Rendezvous

When Ron and I started down the "let's make a family" road, we decided to be super casual and relaxed about it. We took the we're trying-but-not-trying approach. The whatever happens happens path.

Nothing happened.

We thought we should maybe focus our efforts. But just a tad. When I would read about other women and their fertility challenges, I shook my head at all the pills and shots and needles and crazy decisions, like jetting off to meet up in a city for a rendezvous during critical days. We're not going to be like that, I thought.

So guess what Ron and I mapped out the other night? Flight plans. We're going to be apart due to business travel next month. Er, we were going to be apart. Now we're meeting up 3000 miles away from home.

Separate Cities

"Are you excited you have the whole place to yourself?" I asked my husband the other night.

I'm out of town and he's raking in six days without me.

"No way," he claims. "It means double-dog duty, double-cleaning duty, and double-food duty. Plus, I miss hanging with you at night."

Aw, isn't that sweet? I suspect he's just being nice though. When I'm home alone, I miss our conversations and his warm body to cuddle up to in bed. But still, as soon as he leaves town, I go a little nutty. Every issue that we compromise on in our marriage is immediately reverted back to "my way."

First, I head to the thermostat and warm the place up. Then I open all the shades, letting sunlight spill into every corner of the house. I turn on Christmas music in July and stay up until 2am, writing away on my laptop and watching chick flicks. I eat cereal for lunch, more cereal for dinner, and cereal for dessert. I love an empty house.

Some separation in a marriage is good. After a few days I'm unbearably lonely. And I'm that much more excited to see him when we join together again.

I Survived

In a cab, visiting the lovely city of Chicago, the driver turns to me and says, "So where ya from?"

I've come to hate that question. The answer gets stuck in my throat.

Ron took to our east coast move like a duck to water. Me -- not so much. I love the people, but haven't connected with the geographical region. Ron will always say, "We live in DC," and I'm constantly chiming in over his shoulder: "But we just moved from LA," or "But my heart is still in California."

It's been 15 months. California is starting to feel farther and farther away. Saying, "I'm from LA" doesn't feel so truthful anymore (and that little fact just about causes me to burst out crying).

So when the cabby asked me, "So where ya from?" I said: "I'm from W...Wash...WashingtonDCough."

I thought someone was going to have to rush over with a breathing tube and those little metal paddles to resuscitate me, but alas, I didn't die.

I said it, and I survived.

You Can Quote Me on That...

I’m here at BlogHer representing Wasa. Speaking of, a few posts about yoga and food (well, coffee actually) are up over at EatWasaFeelGood. If you haven’t stopped by yet, come on over.

Wasa made business cards for me to hand out at the conference, and before creating them they asked me what “quote” I wanted to print on the back. I hemmed and hawed and tried to drum up my favorite lines from poets and writers…you know, those people who have a way with words.

