Where the hell have I been? Ah, allow me me fill you in…
Somehow we managed (and by we, I mean sometimes me and Mike, but mostly just me) to celebrate five birthdays, anniversaries, wedding showers, baby showers, a few brunches with old friends, and hell — we even threw in a few memorial services to cover all our bases.
Every Saturday and Sunday on my calendar was booked. Some with multiple stops.
This is when Mike would lovingly point out that I only work a few days a week, so I still had some time off. But those days are full of grocery shopping, and laundry, and theoretical house cleaning. I didn’t do much cleaning. But I should have, and could have — but naps are just as important. At least they are to me.
Throw in a few doctors appointments (apparently I grind my teeth now? so that ear infection I thought I had was a false alarm. Oh! And I might have diabetes, which is tbd. FUN, right?!)
And I couldn’t try out any new recipes either, because I didn’t have a working oven until a few weeks ago. Like, as in starting in February, when a few kitchen outlets inexplicably just stopped working. Ah, the glory of home-ownership!
Throw in a bunch of rush invitations, prints, and stuff for friends and Etsy customers too.
And to add insult to injury, Scandal was all repeats for THREE WEEKS! You’re killing me TV!! Thankfully I have a weird fascination with Hannibal Lecter, so I got (creepily) by.
My calendar for May is blissfully empty, with the exception of a weekend at the beach with my boo, and some fancy tea with some even fancier ladies.
And now I really need to clean this place up, because I’ve been avoiding it since, ummm… March.
My culinarily-gifted family friend Kels nominated me for a Beautiful Blogger Award, which is totally unexpected despite the fact that I am both of those things.
If you like West Coasty things, or food and wine, or puppies, or crafts, or music, or traveling, or disgustingly attractive couples, you should check out her blog, The Key of Kels. Seriously, the pictures she takes at the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market are worth it alone. Also, her husband is the only person in the world who can get me to eat foods I hate. Brussel Sprouts? Check. Beets? Sure, if Brad is cooking. So, thanks, Kelly for the nomination (and Brad, for making me eat my vegetables, approximately once a year when they’re on the East Coast.)
Now the rules — I have to tell you seven interesting facts about myself, and nominate seven other deserving bloggers (which, let’s be honest, I will forget to do)…
1) I have met the following (mostly C-List) celebrities, either as a child, or courtesy of my event planning years in college: Jeremy Miller (from Growing Pains), Patrick Muldoon (from Days of Our Lives, and Melrose Place), Dustin Diamond and Dennis Haskins (from Saved by the Bell), Comedians Bill Burr (he rode in my car! and he was just on New Girl!) and Daniel Tosh, Puck (from the Real World San Fran), and all the Geeks from Beat the Geeks (fun fact, my ex-boyfriend Larry was totally on Beat the Geeks, and he did in fact, beat the geeks, and when I met them I reminded them of their failure, which they did not appreciate).
2) I went to a taping of The Price is Right: Primetime Million Dollar Spectacular in 2004. I was the 13th person in line for seats, and I had to sleep on the street outside the soundstage with my friends to make sure we got a spot. I spent four days in L.A., but two of them we’re on the CBS lot. I also fell down a flight of stairs on some cliffs in La Jolla, and almost fell in the Pacific Ocean. Oh, and Bob Barker looks like an old leather shoe in person, but I still love him. Please help control the pet population!
3) I realize this sounds totally nutballs crazy, but I feel like I don’t know what to do with my arms when I’m sleeping. My instinct is to sleep with them up over my head (is that weird?) but then I wake up every night in the middle of the night with sore shoulders. So I try to sleep with them at my sides, but then how do you lay on your side? And sleeping on your back? Do people really do that? Because I’ve tried, and I can’t seem to stay put. Anyway, now every night while I’m trying to fall asleep, I feel like Ricky Bobby giving his first interview to ESPN.
4) One of my favorite things in the world, is watching my dogs dream. Since they both routinely use me and Mike as human dog-beds, they’re constantly falling asleep on us, and then woofing in their sleep. I could watch that all day long.
5) When I graduated from college, I got a job at a mortgage company working with my bff Kristina (a very pretty, white lady). I also, at the time, had a boyfriend named Chris (a very handsome, tall black guy with an enormous afro). Apparently co-workers who didn’t know us very well thought that all the times I talked about going on dates, or spending the weekend with Chris, I was actually talking about Kristina. So, for about a year people thought we were lesbians.
