If you hate pity parties, you should probably leave now before you’re ankle deep in the one I’m throwing for myself.

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It’s soon to be Thanksgiving and it’s two days before my period, according to the little blister pack of birth control pills. This is a dreadful combination from which no good can come.

Every TV show is gearing up to have it’s requisite episode in which Thanksgiving is routinely denigrated and all the characters except one or two Pollyannna types are completely jaded and don’t see the point in celebrating what will surely be another miserable Thanksgiving.

BUT…before it’s all over, all the cynics and all the Pollyannas are breaking bread together and reminiscing in the warm glow as they sit around a gorgeous table. Everyone is content and glad they decided to participate. Thanksgiving triumphs once again. End scene.

And as I watch one or two or maybe even three of these, my heart aches with an emptiness that I cannot describe. If only I could adequately articulate my family situation, or rather lack thereof. It’s just too difficult to explain why, while I feel mountains of resentment towards my remaining “family” who are really all stepfamily anyway, I still wish there was something real and binding between us. I still want someplace to go home to with people who love me as I am, rather than in spite of it.

I would love nothing more than to have brothers and sisters to snipe with while preparing the big meal or that annoying yet loveable relative who does the same irritating things year after year. Something. Some tradition. Something to count on. For some remnant of a real family…I would give anything.

Instead, we ponder our plans since my elderly in-laws have opted to go elsewhere and decide to accept my sister-in-laws invitation. While I am happy to have somewhere to go (I did offer to cook here), it’s not my family. There IS no fantasy family gathering and presumably, until my kids are grown and have families of their own, there will never BE one of those fantasy family gatherings. Intellectually, I know this and yet I continue to torture myself over it year after year.

I just really can’t stand Thanksgiving anymore. Though I am eternally grateful and thankful for my husband and children, I can’t help but fixate on the fact that the primary function of this holiday, beyond giving thanks, is to remind me that other than the people I live with, there is nobody in this world, no family, that really gives a damn about me. And it hurts to recognize this bitter truth. But it is a fact and no amount of wisdom or philosophizing about any of it can change that fact.

/end pity party

God. It feels good to get that off my chest.

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EDITED TO ADD: To all the people who left such kind and understanding comments, it means the world to me to know that so many wise and compassionate people read this blog. Thank you so much. {{{hugs}}}

Um…you know how when you take antibiotics, there’s always this warning about your birth control pill possibly becoming less effective? I think that happened to me.

No! No pregnancy scares or anything like that!

Please. You’d actually have to have sex for something like that to happen.

Since I’ve been back on the pill, I’ve felt pretty level in terms of moodiness and being bitchy, fatigue etc.

But today…OMG…I’ve been super aggro and grouchy and I feel horrid. Very bad. Think PMS on steroids.

I think it’s because I’ve been taking antibiotics for a sinus thing and they are interfering with my BCP’s. I was in serious bitch mode today, as you will see in the story below.

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I hope everyone had a fun Halloween! TQ had a blast trick or treating with Wendy’s daughter, Girlie, but P was kind of cranky and ended the evening with full-on howling and crying in the car. Come to find out…his shoe was hurting his toe. Poor little guy…

Today he absconded with yet another remote for our other DVR. He’s already lost one and I strongly suspect he put that one in the trash can, insuring we will never, ever find it since that bag is long gone. But after he took off with our one remaining remote today and I turned the house upside down trying to find it, I only succeeded in finding the battery cover. *sigh* So…I had to get another one because the DVR, which also functions as a cable box, is useless without a remote.

After a fruitless trip to our local Circuit City, where I’m fairly certain you have to have a negative IQ to secure employment, I decided to hike it all the across the city to a Verizon Plus store to procure a replacement Motorola remote. The nice lady on the phone from Verizon (my phone & cable company) assured me they would have them so after I got TQ from school, the threeof us drove in gridlocked traffic only to be told by “Dino” that they don’t have them there.

As mentioned, I was pretty irritable already and this news didn’t help my mood. I politely asked “Dino” to find out where in fricken creation I have to go to get a replacement remote. He begrudgingly got on the phone with somebody from Verizon and with a very blatant eyeroll said, “I dunno. She says someone told her she could get them here.”

To clarify that I didn’t get this info from the homeless guy on the corner but rather from a Verizon representative, I interjected:

“I was told by the Verizon business office…” and he put his hand up at me and starts SHUSHING ME!

Because I had my kids with me and ONLY because of them, I decide to forgo this battle and start to walk away towards a waiting area sofa and he says:

“Yeah…you go over there”

THE HELL??? WAS I JUST DISMISSED???

Me: *whipping around* “WHAT did you just say to me???”

Dino: “Blah blah blah blah…blah blah blah I’m a rude asshole with man boobs and an ugly shirt blah blah blah”

Me: “What is your name?”