Before I had the chance to pick one, they suggested a line. It sounded familiar. I realized it was from my own blog. Ha! I felt like the writer in the movie When Harry Met Sally (“No one has ever quoted me back to me before…”).

~~~

The Quote: Yoga isn’t only about lunges and spinal twists and hamstring stretches. It’s also about awareness. Take some time today to have a present moment, wonderful moment. See, touch, taste, smell, listen. And breathe. Bring your practice of yoga out of the studio and into the world.

Okay, so I’m no Hemingway. But writing is the best profession. Ever.

Happy Feet

I’m wincing and limping around the BlogHer conference here in Chicago because I have two huge blisters – one on the bottom of each foot.

I walked from the train station to Navy Pier.

Supposedly it is 20 minutes away, but I got lost.

In sandals.

And with a huge bag slung over my shoulder that was stuffed with a laptop, books, and rain gear.

Yes, rain gear – did I mention the streets were sopping wet from early morning storms and the air was thick with humidity?

I traveled busy sidewalks, a dark and scary underpass, a gorgeous green park, and the pretty lakeside.

It was a blast. I love this city.

Great theater, tasty restaurants, fun sports teams, awesome shopping, nice bike paths, pretty skyline, excellent museums, big lake…but more than anything, I simply enjoy the feel of this place. It’s a happy city.

I finally showed up to BlogHer, clothes bedraggled (part of my bra was showing - nice), hair frazzled, and make-up dripping off my face. I regrouped in the bathroom and have been spending the day meeting lots fun blogging women and gaining insight into this crazy cyberworld. It's good to be here.

Not Feelin' It

At the gas station I can smell the sink of benzene – if I sniff really, really hard.

And heading up and down the stairs my chest hurts – if I run really, really fast.

And in the mornings I feel like barfing – if I eat something that doesn’t mesh with my system at all.

The first (and only) time I was pregnant I could tell within 48 hours. People think I’m nuts when I say this but I swear it’s true. My body was that sensitive and tuned-in (no major sniffing or running required).

Of course the downside to my intuition is that I can also tell within 48 hours that I’m not preggers. ("I'm not feelin' it," I keep saying to my husband.)

It's been well over 48 hours. Sigh.

Sidenote: Okay, I feel compelled to offer apologies to random people who are stopping by this blog. I don’t mean to spill too much information all over the page, but the topic of infertility (I think) needs some deserved attention. I was talking with my mom on the phone earlier tonight about this whole issue, and at the end of it all I just felt the way I’ve felt all along: that a lot of people struggle with infertility but don’t like to talk about it because it’s so emotionally devastating. And it is emotionally devastating – but for whatever reason I feel comfortable being open about my journey. I just hope that by doing so I’m helping and not hindering (sort of like: hey, if you’re going through this you’re not alone type of thing).

On a happier note, I'm off to Chicago to meet a bunch of bloggers and visit my old college roommate...I'll post from the road!

Hollywood History

“Joan of Arc or Attila?” I ask my husband as I hold up two red envelopes from Netflix.

“Oh, brother,” he says, looking them over.

They’re both made-for-television mini-series and include pauses for commercial breaks and everything.

“When are you going to give me the online password so I can pick our movies?” he asks.

I admit that lately I’ve been going overboard in the documentaries department. Last week it was Fidel: The Untold Story and next week it’s The Crusades: Disk 1.

I’m trying to make up for lost time. In high school, I never paid attention during history class. Nothing but battles, and wars, and pictures of men in military uniform.

Blech.

But now I’ve come to regret those days I spent doodling cartoon characters in my notebook instead of listening to lectures. Those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it, right?

So I’m creating this huge timeline in my head:

While the white men were continuing to invade the tribes' land (Dances with Wolves) women were single-handedly holding down farms while pointing shotguns to fend off vagrants (Cold Mountain). After the civil war, Americans built log cabins and spent their days milking cows and haying to store up food for winter while they tried to claim land under The Homestead Act (Frontier House). Fast forward to the 1900s and a man dressed in loincloth who barely ate helped lead the Indian independence movement (Gandhi) when shortly afterwards China began taking over Tibet and Heinrich Harrer made friends with the Dali Lama (Seven Years in Tibet).

Yes, yes I realize I’m including some fiction films.

And Ron is quick to point out important matters such as: “I don’t think they used the phrase ‘Give it all you got’ in Germany in the 1940s.

But that’s Hollywood History for ya.

Strange Animal

Blogging is a strange animal.

It’s raw and honest and immediate. Sometimes words don’t come out right the first time (hope you’ll forgive me for those mistakes), and I’ll tweak the posts or delete them. But usually I like the raw version of things.

Looking back now it almost seems like a fluke that I decided to start Roughly Speaking.

At first I used blogging as a way to incorporate a regular writing practice.

Then it became less about me and more about you.

Meaning, I wanted to connect with you.

The funny thing is I’m not even sure who “you” are (unless you leave comments or send me e-mails, I haven’t a clue). But thanks for stopping by. To wind down my writing days, I usually take a walk in early evenings before my husband comes home from work and think about you.

