Hey Bartender

Gimme a pineapple juice – on the rocks.

Yep, I’m giving up red wine. Most days I don’t care, but on occasion I do love a glass of Zen of Zin.

I’m also giving up coffee. Watch out. I gave up coffee once before when I was an associate in a law firm (I know, I know, horrible timing). It wasn’t pretty. I gained five pounds in five seconds. I had a headache everyday at 2:00pm. Plus I was grumpy and freezing (lack of hot liquids).

Now I’m giving up these vices to increase my chance of pregnancy.

Why do I have a feeling this is just the first step down a long road?

Meaning, why do I have a feeling I’m going to be sacrificing a bunch of different parts of me if I have kids (my belly, my boobs, my food intake, my career, movie nights with my husband, my preference to spend hours burying myself in a book, etc, etc, etc?).

Just please don’t tell me I’m going to have to schedule an appointment with an acupuncturist to increase my chances of fertility. Listen future baby – love ya peanut, I really do, but Mama doesn’t do needles. Mama no like-y! Not at all!

My Former Life

“Skip my feet,” I tell the massage therapist. They are beat up from running, and I don’t like other people touching them.

I forget to tell her about my neck.

Before my treatment, I was reading The Fifth Mountain by Paulo Coelho. It’s a fictionalized version of the story of Elijah. Jezebel had given an order to all prophets: worship Baal or be killed.

I wondered.
I pondered.
I debated.

If an arrow was pointed at my heart, would I stand up for God? Or would I be like Peter and deny three times?

I don’t think anyone really knows until put to the test.

On my back, the massage therapist’s hands are under my hair, up my neck. I scrunch my shoulders and pop open my eyes. She is my height, except with dirty blonde hair braided down her back and blue eyes the color of ice – not cold ice, ice that twinkles like two small stars.

“I have issues with my neck,” I say.

I tell her that I was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around it. I’ve never been able to handle scarves, turtlenecks, choker necklaces, shirts with collars that poke up, and certainly not a massage therapist’s hands.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” She wants to know.

“After death, I believe our souls go on to another life, but I don’t believe we come back to this earth.” When I say this earth I tap the cushioned table.

“You know what it means – the umbilical cord around your neck – don’t you?” she asks.

I don’t.

“In a former life you were hung.”

I break into a fit of giggles. I’m honored. “Hey, maybe I was hung because I refused to waiver from my spiritual beliefs,” I say.

My massage therapist claims she was burned at the stake. “But I wasn’t really a witch,” she says.

Good to know.

Eat Your Greens

At restaurants I love salads. Spinach salads, mixed greens, spring greens, pear salads, all of them.

The other day my Mom said: why do I hate salad when I make it at home?

Me too! I said.

Why, why, why?

Somebody explain.

~

As far as an update on the Colorado adventure – it’s beyond excellent. I ache for my husband (who’s back in DC neck deep investing stocks, though he’ll be here next trip when we’ll have a house blessing). But I love the clean air, quiet living, and snow dusting – gorgeous white flakes. The home is energy efficient. It has a wood burning stove and you should see me in action. I have a new appreciation for Cinderella. Logs, ashes, fire pokers – that girl worked hard. No wonder she was dirty! I haven’t chopped my own wood yet. I wanted to but my dad and my real estate agent both said, “PLEASE NO! If you miss with that ax you’ll chop your foot off.” Good point. Maybe I'll leave that to Paul Bunyan.

~

My second Ask a Blogger column is online at MaHC. Check it out if you have time.

Light Bulb over My Head

Thank you to the people who invented contact lenses, tampons, and Lactaid milk. Love those items -- couldn't live without them. But I could use a few more things. So if there are any budding Thomas Edisons out there, consider this:

1. Back Scratch Treatment: I'm never satisfied with a massage at the spa. It's either too ticklish, too painful, or the masseuse doesn't devote enough time to my back. I'd like to go to a spa and simply sign up for a back scratch treatment. The technician would have to have long nails and scratch my back for a full hour. Doesn't that sound lovely?

2. Half Glass of Wine. Any restaurant owners out there? Can you please start offering half glasses of wine? One glass never quite gets me through the meal, but two and I'm feeling silly, dehydrated, and later (around 2am) like an insomniac. I would like the option to order a half glass after I finish my first full glass. Please.

3. Organic Fast Food Chains. Do you know how annoyed I become when I'm traveling and my only options are McDonalds, Pizza Hut, and Kentucky Fried Chicken? Can't someone invent a fast food chain that serves healthy, organic fare? Fresh fruits, whole wheat breads, natural smoothies without all the sugar and gunk?

4. Self-Confidence Pill. These days you can pop a pill for anxiety, depression, and ADD. There are pills that prevent pregnancy, give a guy's private part a lift, and rid people of terrible illnesses. There is even a pill that addicts can take that will make them throw up (or something like that) if they begin using again. How about a self-confidence pill? I'd love to get up in the morning, pop one of those suckers, and plow through my day without ANY worries, doubts, or little voices in my head that say, that essay (or article, or chapter, or paragraph, etc.) is not good enough!

Okay peeps -- I'm off to Colorado for a couple weeks to buckle down and work on my two books. Internet access will be infrequent, but I'll check in and post when I have the chance.