Dino: “Dino” said in a most smarmy tone which is even more irritating when coupled with his smugly face. Oh, and his jiggly little man-boobs. Ugh. Jerk.

I was still seething as I gathered the kids and went over to the guy on the other side of the store, who very kindly offered me the manager’s business card so I could complain about Dino, who apparently has a habit of mistreating customers. I know. It’s so hard to believe…

Anyway, this fabulous guy, Mike, ordered me two new remotes and LOANED ME one of their demos to use until mine arrive. How COOL is that??

Blood pressure drops about thirty points. Faith in human nature is restored. I thank Mike profusely for his kindness and sneer at Dino as I exit the store, making extra sure that he sees the loaner remote AND business card in my hand.

Hahhhhhh beyotch! Take that!

Good triumphs over evil and I don’t kill anyone despite my sincere desire to do so! *happy sigh*

I have these….thoughts….buzzing around in my brain. They’re begging me to make sense of them and put them up on my blog. They are those kind of thoughts that probably don’t mean much to anyone else but I am compelled to share them nonetheless. And that, gentle readers, is probably one of the best things about blogging. You think it, you type it, and SHABLAMMMMMMM! It’s out there. YOU are a publisher. It’s much more powerful than I realize sometimes.

But let me just drop the whole facade of a smoove segue and get right to the point (frequently difficult for me)…

The blogosphere is on it’s fricken ear lately. Or is that just me projecting onto everyone else? Many of us seem to be at turning points in our blogging endeavors. Some have quit. Some entertain quitting. Some are taking a break. Some are depressed. Some are feeling pressured. Others are feeling creatively-challenged. Some are re-evaluating why they blog at all.

I hate to get all meta on ya’ll because I know a few of you detest discussing blogging in the blog format but I don’t have any other outlet so here’s your chance to bail. Run while you can. The rest of you please make yourselves comfy, have a powdered sugar donut if you like *passes bag of Sweet Sixteens around*

So…is this the blogging equivalent of a seven year itch?

It seems like many of us that are nearing or have recently reached our one year anniversaries are doing a lot of blogger soul-searching these days. I know…this doesn’t apply to everyone. No need to comment on that. But it seems like so many people that I read and many that I care about are unhappy.

What gives?

Is it that after blogging for so long, we feel less inclined to hide the more unpleasant aspects of our lives? Has blogging just helped shine a light on the darker parts of our lives and our selves?

Are people just burning out and it’s manifesting itself in our blogging via lack of interest, creativity, joy, enthusiasm, inspiration etc?

Is it just a natural part of the evolution of the medium that after a certain point some will tire of it for whatever reason and drop off? I’ve only been here for 11 months so I have nothing to compare it to. Anyone who’s been around for a few years have any thoughts or observations on that?

Or is it a natural response to a Pavlovian device that trains us to love feedback and interaction and we simply exhaust ourselves trying to maintain that blogger’s high that we all got the first time we had more than two comments by working feverishly to top our personal best every day?

Is it that regular everyday blogging does not and can not live up to the awesome times many of us had at BlogHer, resulting in a sort of collective letdown? Because I do recall a lot of malaise or dysthymia amongst attendees several weeks after the hubbub died down.

I have personally tried not to give in to those blogging blues, to not voice my feelings on the topic as much as I’d like to sometimes. In some ways, I’ve actually focussed on other things, specifically avoiding discussion of the medium itself, like my avoidance of the news (which is working out very well for me in case you’re interested) but the fact is, I’m feeling some of the ick, too.

For a while now I have been quietly evaluating my place in the blogosphere and wondering if I’m still doing it for the right reasons or just doing it because I’ve done it for almost a year and it’s become an old shoe metaphor.

What is the old shoe metaphor? Well…imagine that you have a pair of shoes that are so tired and worn out but you love them anyway. They are comfy and they’re always there for you so you keep them; resisting having to go try on and consider new shoes. The old shoes work and you know they don’t cause blisters so you just keep wearing them. They are safe.

I love blogging. I love the ability to write how I feel and put it out there and get feedback (usually positive, occasionally trollish). I like sharing my ups and downs with all of you and hearing your thoughts on things. In a weird way, I feel very connected to you, though most of you are total strangers. Blogging has a way of making the world seem a little smaller and a little less impersonal and I like that.

I truly do love blogging.

But things have changed a little. At first, I thought it would be great to have a place where I could talk about my life without feeling self-centered and say how I really feel about things and basically be as blunt and honest as I wanted. My huz thought a blog would be well-suited to my need to rant and opine and express myself.

So I did it and it was fun. Exhilarating, even, when I would get a few comments and realize someone was reading my words and felt compelled to respond to them. I suddenly understood why actors and musicians crave an audience. And I blogged. And blogged. And read blogs. And commented on blogs. And blogged some more. And made friends. And met friends. And continued to blog.

