Uncommon Julia

One Down, One to Go

Tomorrow is my best friend, E.'s second baby shower. Second, and final - thank God. I'm sure you all remember my brave - yea, verily novel-inspiring - attendance at her last shower. That one was a "diaper" shower. This one is the "real" one.

I made a baptism bonnet for her baby girl about a month back, and it's beautiful, if I do say so myself. (Thanks to TypePad's new fancy thumbnails, you can click on them to see a larger image.) Today I went and purchased the other supplemental (i.e. traditional, store-bought) gift. I then went to Hallmark to purchase $40 worth of wrapping paper, boxes, cards, ribbons, and bows for the shower and for Mother's Day. The bonnet is meant to be opened up (by cutting the thread that cinches up the back of it) into a handkerchief to be carried in her wedding... many long, long years from now. When I was given one by my Godmother, there was a poem that went with it. Alas, the poem is long gone, and I'm at a loss to recreate it. So anyone who has a knack for slightly cheesy, rhyming poems, please help me out!

This time, I'm providing my own transportation, and thus, hopefully avoiding any post-shower lingering. I think that I'll be able to make it through this one just fine, too. Though perhaps some tears will be in order on my way home.

I'm at least hoping that my period doesn't show until Sunday or later - I really don't need that tomorrow.

Wish me luck!

Interruption

We temporarily interrupt this Julia-Love-In to report some breaking news:

My Hope Addict wants me to pee on something. She's lost her effin' mind. Best I can tell, my period shouldn't arrive until Saturday at the earliest, and who knows at the latest.

I'm only on cycle day 24. 30 is pretty average for me, though I do think I ovulated earlier than normal this cycle.

The big point: I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO CARE!!!

AAARRAGHHGHHGHH!

My Part in History

Words That Come to Mind When I Think of the March:

Amazing, Beautiful, Buoyant, Uplifting, Camaraderie, Compassion, Kindness, Fervor, Awe-Inspiring, HUGE, Family, Sisterhood, Love, Acceptance, Understanding.

Arrival:

After two delayed flights and one missed metro train, I finally arrived at Union Station where I was welcomed by my good friend Whit. Having seen a small pack of women on my plane with "Don't Mess With Texas Women" shirts on (purchased from TARAL in advance) I was already beginning to feel the scope of this event.

The Fair:

After an evening meal and some much needed alcoholic beverages to soothe my travel-weary bones, we packed it in for the night. The next day we went for lunch and headed toward DuPont Circle for a fair for the March. It was a beautiful sight. There were stickers, shirts, buttons, and various and sundry other paraphernalia for the march as far as the eye could see. We stalked up and walked around the circle, familiarizing ourselves with the numerous groups and organizations involved.

There was one big feeling that I hadn't counted on feeling, and it repeatedly washed over me throughout the course of the weekend: Relief. I hadn't fully realized that I've been walking around on eggshells for a year and a half now, half convinced that everyone I meet in my daily life is judging me on some level. I cannot adequately express the joy my heart felt at being surrounded by like-minded men and women who would not only understand my decision, but throw a party for me, if they could.

The Planned Parenthood booth at the fair had a heart wrenching display: They were giving out pink pieces of paper and black markers for people to write down their reason for marching. The pieces were then tacked onto wooden scaffolds.

I wrote one for Thomas, and then promptly teared up. So many of the stories on the board were truly heart wrenching.

That night, Whit helped me work on a simple paper sign to wear during the March. I was so thankful to have her with me because attempting to summarize my thoughts, feelings and viewpoints in a few short phrases proved beyond challenging. The next morning we woke early and got ready. We plastered ourselves with stickers and buttons and headed down to the metro.

The Big Event:

Fortunately for them, but not for me, the Texas pre-march rally was completely full by the time we arrived, so we headed on to the general rally on the mall. We wandered about the throngs of people, listening to speakers, scoping out T-shirts, and reading peoples' signs for a few hours. The March itself got underway around 12:30. Perhaps it should've been called a shuffle. The masses were so thick that it took us three hours to complete the two-mile parade route. That's slow, even for me!

