All the right words

I've got a thing for words. More like a passion, actually.Sometimes, words can touch us in ways that people cannot. I analyze every song lyric, every quote.  Don't you love that moment when you hear the perfect song lyric? They're the kind that make you stop and say, "Yes. That is exactly it."

The other day, a friend and fellow word-lover told me to check out a blog: Tell Us Something Good. The author posts quotes and beautiful pictures every few days. Her blog description simply says: Things I wish I would have known when I was 22. 

Here are two of my favorites from her blog:

"The ride to get where you want to go may not always look the way you think it will. "

"There may be someone in front of you who wants what you want- but it doesn’t mean that you won’t get yours, too. "

Hey, Jealousy

The thing about infertility is that you can't escape from it. It's always there. Sure, there are moments I forget about it, a few precious minutes when I am too happy or preoccupied to remember that my body doesn't work right. But they're just moments. Not days, not weeks. Moments. And then, if only for a second, the pop of a pill or the stab of a needle forces me to remember.

Most days, I am able to smile through it and soldier-on.

Then there are days like today. Days when the emotional tidal wave hits without warning, and I am overcome with fear, anger, resentment, and doubt.  And the jealousy. Oh, the jealousy. Sometimes I feel like it's eating my soul with its wickedness and I wonder who I've become. Last week, I was actually jealous of a pregnant dog. A DOG.

Over the past few weeks, no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to turn my good moments into a full day. There are just too many triggers. It makes sense, though, when you think about it:  There are people all around me. People created by people who could make people. People who could do something that I cannot.

I am annoyed, volume II

Dear Hospital Administrator,

Congratulations! You are not infertile.

Relax,  I didn't hack into your medical records. I didn't need to. In fact, I don't even know your name or your gender. All that was required for me to make this diagnosis is a quick drive around your medical center's parking lot and a short ride in your elevator.

Let me explain. Yesterday, I was running five minutes late for an infertility appointment at your hospital's medical center, and I was having trouble finding a parking spot. As you know, your parking lot is massive. So massive, in fact, that you employ a shuttle service to transport patients to and from their vehicles.

I circled the parking lot three times, but it was completely full. It was 98 degrees and the shuttle wasn't running. Not good. All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted eight open parking spaces right next to the door!  Eight! I didn't see any handicapped symbols, so I scooted over toward Mecca.

I pulled in, put the car in park, and was about to get out when I noticed the sign: Reserved for Expectant Mothers Only.

Awesome. Not only am I unable to have a baby, I am also destined for a life of shitty parking spots.

Fifteen minutes later, out of breath and covered in sweat, I was finally in the elevator.  I scurried  in just as the doors were about to close and asked a very dry (great parking!) and very pregnant woman to press the the button for the fourth floor. "Oh! That's where I'm going, too!" she said. Of course she was.  Of course.

See, I know you're fertile, because only a fertile person would plan a perinatal/multiples ultrasound center next to a fertility clinic. It's like putting a chemotherapy center next to a hair salon. Way to go.

Love,

Dorothy

Am I indecisive? Maybe. Maybe not.

I am a very bad decision maker. If you don't believe me, here's some proof: I purchased four wedding dresses. Four. Quatro. Dresses 1 and 2 were returned, dress 3 was butchered in alterations, and dress 4 was purchased a mere ten days before my wedding. 

See, when required to make a decision that is lasting, costly, or life altering, I simply can't make up my mind. Some call it being indecisive. Some may call it crazy.  I call it being prepared. Hence why I currently have 36 paint chips sitting on my coffee table. Yep. I am already stressing about making a paint-color decision for walls in a home that we don't even own yet. When I have to make a big purchase, I research my options obsessively, sleep on it, contemplate, and research some more. The Best Buy salesmen now run for the hills when I approach. If I don't go through this obsessive charade, I end up with major buyer's remorse. Trust me. I had four wedding dresses, remember?

But two years ago yesterday, I made the easiest big decision of my life --I married my husband.  The dress may not have been  the one of my dreams, but saying "I do" was a piece of cake. 