6) The other day, I accidentally watched the first 10 minutes of “Up,” (thanks a lot, Pinterest) so when Mike got out of the shower, he found me sobbing hysterically in my pajamas. Due to past cartoon-induced hysterics, I can no longer watch: Bambi, Dumbo, The Lion King, or Up. There’s more, I just can’t think of them right now.
7) I have an extraordinarily large mouth, both literally and figuratively. Like, I can fit my fist in my mouth, and I’m always the one who ruins surprise parties. I can also fit an ungodly amount of cheeseballs in my mouth, which is both impressive and delicious. Also, if I get invited to your next surprise party, I apologize in advance for when I blurt out, “see you at your party next weekend!”
Since I was approximately 12 years old, my mother has told me repeatedly that she hopes I have a child who is just like me.
She seems to think this would be some sort of poetic justice, and I will be punished for all my alleged sins (I was, and still am, the perfect child).
I think it sounds like the awesomest baby ever, so I’m not really worried.
Recently though, she’s changed her tune. Now she thinks it would be a terrible thing to happen …to Mike.
“He’s just such a nice guy. I wouldn’t want to do that to him.”
Gee, Mom. Thanks.
Last week, a few days after our embryo transfer, Mike was getting a little sassy (in an adorable, jokingly smartass way that I appreciate and encourage) and I don’t really remember exactly what he said, when I told him that I hope both babies stick, and I hope they’re both girls, and they’re each tiny little Ashley clones — and he’s stuck with three of me.
He said that is literally his worst nightmare.
I think he was kidding.
I guess we’ll just cross that awesome bridge when we come to it.
One of the worst things about giving up gluten, is the lack of Chinese food. Yes, places like PF Chang’s have a gluten-free menu, and it’s good — but that doesn’t help me on a Sunday night when I’m wearing sweatpants and am 30 minutes from my nearest PF Chang’s.
So when I stumbled across a recipe for homemade Chicken Fried Rice, I figured it could easily be adapted to be (slightly) healthier.
First of all, I made mine with brown rice, because its goodish for you and Mike and I both like it better. I also swapped the regular soy sauce for my favorite gluten-free version I keep around for my Pad Thai recipe, which is in heavy rotation in my kitchen.
As far as the cooked chicken goes — I decided to throw mine in the crockpot with some gluten-free Szechuan marinade I’d been wanting to try. Six hours on low, and then I just chopped it up into bite sized pieces. You could just cook it quickly though, without any marinade — I figured it was an easy way to add some extra flavor and I didn’t have to pay any attention to it.
Here’s what you’ll need:
4 cups cooked rice
1/2 pound boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cooked
1 cup peas & carrots, frozen
1 small white onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 eggs
3 tablespoons oil (vegetable or sesame)
1/4 cup gluten-free soy sauce
Heat oil in a large skillet on medium heat. Add onion, garlic, peas, and carrots.
Stir fry until tender. Crack eggs into pan and scramble, mixing throughout vegetables.
Add rice and chicken to your vegetable mixture and stir to combine.
Stir in soy sauce and remove from heat.
I guess now I just have to learn to make my own sushi, because holy crap do I miss sushi.
I’m a walking pincushion. Every night I get a few shots in the ole’ tookus. And they’re not little baby shots either — they’re hormones in oil, so they’re thick and gross, so that’s pleasant.
Then every morning I get to give myself injections of blood thinner in my stomach, which wouldn’t be so bad (aside from the burning. Oh, it burns!) but my stomach was already covered in bruises — a nice little souvenir from my car accident three weeks ago.
And then there’s the side effects of all the hormones. Pimples! I think my chest might explode! Hot flashes!
Oh, and the hematologist just doubled my dosage of blood thinner, so until I get a new prescription, I get to try to find two non-bruised spots on my body for some more injections every day.
Thankfully, Mike is an excellent nurse. He does a great job giving me my shots at night, and today when I ran out of non-bruised stomach, he gladly gave me a shot square in the love-handle.
I never thought I’d be so happy to have love-handles.
Last night, my beloved Baltimore Ravens won the freaking Superbowl, and I kissed everyone in my house square on the mouth. Aggressively.
Today, I have a cold — so lesson learned. Less celebratory kissing.
Also, you’re welcome, Baltimore — because I was decked out in what I can now confirm are my luckiest of charms:
1) Purple sweatshirt, which I wore throughout most of the season and every post-season game. Why not a jersey, Ashley? You have two?! Well, one is too small, and one is way too big. And also, HELLO, IT’S MY LUCKY SWEATSHIRT.