But somewhere along the way, I’ve begun to feel less true to myself. And I’m not sure why because everything I write is exactly how I feel. I never fudge my feelings. But maybe I’m holding back a little? In the interest of pleasing or not displeasing those who continue to come here and share the love.

Why? My best guess is because I LOVE the love and I don’t want it to go away. And honestly…who could blame me?

But trying to figure out new and interesting ways to spin my not-so-interesting life and opinions about things, in addition to reading and commenting on 100+ blogs, is exhausting. I mean there’s only so much one can say about poop (with all due respect to those who do it so well) and my beautiful and occasionally challenging children and the ups and downs of marriage and life being a SAHM and ___ ___ ___ ___(fill in the blanks) without feeling like a slightly broken record after a while.

But life IS mostly mundane and repetitive and we do run over the same old ground every day but somehow covering that same ground yet again seems hackneyed (for me anyway). And when I break away from all that, I usually end up on some rant about my well-documented hatred for a culture that is not conducive to raising children so much as sexy little adults and daughters with terrible self-esteem

So there I am, wondering how I can possibly cover any of my activistic ranty topics yet again and at the same time wondering how I can NOT? Because that’s what’s important to me right now. As my daughter grows and ventures out into the world where I have less influence on her and less ability to protect and guide her, I see more and more the need to do just that; to rail against things that make my job impossible. And while a few of you disagree with my way of parenting, I feel strongly about these things and I ought to be able to write about them without wondering if I’m flogging another dead horse or boring you and being a downer.

And yet I do wonder. And I hate it. And I frown upon myself for caring.

But I love the love.

And because of that conflict, I feel a bit stuck. I feel like I’m hanging on to those damned old shoes, resisting the change that is inherent to all aspects of life…even blogging.

And I don’t know how to get unstuck. To feel uncompromised and unconflicted. To feel like I used to feel.

This morning I was flipping around like I do every morning trying to find something news-ish to watch that didn’t suck and I had an epiphany of sorts.

But first, I just have to say that I cannot stand the Today Show and especially Al Roker. There’s something about him that really bugs me. I also can’t stand how the FOUR hosts stand around and make lame chit chat with each other in the street. We’re supposed to find this entertaining?

But I digress.

I’ve been in a really down mood lately. It started a few weeks ago when I had a total meltdown one night when we were watching the late news. I just started crying about how much I hate the world; that if I had to hear one more story about a molested, kidnapped, raped or murdered child or woman or scuzzy pedophiles or a school shooting or genocide in Darfur or global warming or the impending extinction of yet another species or animal cruelty or child abuse or political corruption or the war…my head would explode. (To be fair, I would get my period a couple hours later and I can be nearly certifiable when I’m premenstrual)

I just find myself unable to be happy lately because of, I believe, a barrage of bad news that I can’t seem to escape. I can’t take anymore. I feel like the boy in that fairy tale The Snow Queen. He gets a piece of glass or something in his eye and from that point on, he can only see the negative things in the world.

So my epiphany, as I was looking for something decent to watch, was that I just need to bury my head in the sand for a while. As much as I like knowing what’s happening in the world, I have decided, for the sake of my mental health, to cut out all news except for NPR Morning Edition (because it’s always playing on my clock radio when I get up). I will not be reading the paper or watching the news on TV and I’ve removed all news links from my Google start page. This will be my new home page.

So what do you think? Can watching too much bad news depress people? Or do I just need some good meds?

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On a completely unrelated note, there’s a new post up over at Props and Pans where I discuss a product I was asked to sample. Go check it out if you get a chance :)

Friend in town last night.

Too many beers.

Must die now.

Get your barf bags ready, people. The braintrust that brought the world Bratz dollz are at it again…

Bratz Twin Babyz Lingerie Dollz

Phoebe “Sugar” is described as “sweet and mild” and dressed in a fluffy pink jacket with pink and black underwear, while Roxxi “Spice” is described at ‘wild and spicy” and has an open fake leather jacket and skimpy red and black lingerie. Both dolls have baby milk bottles hanging off chains strapped to their legs.

Click to enlarge

I’m not sure if these things are being sold in the US or not but in Australia, sales are expected to reach one million this year. WTF???

But WAIT! Grab another barf bag. It gets worse…

Target stores in Australia are also selling Bratz and Barbie padded bras for little girls starting at size 6 and if you look at it in the photo below, the first two sets on the left and in the middle are very mature looking. In fact, it’s not unlike lingerie that I own. But it’s for little kids which is just gross.

LITTLE GIRLS SIZE 6, people!

Click the image to enlarge

If you haven’t seen this video, you must. Both moving and chilling, it made me cry. Thanks to Patti for the link.

Five years today seems like a lifetime ago. So much has transpired both in the world and in my own life. I’m sure you could say the same.