My prayer is – as time goes on and I improve (hopefully) at this writing gig – that I can blog less about fluff and more about issues that hit the core of life.

This week I’m heading to a blogging conference in Chicago where I'll be representing another blog I write for four days a week: EatWasaFeelGood.

I’m curious to see what I’ll learn at the conference, who I will meet, what blogs I will begin to read, and how my perspective about blogging might change.

But bottom line: blogging is a strange, strange animal.

I absolutely love it.

Empty Newsstand

Did Harry Potter croak?

I’ve been navigating around hundreds of people at our little local bookstore trying to get my hands on the August issue of Northern Virginia magazine. Given the craze, the bookstore has been way too busy to stock their newsstand. I saw the boxes of magazines sitting on the floor and at one point even inquired about digging through publications myself, but nope. This morning I finally caved and drove to a big ol’ Barnes & Noble to buy it. Last spring I had a blast visiting family farms here in Virginia (this free-range meat farm and this sustainably-grown vegetable farm). My article “Livin’ La Vida Local” talks about the business of farming, old-school wisdom, and CSA subscriptions. In another life I seriously think I could’ve raised chickens. Fun fun.

Anyway, I haven’t read any of the Harry Potter books. I think I only want one go around with that series so I figured I’d wait until I have kids and read the books to them. But I am curious to know if Harry kicked the bucket.

Acupuncture: No Pain, No Gain

I’m at the doctor’s office today, very un-pregnant, when the doctor tells me to give it a few more months. I’m still healing from the surgery (which went very well) and he convinces me I don’t need to resort to the turkey baster method…yet. I ask him about alternative therapy and he’s all for it. He takes a prescription pad and scribbles down the name and location of an acupuncturist who can help with my endometriosis.

Here’s the thing. I write about alternative therapy. I blog about yoga and healthy eating over here, and I’m completely on board with massage, breath work, herbal teas, etc. . . but I draw the line at needles. There’s something about the idea of lots of tiny needles being inserted into my body that doesn’t sit well with me (I've heard that it does hurt, not to mention that two women told me acupuncture made their periods longer and heavier…the last thing I need!)

Later, I’m having lunch with my friend Elizabeth, and I run the acupuncture idea by her. She’s also squeamish about needles.

“I’ll go with you,” she says.

“Really?” I say. “You’ll go with me to my acupuncture appointment?”

She nods. We are both eating Chicken Tikka Masala at an Indian restaurant in Georgetown, and I scoop up a forkful of rice. But I hesitate before putting it in my mouth.

“You’ll hold my hand?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

“And you won’t freak out if I cry?” I say.

“I won’t,” she says.

Although it does dawn on us that she might pass out when she actually sees the needles. Still, I’d rather be there with her than alone with the practitioner.

But needles? I don’t know.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

“You can write about it,” Elizabeth says.

Oh, fine. I’ll call the guy tomorrow.

Processing

My head is still spinning.

Yesterday I ate lunch with three moms who have (or will have) adopted a child.

There was a kitchen full of salads and couscous and veggies with hummus. Cheese and meatballs and ice-cream with strawberries.

We hit on some heavy issues. We talked about what to do when the birth mother wants to visit and hold the adoptive mother’s baby for seven hours straight. And how in the US these days, open adoptions are the norm. We talked about answering comments from strangers when they look at your kid, discomfort in their eyes, and spurt out, “Your daughter inherited your nose,” even though the daughter is Indian and the mom is as white as dough. We talked about lawyers and agencies and different countries all over the world. We talked about the power of genes and the power of grief and power of love, especially about how love . . . grows, over time.

A little girl woke up from her nap and the meal broke up. The mom returned from the nursury with a beautiful 1 year old. Strawberry blonde hair and big blue eyes. The baby walked and fell and crawled and babbled. Then she handed me a book. For the first time that afternoon I laughed and smiled, the hurdles over adoption that seemed insurmountable began sliding away.

My head is still spinning.

~

A couple new posts are online over at EatWasaFeelGood.com/blog.

Bungalow

I
scroll,
scroll,
scroll
through the Internet looking at pictures and advertisements as we try to find a place to live.

We moved to the east coast well over a year ago and have been in “temporary” housing ever since (actually, we’ve been in temporary housing from the day we married, but that’s another story).

When it comes to real estate, nothing feels right. Squeezing into a small apartment doesn’t make sense because we’re hoping to start a family. Yet a house in the suburbs doesn’t feel right either – not quite my style.

“I need a place to live that is semi-artsy,” I tell Ron. “Like a . . . bungalow. Hey, let’s rent a bungalow!”

“You’re a bungalow,” Ron says.

(According to Ron I’m also a cricket, a shea nut, and a punkin’)

“I am not. What exactly is a bungalow?” I ask.

He shrugs. “To me it’s code word for small.”

Smaller than a house, bigger than an apartment, and artsy. Also, they remind me of my favorite place -- California.

A bungalow in Washington DC . . . now that’s an interesting combination. It just might work.

Weekend Reading

The Colony?

or

Moloka'i?

Anyone read these? Which one? They both deal with the time period (late 1800s to mid-1900s) when the American and Hawaiian governments deported leprosy sufferers to Moloka'i.