2) Lucky undies. Yeah, that’s right. After the Broncos game (which even after a Superbowl win, might be the greatest game I’ve ever seen — unless you’re a Broncos fan..) I was all, “everything on my body is magical!” so I wore everything again for the NE game (after washing them, naturally) and then I was like — I’m totally on to something here. But I have a bunch that look exactly the same (thanks, Victoria’s Secret) so I took a sharpie, and drew an X on the butt. Last night clinched it. Lucky underwear.
3) A big ass amethyst ring. My mom gave it to me for Christmas, and I love it. I had it on for every post-season game AND when my car decided to flip over on top of me.
Speaking of my car flipping over, and lucky charms — I’m totally fine. Thank you all for all the well wishes, and messages. I’m seriously the luckiest person, ever. Plus, my neck totally stopped hurting in time for me to get my Beyonce on last night (and this morning — and really, right this second.)
And even though football season is over (victoriously!), our next embryo transfer is coming up in a few weeks, and you better believe I’ll be wearing all those lucky charms to the doctor’s office.
*UPDATE! After I posted this, Mike called to remind me that I needed to go to MVA to do some paperwork for my totaled car, insurance, blah blah blah — so I hurried up and just threw on my lucky sweatshirt and I’m totally still wearing the lucky underwear, because I haven’t showered yet. Shut up, whatever. Anyway, I get to the MVA, and I’m not exaggerating when I tell you they gave me my number, and I got called immediately. Like, the woman said to me, “Just listen for I26.” and then the thingymabobber said, “I26 to window 6.” I got my replacement title, in and out the door in five minutes. This is a miracle. So, since I’m on a roll, I bought some lottery tickets, just in case. And I am DEFINITELY wearing all these lucky charms to that embryo transfer…
So, yesterday morning, I was on my way to the doctor to have some blood work done so we could start another round of IVF.
But then, this happened:
Long story short: I started to slide on some ice, tried to steer out of it, zigged back and forth across two lanes a few times, down into a ditch, and up and over in what I can only describe as a somersault.
I was upside down. Which was a new experience for me.
I remember a lot — although, upon further investigation, what I remember and what really happened aren’t really the same thing.
I remember being upside down, and knowing I needed to get out of the car. I tried to get my keys out of the ignition, but couldn’t. I unbuckled myself, and laid across the roof , and looked around for a way out. I distinctly remember seeing all the windows we’re broken (but today, when we emptied the car, only the driver’s side window was completely broken). Then I thought, just for a second, “Man, I hope I’m not too fat to crawl out a window.”
So, I grabbed my purse, and army crawled out the window, feet first.
Some people were there — they helped me stand up, and walk back over to the road, and across the very muddy ditch I flipped over. So, I was cold and very muddy, and bleeding a little — but aside from all that, and my pancaked car, I felt OK.
Someone called 911, but then everyone who had stopped had to leave. So, I waited on the side of the road for the police/ambulance/Mike to get there.
A lot of people who passed stopped and asked if I was OK, before one guy stopped and insisted I sit in his car and wait for help. His name is Matt, and he’s awesome — because when I realized I didn’t have my glasses on anymore and couldn’t see anything, he went into my car and came back with my glasses and my keys. (I was like, “My keys! How did you do that?!” and he said, “Well, you forgot to put your car in park.” Good one, Matt.)
The EMTs checked me out, and let us head to the hospital of our choice, where we sat for a few more hours before I got the OK to go home and rest. Meanwhile, the mud caked on my shoes (and about six inches up each leg) started to dry and fall off. So, when I went to the bathroom at the hospital, I left a trail of large, wet, brown lumps on the floor.
I was all, “OMG, I can’t leave that there! It looks like I pooped all over the floor!”
So I grabbed some paper towels and started frantically wiping up the mud — which helped, a little, but basically resulted in me smearing mud everywhere in huge streaks. So then it looked like I pooped all over the floor, and lazily tried to clean it up. Great.
The doctor told me I have “excellent bowel sounds,” so go ahead and be impressed. He said I was lucky, and fine — aside from some cuts and scrapes on my hands and legs, and probably a minor concussion.
Seriously — that’s it. Those are the only visible indications I was in a car accident. My neck, and head and back are sore — but I basically escaped unscathed.
A lot of people would think, why did this happen to me, why am I so unlucky? But I cannot express to you how lucky I am.