The Truth about House Hunters

Sometimes, the truth hurts. Do you remember the disappointment you felt when you first learned that Santa Claus wasn't real? Or the utter heartbreak when you discovered that Milli Vanilli weren't really the ones singing "Girl You Know It's True"? Sure,you probably suspected the truth for awhile, but part of the magic is gone.

Well, once again, I have been duped. Bamboozled. Horns-waggled. The proverbial wool has been pulled over my eyes. Ladies and gentlemen, House Hunters is a sham. 

For years, I've loved my daily 30-minute peek into strangers' lives as they search for the perfect house. I loved guessing which house they would pick, and especially hearing their price range (and subsequently feeling like a pauper when 22-year-olds reveal that they are looking at half-million dollar vacation homes in Malta. Who are these people, and where the hell are they getting this money?). 

So, a few months ago, we sold our first home and began house hunting.  I figured this was the perfect time apply for the show! The application was long and involved, including several essay questions about your personalities, living situation, price range, and desires. I peppered it with humor and personality, checked the box that said, "both parties are willing participants" (This was a stretch lie.  My husband had no idea I was doing this. He would rather drive nails in his eyes than be on TV. Oopsie!) and sent it on its merry way. 

And then, a few days later, I received this email:

Hello Heather,

Thanks for your interest in House Hunters! I'd like to help you get on the show, but first I'll let you in on a secret about how the show works – because the way it looks on TV and the way it’s made are 2 very different things.  Don’t be disappointed.

The show is only filmed with people ONCE they find a home that they ARE BUYING.  So we don’t consider people until they have an offer accepted on a home.  The show is filmed right around the time you close on the property (Before you move in AND while you are still living in your current living situation).

We’d love to consider you and here’s how that works:
Once you make an offer on a home, let me know.  Then we need a home video (audition) within 5 days, preferably one done with your agent.  So please keep me posted and I will keep my fingers crossed for you!

Sincerely, 

House Hunters Lady

After recovering from my initial shock, I felt a little stupid. For years, I naively believed that these people really sat down, discussed which of the three homes they would buy, made a decision, and had a nice little neighborhood wine party and the token newborn to celebrate. Nope! The other two houses are just decoys to prompt the viewer into making a decision. I was crushed.

And with that, my House Hunters days came to an abrupt end. I just can't deceive the viewing public, and my husband probably would have divorced me if he came home to a camera crew.  I'll probably get over it in time. After all,  I forgave Milli and Vanilli and eventually Blamed it on the Rain instead. But the magic, my friends, is gone. 

let's talk dirty

Words are powerful. Think about it.  They can spark major decisions, both good (Will you marry me?) or bad (Let's take shots!) They can crush you (Sorry, test results are indicating.....) or give you hope (It will happen. Let's keep trying).

Words can make you sound really intelligent.  Want to impress someone? Throw an "albeit" into a casual sentence. Stuck in a conversation?  Tell the other person that the conversation is producing an unbearable ennui. They'll be so confused that they'll stop ear-banging you for a second, which provides the perfect opportunity to slip away from your verbal rapist. 

But there are some words that I refuse to utter. These words are so disgusting, so vile, they immediately produce a little vomit in the back of my mouth.  My best friend and I have been compiling these very words in a list for fifteen years.   If you know us, you know "the list." Some of these words may appear innocent at first, but they're sneaky offenders.  Trust me. Try rolling them around on your tongue for a few minutes and you'll see what I mean. These, my friends, are the true dirty words. They are the grossest words in the English Language.

ample                

ballpark                   

blouse                     

bowel movement     

bush                        

casserole                

caulk                      

chunky                    

clogged
crusty
curdled
dallop
damp
discharge
dookie
dump
feminie napkin
hosiery
hump
insert
load
loaf
loin
lump
mammary
moist
Nickelback
nugget
ointment
ooze
orifice
penetrate
pimple
poo poo
puberty
pubic
pus
rouge
secretion
seepage
shrubbery
sloppy
smear
squat
stump
succulent
supple
swap
tube

any word ending in "ule" (pustule, globule, tubule, etc.)

Have I missed any? What words do you hate?