to come with me I told him it absolutely wasn’t necessary. (I don’t worry about big things like this; they are way too far out of my control. Instead, I focus on my attention on little things like am I sure I turned off the stove? and was that store clerk scowling at me because I somehow offended her with the way I said “plastic” instead of paper?) I wasn’t going to waste an ounce of energy worrying about breast cancer and in the end I didn’t need to.

I went into the exam room, asked “Diane” if I was supposed to tie the robe in the front (which made sense but still caused a moment’s pause), laid down on the table and got a breast ultrasound. (They really love that jelly don’t they? We were dealing with a particularly small area, and still I needed two hand cloths to wipe myself down.) Within minutes she was able to see that it was a lymph node and all was well…

Except, the room had a sadness to it. All I could think of was that on that examination bed, in that tiny room, many women had received very different news. I’m sure many women hate that room. (I, myself, was grateful that this ultrasound was taking place in the Breast Care center and not in the radiology department where I first learned I was miscarrying.) Though Diane was very warm, this room was small and there was sad daytime radio playing. A husband or partner would barely be able to fit in there to hold a hand. I’m glad I don’t have to hate that room.

As uneventful as the breast ultrasound was (thankfully), it was still an event; my first beyond-the-hand breast exam, my first “lump.” Sitting in the waiting room, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s words “Light tomorrow with today” on the wall, I realized just how significant this moment is for a woman, particularly for the one woman in the U.S. being diagnosed with breast cancer every three minutes and the one women who will die of breast cancer every 13 minutes (according to Susan G. Komen for the cure ®). I am fortunate that things went as they did, though keenly aware that I’ve entered a phase of life where statistics such as these resonate a bit more.

The second event, well…I wasn’t going to write about this one. I mean I really, really wasn’t going to write about this one because I’m pretty sure it falls under the category of TMIPBV (too much information promoting bad visuals), plus it's pretty effing embarrassing (even for me). But I can’t help myself. Too ripe.

Yesterday, I got sized for a diaphragm.

Rim Shot sound bite Cool Sounds sound bites

I told Jodi when I went in yesterday that my sisters had been busting my balls about the whole thing (Mattie said, “How thick is this thing---is it like a tire?”) and she said, “Were they calling you June Cleaver?” (No, they had not made that particular joke. Thanks, Jodi.)

I have always been anti-diaphragm for a reason based in staunch feminist principles: my mom had one. There are just certain things you don’t want to have in common with your mom.

But I was out of options. I loathe condoms and last winter when my estradiol level registered at below 10, the level of postmenopausal women, I hurried off my birth control pills and swore them off completely. Plus, I don’t buy organic, hormone-free meat and dairy products so I can ingest the hormones directly. I’m getting crunchy in my old age and I just want my body to perform at maximum capacity and have it do what it does without altering its natural processes. That said, I don’t want my body doing what it does with Dan’s body, to create a baby. I know that some would argue that my not having a child during these “child-bearing years" is going against my body’s natural processes. I understand this and will take the risk---and as I’ve read it, there are risks--- to settle what needs settling before baby-making.

I actually went into Jodi’s office last week planning to ask her about getting an IUD. While waiting, I sat in her office playing with the plastic Mirena uterus and trying to figure out how a miniature pogo stick could prevent pregnancy. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of an IUD. I don’t know much about it but the risk of a punctured uterus frightens me a bit, especially since my uterus has already been put through the wringer so to speak. I also don’t dig the idea of the heavy bleeding and cramping associated with the ParaGard IUD or the synthetic progesterone released from the Mirena IUD to combat those side effects. (These are the only two IUDs available in the U.S.)

But I had made up my mind to go for it anyway (what choice did I have?) until Jodi told me that getting an IUD was a good option if I was sure I didn’t want children for the next two years since it’s more of a long-term birth control solution, and I felt a surprsing pang of sadness. I know right now I want to wait to have children; I don’t know what I’ll want next year or even next month.

Jodi (being Jodi) understood my ambivalence and pointed me in the direction of the diaphragm. (“If you can get over that mom thing it might make sense,” she said.) The pros: It’s not a mood-breaker since it can be dealt with hours before and hours after, I’m not messing with my body’s chemistry and there’s a third reason but it involves the word sensation so I’m going to leave it out.

Another benefit is that there’s still a potential element of surprise associated with the diaphragm. MayoClinic.com says that it is 84% effective though this increases if used properly and consistently. I like the idea that the possibility exists that something could happen without my planning it---that’s part of the fun of getting pregnant, the buzz of being late and wondering what if. (Jodi also said that it takes the decision out of my hands a bit; there’s some element of the “universe” telling me what is supposed to be. This is exactly what I wanted---though I couldn't articulate it---and exactly why I love Jodi. She also said that the world wouldn’t be populated without these types of birth controls---“when it fails, it's because people aren't using it”--- which made me laugh.)

So I went and got sized which is something I could only ever do with Jodi (and maybe Justin Timberlake). For the most part she stayed out of the room while I got acquainted (though she did offer to take a picture for the blog). She also had me stand up and walk around to be sure it was comfortable which felt like when you take those awkward mini-walks in a shoe store to see if a shoe fits properly. (I was looking for the shin-high mirror.) Awkwardness out of the way (and I think we're mostly past that part of the blog as well), she went over the facts with me.

You use it with spermicide (a word that cracks me up as it conjures images of sperm genocide…and who doesn’t like a little genocide humor?) so at least there’s another line of defense. Plus, I’m going to do a little research on the whole “Family Planning” approach (sounds very Suze Orman) which involves things like Basal Body Temperature and knowing when the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars, I think.

While it is so very hard to admit that I will be using a diaphragm (I haven’t picked it up yet), I’m hoping that maybe I’m at the forefront of some cool, retro trend that is making a comeback like stretch pants and cocaine. At some point people are going to realize birth control pills (and store-bought meat that contributes to girls getting a set of Double D’s at age six) are not good for them. (Though this will be the end of profit-driven medicine---swine flu vaccinations, anyone?---and thus the end of life as we know it, but that’s another entry.)

Maybe I’m a trend(re)setter. Maybe soon women will be knocking down their gynecologists’ doors for diaphragms and lining up at midnight for the latest models. They'll be available in lots of neat colors and will come with jewel-encrusted cases! Apple® will introduce the iPhragm!

I’ll just sit back fanning the flame of a “pregnancy epidemic!” and lining my pockets. Just thinking of it gets me in the mood (for something to happen up to 6-8 hours from now).