I was on a road surrounded by trees, which I did not hit. On the opposite side of the road, was a rocky creek I could have just as easily ended up upside down in. I slid into the opposite lane twice, and there were no cars coming. The only window that totally shattered was the one closest to me, and gave me an escape route. A car flipped over on top of me, and I stood up and walked away from it on my own.
I’m surprised how many people asked me if I was wearing my seat belt. I was. I always do, when I’m driving. I’ll be honest, I never do in the backseat of cars — but I will now.
Yes, it was icy, and it wasn’t my fault. You never expect these things to happen. Life is unpredictable. I was worried about being late for the doctor, and was probably driving faster than I should have, given the conditions. From here on out, I’d rather be five minutes late for something, than upside down in a car, or worse.
So, seat belts, people. Seat belts — all the time. Mine is the only thing that kept me from flipping over and crushing my head or breaking my neck.
Today, I am sore and bruised and woozy. My car is totaled (unofficially, but we’re sure it will be). I was cleared to start our new IVF cycle a day later (I was more upset about the possibility of having to skip this cycle, and about the ceramic cake stand in my trunk, then I was about my car, or my body).
But more than anything, I just feel lucky to be here.
Also, I’m psyched about that cake stand, which is still in one piece.
I realize that a lot of people don’t know what to say with regard to fertility treatments. I’m one of those rare, beautiful creatures, who doesn’t mind talking about it — but it’s one of those things you can’t really understand unless you (or someone close to you) have been through it yourself.
We’re stressed out, we’re pumped full of drugs, we already feel like a failure, and we’re hormonally-fueled balls of emotion — so here’s a list of things, that you should never, ever, say to a woman in the middle of fertility treatments (unless you want to get punched in the throat).
“Just relax! Drink some wine! It’ll happen!”
Um, no. No it won’t. Sure, it does for some people, who don’t have fertility issues — but not us. If it was that simple, and alcohol helped that much, I would have left college with like a dozen babies. We’ve been at this for years, thanks — so, we obviously require medical intervention. I know you’re just throwing in your two cents, but you don’t know what you’re talking about.
“He just looks at me, and I get pregnant!”
Oh, good for you, Fertile Myrtle! You probably just had some wine, and relaxed too, right?! Thanks for pointing out your natural ability to get pregnant without even trying. Your parents must be so proud.
“You’re still young!”
1) Thank you. But, 2) It doesn’t feel that way. Not when people you went to high school with are on babies #3 or 4, and your newsfeed is full of pregnancy announcements. Like I said, we’ve been at this for years, and I’m not getting any younger.
“Oh, I had a friend who had trouble getting pregnant, but they like, had to do it in a petri dish.”
Uhhh, yeah! So did we! What do you think I’ve been talking about this whole time?
“Take some of my kids!”
Oh, how hilarious! You’re kids are annoying, and you don’t want them anymore! Hahaha! You have sooooo many kids, you’re just giving them away!
“Here comes the next Octomom!!”
Octomom is a great example of irresponsible decision making (also, insanity). Any respectable fertility specialist would never transfer more embryos than necessary, and only a crazy person (who is young, has had success with IVF before, and already has six kids) would insist on transferring 12 embryos. TWELVE. She was 32. I’m 32 — you know how many I’m allowed to transfer? Two, max. That’s why that doctor lost his medical license, and she’s a bankrupt lunatic. Please don’t compare me to her.
“You should just adopt — then it’ll happen!”
First of all, this isn’t the 50s. You can’t just stroll down to your neighborhood orphanage and pick up that adorable infant that poor girl in secretarial school left on their doorstep in the dead of night. Adoptions take years, and cost tens of thousands of dollars — and even then it’s not a sure thing! As for magically getting pregnant once you’ve adopted (because, you know — the pressure is off, so you’re… relaxed) please see #1.
Nothing says, “Hey, I’m 32!” quite like spending the day scraping decades old caulk out of your shower.
That’s what I did today, whilst turning 32. And (spoiler alert!) tomorrow I’m recaulking said shower! I know. I know. Slow down. Try to contain the excitement, amiright?
Birthday highlights:
A bazillion people wished me a happy birthday on Facebook!
One of oldest friends sent me the sweetest email, and I haven’t even attempted to respond to her, because she made me cry and there’s no crying on birthdays!
Mike took me to my favorite sushi place for a gluten-filled feast.
Oh, and BA-BAAM, gave me a diamond bracelet! Haaaay, girlllll!
Also, I had this conversation with my mother:
“I can’t believe my baby is going to be 31!”
“Uhh, mom, I’m 32.”
“YOU ARE???!”