That day started out like any other. We had just bought our house and my husband, who was self-employed, was home that day. Like every other morning, PBS dominated the television as my one year old daughter, newly walking, toddled around the house.

Around noon, the phone rang and my best friend, who happened to be in town at her mother’s house, said “Are you watching TV?” and I laughed. “Does Reading Rainbow count?”

“Turn on CNN”

“Okay, hang on. Whoa! What IS that?”

“It’s the World Trade Center”

We would soon find out that a plane crashed into the Pentagon and another in a field in Pennsylvania.

The rest of the day is a blur. The only thing I know for sure is that the TV never went off that day. We were simultaneously horrified and mesmerized by the billowing black smoke and the images of those buildings falling, over and over.

In the days and weeks to come, I cried an immeasurable amount of tears. Each story was sadder than the one before. There seemed to be no end to them.

Five years later, we find ourselves mired in a nonsensical “war” in Iraq. Oil prices are higher than they’ve every been. Iran now has nuclear weapons. And the mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks is still free. *sigh*

My heart continues to go out to all who have lost someone because of what happened on this day five years ago, directly or indirectly and to those who suffer compromised health as a result of being rescue responders. There simply are not adequate words to express how sorry I am.

Peace be with us all.

PLEASE NOTE: If you’re pregnant, you should probably skip this post.

I read something today that brought back a sad memory. In the abstract, it doesn’t really hurt anymore and that is where I keep it. It is the place where I keep all painful memories; that vague place where thoughts and feelings have been forcibly separated. I believe it’s what they call a ‘coping mechanism’.

I can talk about my [tag]miscarriage[/tag] rather clinically and dispassionately now, as if it happened to someone else but sometimes, something — a word, a phrase, a similar story will crack open that door and the memories start furtively darting out, refusing to comply and go back where they belong.

For the second time in two days I have been reminded of the [tag]baby[/tag] that is no more. The one I wanted so badly. My husband was less enthusiastic about the prospect of being a father. He admitted that he was scared but had conceded at my insistence.

We were at a wedding when I started cramping and spotting. I had noticed, in the days previous that I had been feeling less…[tag]pregnant[/tag]. But I was 11 weeks and nearing that first trimester finish line. I assumed that was the reason for my feeling better.

Later that night my doctor met my husband and I at the hospital as my cramps were getting stronger. The doctor couldn’t find a heartbeat. I was told to come to the office the next morning for an ultrasound as there was no technician available.

I went alone, hoping against hope that the doctor was simply mistaken and the baby was fine.

There was still no heartbeat. The fetus only measured 8 weeks. Inside me was our tiny baby and it was no longer alive. I wanted to yell and scream and curse God but I didn’t. I just cried quietly. Nobody comforted me; just a few pats on the back from the nurses and a date for an outpatient [tag]D&C[/tag] the following Friday.

In the days that followed, I cried and mourned and sometimes denied that this was happening. Why hadn’t anyone told me that as many as 50% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage? Why didn’t anyone tell me not to become attached?

Sometimes I swore I could feel my baby move inside me, not wanting to accept that it had probably died weeks before. Not understanding how God could foist death upon me yet again and force me to carry it around inside me.

Why?

Was it me? Did I do something to make this happen?

Bad karma? Bad luck?

Why?

The night before my D&C, I started having contractions. One way or another, it would finally be out of me. But as painful as the contractions were, the baby was not delivered. It was like some cruel joke.

I finally accepted the inevitable when I was on the table in the OR, counting backwards; my [tag]sadness[/tag] drifting away with my psyche on a cloud of general anesthesia. The baby would soon be gone; cut out with a sharp surgical instrument, destined to become medical waste. Everything that could have been would soon be gone. It about ripped my heart out.

My husband was racked with guilt because he hadn’t been more excited about the baby. I simply mourned her (she was a girl in my mind). I still think about her on rare occasions. I’ll do the math, figure out how old she would be now. I still have the EPT somewhere and for a brief moment, when I see it, I’m reminded of how happy I was when those two pink lines appeared.

I was told a thousand times by well-meaning friends and family… “Sometimes there is no reason. It just happens. You can try again.”

While their words seemed awkward and cold at the time, they were right and I did go on to have two more children, both healthy and perfect in every way.

It’s been almost 8 years and until now, I’ve never discussed my feelings about this at length. Nobody that knows you wants to hear about this kind of stuff. They just want you to move on and be normal. So to spare everyone else the discomfort of rubbing elbows with the unpleasantness, I’ve never allowed myself the luxury of talking or writing about it, which always felt vaguely disrespectful. It feels good to acknowledge, out loud (so to speak), that she existed.

And please don’t worry. I’m really okay. This has just been hovering around in the back of my brain, sort of quietly nagging at me to give it a voice, to give it credence. So I finally did.

And if you’ve made it this far, thanks for listening.