I tend to opt for non-fiction (The Colony) but the historical fiction novel (Moloka'i) looks good too.

Or should I read the Kite Runner guy's new book instead?

Oh, who am I kidding? I'll probably read all three. What are you reading this weekend?

It's a Start

At the very end of our honeymoon my camera battery died. Next month we're about to celebrate our four year anniversary and I still haven't replaced it. Ron takes pictures from time to time. Or sometimes my friends send them to me. I used to be a nut with the camera, but the day the battery died I just sort of thought, Why don't I enjoy the moments instead of trying to capture them? But - now I visit other blogs and LOVE all the pictures. They add so much life. So I grabbed my camera bag off the closet shelf and dusted it off. It's a start.

Dreamland

Last night I did something I've never done before.

I prayed before going to bed (okay, I've done that thousands of times). But I specifically prayed that God would reveal a wee little bit about my future in a dream. Not sure that's wise, but I'm trying so hard to be patient, wondering whether or not my husband and I will have kids. And my patience is wearing. So I thought maybe, only if God wanted to, he could give me a little clue in a dream.

So.

My dream.

Ron and I are with my brother and sister-in-law. They have a boy named Mike (in real life they don't have kids yet), and Mike is about four. He's wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, and little round spectacles.

The four of us (me, Ron, my brother, and sis-in-law) are looking at a house for sale and we are excited because the house has six bedrooms and we need that many rooms for all the "kids."

Only it's not clear if it's a house for us, or them, or all of us together. Besides, other than Mike, there are no other kids in the dream (certainly not six).

Also, there is a chef in the kitchen making tacos.

Huh.

~

P.S. A couple new posts are online over at EatWasaFeelGood.com/blog.

Sweet Bird

We came home from dinner last night and Ron said, “There’s a dead bird on our deck.”

A beautiful black and white woodpecker. Young. Soft feathers, curled claws, perfect beak, beady eyes. You wouldn’t know he was dead except he wasn’t moving and his long, thin red tongue was sticking out of his mouth sideways, almost like out of a cartoon.

Ron suspects it flew into the sliding glass door and broke its neck.

I knelt and held the bird. I stroked him and cried. I cried a lot (I had a little too much wine at dinner).

I suggested burying him. Ron thought we should lay him out in the wilderness and let nature take its course. Ron ended up half-burying it, half letting it be. He laid it among dirt and branches and leaves.

Today is winding down and I’m still a little bummed about that sweet bird.

Art

One painting is a bunch of trees among green land and fog. It's sort of an impressionist style. Another is a painting of the sky with the words of Psalm 19:1-4 written among the clouds. And the third painting is a huge white sheep feeding two black lambs.

The paintings are from a local Maryland artist. Nothing fancy, nothing expensive. Her work simply spoke to me.

Last night Ron and I unpacked the three paintings from their shipping boxes and set them up against our bare walls.

We have no couches, no rugs, no coffee tables, no lamps, no dishes, not much of anything in the cabin.

But we have art.

July 4

Happy July 4 (one day late). One time, back when I lived in California, my friends set me up on a blind date on July 4. Met the guy and thought they were nuts. Right now I'm looking across the table in a coffee house at this same guy. Yesterday, as we were gazing down on fireworks from 8500 feet up in the mountains, Ron looked at me and said, "The night we met, would you ever have imagined that six years later we'd be here together?" Not in a million years. I'm so glad life worked out differently than I planned.

Outta Here

Late, late, late last night Ron and I roll up to the retreat house. It’s been a long day of traveling. Vacation is officially here.

We collapse into bed.

In the morning I take a shower. I’m ready to hit the great outdoors.

Usually I’m working on articles, assignment, and book projects when we travel. I will always write on vacation – because I can’t help it. But I did finished everything that was “due” before we left.

We have trails to hike, hot springs to swim, Coronas to drink, parades to watch, a party to attend, and a whole lot of lazing on the deck to accomplish.

First thing this morning, though, Ron has a conference call. When he hangs up, he says he needs to check something about the stock market, so off to the Internet café we go. And here we are. I’m using this time to journal and work on the EatWasaFeelGood blog.

But outside the sun is shining and the sky is robin egg blue.

Finally Ron looks at me. “Ready?”

Yep. I’m outta here!

Evan Almighty

Evan Almighty - watched it yesterday.

Loved it.

Hollywood struggles (I think) when it tries to portray God-driven messages on film, but there is something about mixing biblical truths with comedy that works well.

Here is my favorite line from the movie, spoken by Morgan Freeman who plays God:

When people pray for patience, do you think God grants them patience? Or opportunities to be patient? When people pray for courage, do you think God grants them courage? Or opportunities to be courageous? When people pray to grow closer to their family do you think God sends along warm, fuzzy feelings? Or the opportunity to spend more time with family?

Ron and I thought that line was inspired genius. Both our eyes welled with tears. Afterwards, we were like, "Okay we just almost cried during Evan Almighty!" What can I say? Good movie.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0413099/