Thank you all for all the birthday wishes. If today is any indication of the year to come, I will be a very lucky lady (with a super clean, watertight shower).
I love Groupon. I’ve found some great restaurants through Groupons, an acupuncturist I really like, and I’ve gotten a bunch of massages for a fraction of what they would have cost me without one.
Sometimes though, you have to wonder if it was really worth it.
Like, last year. I bought a Groupon for what basically amounted to three hour-long massages for the price of one, and it was only a 15 minute drive from my house. I snapped it up right away, and scheduled my first massage.
I found out that the massage therapist had a studio in her home, and that’s where I would be going. Ok, fine. She had a website, and positive reviews, so I assumed it was legit. I also found out the reason she works from home, is because she takes care of her mother, who needs full-time care. Ok, again — no big deal. She’s been doing this a long time, so I’m sure she has a system.
On my way to my first appointment, about 15 minutes before I was supposed to be there, Mike called me in the car on my way to tell me that the appointment was canceled (our home voicemail gets emailed to us, and he saw she called and canceled and caught me before I got there.)
She sent me an email that night, apologizing for canceling because her mother … had diarrhea.
She’ll give me an extra 15 minutes during my next appointment for the inconvenience.
Well, Ok. I’m sure that’s an isolated incident.
So I went for massage #1 about a week later.
Turns out the “studio” is the family room in her condo (right next to a mini yoga “studio” where the dining room should be), so while you’re laying on the table, you can see into her kitchen, and down the hallway to the bedrooms. There are no doors.
Anyway, the massage starts, and she never, ever, stops talking (which I hate). It was partially my fault, because she was asking a lot of questions, and I wasn’t doing a very good job of ending the conversation(s). Then about every 10-15 minutes, she would excuse herself, and go check on her mom. Basically, every time I would relax and the massage would start — she’d stop and walk away. She always apologized before she left, and again when she came back.
So, I didn’t go back for awhile. Between IVFs, pregnancies, and vacations, I didn’t really have the time. I figured, I got one hour-long massage for the money, and it was sort of weird, so maybe I don’t need to go back.
But the last two massages expired next week, and I figured — what the hell? Maybe I’ll end up with a funny story to tell.
So I went back for massage #2 the week before Christmas.
This time she opened her door holding a wiggling, fluffy, adorable, two-pound puppy named Cinnamon.
She told me that Cinnamon was her gift to herself, because she realized “she will never have biological children of her own,” and she’s never had a puppy (just older dogs).
Ok, fine by me. I love puppies. So I played with Cinnamon for a few minutes, and then got undressed.
Also, I forgot to mention before that when you change your clothes there, you do so in the foyer.
So, I got naked in the foyer, and walked over to the family room, and waited for massage #2.
Which wasn’t bad. She noticed my neck and shoulders were super tight, and worked on them for a while. Her mom didn’t make a peep (I’m guessing she was asleep), and I thought, “Oh, this is nice. I misjudged.”
No.
No, I didn’t.
Because about 15 minutes into the massage, I could hear the sounds of a bored, mischievous, 12-week-old puppy coming from one of the bedrooms. Pouncing, barking, ripping — that sort of thing.
“CINNAMON! YOU BETTER NOT BE DOING WHAT I THINK YOU’RE DOING!” She screamed, before just running away from the table.
“YOU’RE A BAD DOG, CINNAMON! THAT’S NOT A TOY! GO LAY IN YOUR BED! LAY IN YOUR BED, CINNAMON! CINNAMON!!”
And then she came back, and just started massaging, like it didn’t happen.
Also, I feel like you should know, her speaking voice and her shouting voice are two difference voices. Her speaking voice is normal. Her shouting voice is a lot like Anne Ramsey’s. Like, substitute the name Cinnamon, for Owen, and sounded just like this:
This happened several times. Each time, no apology, or acknowledgement about what just happened. But, ok — we’ll see what happens at Massage #3, which I booked when I booked the second.
So late last week I went in for #3.
This time, the massage was great and uninterrupted (at least physically). Cinnamon was silent. Her mother — was not.
This time, every 5-10 minutes, her mother would start yelling.
“HELLO?! WHO’S OUT THERE?!”
“HELLO?! I NEED TO PUT MY GROCERIES IN THE REFRIGERATOR!”
“HELLO?! WHAT’S THAT BANGING?”
and my personal favorite –
“HELLO?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” “I’m working, mom.”
“OH … ME TOO!”
The lesson? Remember you usually get what you pay for.