Favorite Chants:

We marched with a Latina delegation for the first part of the march (they happened to be nearby and the most fun and rowdy of the group). Chanting in Spanish is great fun, and I may decide to take it up as a hobby, should I find a reasonable outlet.

"Que queremos?
Justicia!
Cuando?
Ahora!"

(For those of you who fell asleep during Spanish class, that's: "What do we want? Justice! When do we want it? Now!")

Then there was an old favorite high-school cheer adapted for the cause:

"We are pro-choice,
couldn't be prouder.
If you can't hear us,
we'll shout a little louder!"

This one exclude the numerous men (they made up a third of the crowd), but it's still fun:

"2-4-6-8
We're the ones that ovulate!"

And then, when the crowd would pass by the few (and I mean FEW) anti-choice demonstrators, this would start up:

"Pro-life,
that's a lie!
You don't care
if women die!"

and the one I leaned toward:

"Pro-Family,
Pro-Choice!"

The Speakers:

As the marchers began to gather on the mall after the march, the speakers started up. It was like being on holy ground. With all of the groups that organized this (Planned Parenthood, NOW, Feminist Majority, the ALCU, and the likes) the star-power was phenomenal. I won't even bother to list them - it's too overwhelming. Suffice it to say, I left hoarse and had a smile from ear to ear, and tear stains on my cheeks.

In My Heart:

I wanted to let all of you know how much your messages of encouragement meant to me as I prepared for this trip. I thought of each and every one of you as I walked along that parade route. And I thought of the women who couldn't be there, those who fought for our rights decades ago, and those who will pick up this torch again over the coming years. It felt so good to be amongst the most diverse group of human beings I have ever laid eyes one, and know that we shared a common goal.

And though they'll never know it, I want to thank the anonymous women who patted me on the back and thanked me for having the courage to march with Thomas's story on my back for all to see.

Please take a few minutes to read more about the march in the Washington Post's articles. They also have some fantastic photos. You'll have to sign in, but it's worth it.

I'm Leaving, On a Jet Plane

My bags may not be packed, but they are purchased, and the laundry is done so packing should ensue.

D.C. here I come!

For any newcomers who may not know what the hell I'm speaking of, I'm headed to Washington D.C. tomorrow to participate in the March for Women's Lives in honor of my first son, Thomas.

For those of you who will be attending, if you'd like to meet up with me I'll be participating in a pre-march rally for TARAL, the Texas chapter of NARAL. I look exactly like my picture, so you can either come and find me, or send me some contact information via e-mail to help me out.

I'm looking forward to visiting my good friend and to seeing D.C. for the first time in a long while. Mostly, I'm looking forward to communing with other cool chicks who are fed up with the latest assault on our rights.

On Brazilian Bikini Waxes and Language Barriers

The general theory being that the two should not mix.

Allow me to elaborate:
My former bikini waxer made yet another move last month, and this time she managed to exceed the maximum driving distance I allow for personal hygiene. I was much chagrined. After all, weird as she was (and let's face it, what former-lesbian-turned-straight opera singer/bikini waxer isn't weird) she did a phenomenal wax. There was nothing better than flouncing around my bathroom naked, admiring my clean, pink girlie parts after a good waxing.

When I began waxing a few years ago, I started with the typical conservative bikini wax. Then I moved up to the slightly less conservative "modified" bikini wax. And by the time last spring rolled around I said to hell with it and went for the full monty - leaving only a quaint racing stripe between me and a completely pre-pubescent version of myself. I've stuck to this look through thick and thin - surgery and recovery - and all the other ups and downs. My waxer, as you might imagine, was no fading violet. She meant business - no paper panties here, ladies (cause, let's face it, when a woman's got her face two inches from your naughties, paper panties will do nothing but get in the way). She told hilarious stories to distract you from what was really going on, and NEVER left so much as one stray hair. When she declared you "done" you were in fact, done.

But now, with my wax chick out of reach, I needed a new plan of attack. Assuming that there had to be another capable woman somewhere on my side of town, I called up the newest shi-shi salon and day spa and scheduled an appointment. Excited, I arrived fifteen minutes early. And by the time the clock said fifteen minutes past my appointment, it became clear to me that someone had dropped the ball.