Oh by the way, if anyone does invent one of my suggestions and ends up filthy rich, please remember where you got the idea in the first place and spread the wealth!

A Gigantic Salt Bath

Last month, at a writers’ workshop, my teacher handed everyone gift bags. Mine had salt inside.

Salt?

For a salt bath, she said.

It’s healing, she said.

That’s cool, I said and stuffed my gift bag in my suitcase. I’ll take a salt bath one day – if I remember, I thought.

But I forgot.

Then, on Saturday, Ron and I flew to a happy little Dutch island off of the coast of Venezuela. It was 94 degrees, yellow sun, and a perfect breeze. An exploding white cloud drifted by. I heard someone call my name. It was the Caribbean Sea.

Hey girl, the Caribbean said. Come take a gigantic salt bath.

For four days I bobbed around her wild turquoise waters like a cork. I somersaulted and stretched out flat and wrapped my arms and legs around my husband so we could float and heal together. Even when I left the water to sit under a hut, sip a strawberry daiquiri, or walk the beach, the Caribbean stuck close by, white residue covering my arms, my legs, my hair.

Yesterday I left. I hated to go.

Come back again, the Caribbean said.

Now I’m catching up on phone calls, e-mail, and work. Blogs too. Then, tonight, I’m taking a bath. No turquoise sea, no sun, no strawberry daiquiri. But there will be candles and music and a glass of red wine. And there will be water and salt. Water and salt. Water and salt.

Conception 101

I decided to blog about conceiving a baby.

Then I changed my mind because someone said: “Your blog is full of TMI!”

TMI?

Too much information.

But I changed my mind again because – Earth to Jenny – writing about personal issues comes with the territory of first person writing.

Besides, the topic of conceiving is ripe with avenues to explore. And fertility problems seem to be a national epidemic. I’m here to help. (Help as in, if you’re one of these gals struggling to get knocked up, you’re not alone.)

Actually, I have no idea if I’m infertile or if my husband and I just have terrible timing. For a year, we’ve been trying-but-not-trying. No baby. And that's okay. I’ve lived most my life as a wadded up ball of stress, so I purposefully adopted a Type-B approach to baby-making.

Hey little peanut, whenever you want to arrive, feel free. The womb’s open for business.

Much better than attempting to control when, where, how, and what, right?

Not according to others.

My intellectual friends said: Buy the book Taking Charge of Your Fertility!

My practical friends said: Buy a $200 ovulation kit and a $50 package of sticks to pee on!

My mom said: You should worry about your biological clock!

My doctor said: Buy the book Taking Charge of Your Fertility and the test kit. Oh, and moms are always right – you should be FREAKED OUT about your biological clock!

My metaphysical friends said: Visualize!

Hmm.

My husband, bless his heart, said: “Whenever you’re ready, I’m ready."

Love him. I know he's been waiting on me to give the green light since our honeymoon three years ago. He's patiently listened as I've obsessed over the question: How do I know when I'm ready? Am I ready now? Now? What about now?

The other day, I felt ready.

Sitting on the floor, I crossed my legs, lengthened my spine, turned my palms to the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” Ron asked.

“Taking charge of my fertility,” I said. The book is in the mail, the ovulation kit is in the bathroom, and it’s time to go woo-woo. Bye-bye Type B.

“C’mon! Sit! We’ll meditate,” I said. “We’ll take deep breaths. We’ll visualize your sperm wiggling into my egg. We’ll chant: ‘I am pregnant, I am pregnant.’” (It’s important to utter affirmations in the present tense).

I began OM-ing.

“We could try this the old fashion way,” Ron said.

I opened my left eyelid and looked at him. “Have sex?”

“I meant prayer!”

Mental Health Day

Yesterday, I took a Mental Health Day.

As a kid, my brother used to take Mental Health Days. I remember the first one. I walked in the mudroom after cross country practice, dumped my backpack of books on the bench, grabbed a snack, and walked into the family room. There was Greg, wearing pajamas, slouched on the couch, playing Super Mario Brothers on his Nintendo.

“Are you sick?” I said.

“No. I needed some down time, so I took a Mental Health Day,” he said.

“And Mom agreed to this?” I said.

Yes, she did. Over the next eight years, she agreed to it again. And again. And again.

One day I shouted: “I NEVER GET MENTAL HEALTH DAYS!”

“You never ask for them,” Mom said.

True. Even after that open invitation, it never once dawned on me to request a Mental Health Day of my very own (which is probably why I burned out in my former career, but that’s another story).

But yesterday I was exhausted. I was recovering from an intense writers’ workshop, had been up working until 3am the night before, and was beaten down career-wise.

I remembered my brother’s solution to times of emotional drainage. I stayed in my pajamas until 1pm, channel surfed, and ate cereal. Then I took a long walk with my dog in the unseasonably warm autumn air. I ate comfort food (organic lentil soup and mac & cheese), and, when my husband came home, rested my head on his shoulder until I feel asleep.

I feel much better today.

So if you’re a mom and your kid is looking a little pooped – maybe having a tough week at school – consider giving him or her a Mental Health Day.

Most importantly, don’t forget to take one for yourself.