I stopped a woman who came back to get another client and asked if I'd been forgotten. Ah, but she had difficulty with English. Finally, she returned and managed to covey that she would be taking me back for my waxing herself. Marina was her name, and apparently, she's quite newly arrived from Russia. But I assume she's going to be able to do her job, despite the language divide.

Alas, there were the paper panties to deal with, but hey, I'll give anything a try once. After ten minutes or so, she invited me (I think) to sit up and see if everything was to my liking. It wasn't. What she had done was the standard bikini wax. No biggie. I'll just tell her (using comical hand gestures) to take everything off except the racing stripe, indicated by pointing and drawing imaginary lines. Five minutes more, and she asks my opinion again.

Nope. Now she's taken off most of the racing stripe and left lots of other stuff. I try again with more pointing and gesticulating and awkward smiles. Five more minutes. Now I have a tiny, half a postage stamp sized patch just floating there and looking weird.

Fine. You know what? Take it all off. No point in leaving just that. Just give me a clean slate. Five more minutes and a bit of plucking with tweezers and I'm ready to go. When she leaves the room to allow me to dress, I stand up and take a gander in the full length mirror. Staring back at me is a version of myself I hadn't seen since I used to take daily baths instead of showers.

Strangely, my husband didn't seem to find the difference very discouraging.

The moral of the story: a common language is crucial when it comes to Brazilian bikini waxes.

On Husband Training

I love my husband to death - let me be clear. However, I have noticed that he sometimes seems to be out of practice when it comes to some of the basic training men receive (from whom, I'm not sure) regarding the opposite sex.

Case in point:
A few weeks ago I lamented out loud that I wouldn't mind getting a boob job after we're done with children. For a little background: I've always been fine with the size and shape of my breasts. They're fine - nice even. However, the migrated notable southward after my pregnancy with Thomas and I wouldn't mind eventually having them hoisted back into their original place.

Now, as far as I know, every man alive knows the proper response when one's wife/girlfriend/significant other says they'd like a boob job. It goes something like this: "Why? I think you're beautiful just the way you are. You really don't need one." Or perhaps they even throw in a "I don't think you need one, but if that's really what you want, I'll support you."

What they do NOT say is:
"Well, you know, they're really not that expensive anymore."

My husband did, however, make that exact statement - verbatim.

All I could do was die laughing. Thankfully, I really don't have much of an issue about my boobs, or else he really could've sent me over the edge with that one!

To illustrate his mistake, I used the following example. I hypothesized that if he had approached me and mentioned that he would like a penile enlargement surgery, he might be somewhat taken aback if I were to reply: "Well, you know, they're not that expensive anymore."

The light bulb went on above his head and he suddenly saw my point.

Does anyone know if they offer refresher courses at community colleges?

Not/Not

Just like that my husband and I have given into the allure of the "Not/Not" option. For those of you who are unfamiliar with infertility lingo, that means we're "not trying, not preventing". It's what you do when you're too mamby-pamby to make a real decision. Perhaps an example would shed some light?

(Mom, if you're reading this, you'll want to bow out at this point.)

It goes something like this: You decide to alleviate some of your husband's suffering from a cold/cough with some diversionary sex. He doesn't pull out a condom - you don't ask him to. Afterward, instead of lying prostrate with a towel between your legs and a pillow under your ass for a minimum of thirty minutes in the hopes of coaxing at least one sperm into reaching your ovum, you get up, clean up, and then engage in a rigorous work-out for forty-five minutes - including a hard-core abs routine. In your mind, this means that you don't really have to worry about the implications of your recent unprotected sex because it's not likely to lead to anything, really... right?

And so begins the psychosis.

Letter from the Editor

I just got off the phone with the Editor of "Better Utes and Gardens" and guess who they've chosen for next month's cover girl?! Moi!

The doctor at the radiology clinic declared, "That’s a good-lookin' uterus." (I'm not even making that up.) It still hurt like the dickens - truth be told, possibly more this time then last. But the pain was assuaged by a darvocet and the elation of being handed good news! I hardly knew how to conduct myself. The desire to tell everyone in the waiting room that my uterus was ready to go was nearly overwhelming.

This time, the doc was taking the films himself so I got to watch the screen and hear his judgment right away. I could tell even before he said so that it was drastically different than before. All of the Asherman's is gone. No scar tissue anywhere. And both my tubes are blissfully open. The actual area of my uterus appeared roughly four times bigger than before my surgery - and the walls were nice and smooth.

Of course, I can't do things the boring, ordinary way - what would "Better Utes and Gardens" think? So I had my pics done upside down. I have a retroverted ute, so he went ahead and pushed on the catheter a bit to get a clearer picture, and the result was a lovely uterus, as seen by my husband during certain sex acts - if he were outfitted with x-ray vision, a catheter, and some radioactive dye. But you get the idea. I think it'll make a great shot for my centerfold.

I'm going to break open a bottle of bubbly with dinner tonight - it seems like a good enough occasion to justify a Monday-night drunk.

Invasion of the Hoo-Ha Snatchers, Part Deux

Tomorrow I returned to that hallowed ground, that holiest of holies, the radiology lab. Yes, ladies and gents, it is time once again to spread my legs and ask - yea verily PAY - a stranger to inflate a balloon in my hoo-ha, followed by some dye, and then "CHEEEESE!" take a picture of it. That's right. It's HSG time.

Earlier this week, when I said I wasn't scared about the results, I lied. I'm not very scared, but it's there. That little piece of knowledge that when something unexpected can go wrong, it will - at least it will when I'm involved in the equation.

Of course, the test results aren't what really scares me. I think I've enjoyed this hiatus from Dante's fifth circle more than I'd admitted. And now, as we approach D-Day (Decision Day, that is), the fear of pregnancy and everything that's come with it for me begins to creep back in. But then again, so has the desire.

I worked all afternoon making a baptismal cap for my best friend's baby. It's truly beautiful. After she's baptized in, when she's grown and gets married, it converts into a lace handkerchief to carry during the ceremony. I modeled it after the one my godmother gave me, which I wore for my baptism, carried in my wedding, and then used for Thomas's baptism. The remarkable thing is that I felt great to make it. I didn't spend the whole time thinking what ifs, but focused instead on how much my best friend and her coming daughter will appreciate the gift.

All in all, not a bad way to spend Easter. So, wish me luck on the hoo-ha pictures, and I'll let you know what happens as D-Day approaches.

Of Illness and Brushes with Fame

I'm sick. Recovering, though. It was some yucky, sore throat/fluish thing that came upon me overnight. I was pretty much out of it all day yesterday. But today I can tell its retreating.

I also spent a good portion of my day yesterday on the phone sharing my story with various individuals at state-wide women's rights agencies and groups. It was wonderful. I've made myself available for media, though I'm choosing to leave my last name out of it, and I hope that someone will want to hear what I have to say.

I also made contact with Sarah Weddington, after several trusted friend who know her gave me her contact information. For those of you who can't figure out why her name sounds familiar, she's the woman who took Roe v. Wade all the way to the Supreme Court - and it was her first trial out of law school. She will be speaking at a pre-march rally for the Texas participants just before the march begins. I am thrilled at just the prospect of getting to meet this woman and to thank her for defending my rights long before I ever knew I'd need them.

It's been strange; all the focus on this issue has made for some strange dreams and contemplation of my life from a different perspective. I've always had a great big mouth, and I've never shied from making my opinions known, so I suppose this one should be no different. In fact, my rights as a parent should rightfully take up more of my mouth's time than any other issue.

If God needed someone with a loud mouth to testify on our behalf, well, he picked a good one. I only hope that I can find good avenues to people's ears.

Oh - and to anyone who's interested in joining the march - e-mail me for hotel information.

(P.S. I've noticed that my writing skills are fading a bit in the past few weeks. I'm going to blame it on being sick for the past few days, and the rest of the time... well, we'll just chalk it up to being busy with work for the first time in a long while. My apologies.)