Boo!

Warning: rambly off-topic post ahead. I cannot help myself. I am rattled, addled, befuddled, bamboozled. You see, you're just innocently going about your business one day and BAM! a Jesus-freak leaps from behind the bushes.
Jesus-freaks scare me. Any religious freak does, really, but especially the Jesus-variety.

There's this guy I know casually from the dog park (where else do I spend my lonesome hours while Speedy toils at the clinic. I ask you? Nowhere. I am always found at the dog park, usually swinging a bag of poop and yelling at one of the dogs.)

ANYWAY, I know this guy from there and I like him. He's got a rescued pitbull cross which says to me: compassionate, not afraid to commit to a big project. So this guy, we'll call him Michael (because most people do and it seems like a fine enough name.) Michael is nice and single. Very, very single. Like, always, always alone. The guy who eats at the restaurant alone. The guy who says "we" and means "Me and my dog." And even though he's kind of a dork, he's a sweet non-threatening harmless dork who is not at all bad-looking and has a decent job, so I always kind of think to myself whenever I see him, "do I know any straight girls for him?" (Nope.) Even Speedy once set him up with a woman from her work (a 36-year-old virgin, fer real!) and that went horribly wrong, but we think about him, sometimes, me and Speedy. We want to find him a woman.

So, this a a very long story already and I haven't even gotten to the point! But Speedy & I are having a housewarming party and well, we invited him because we thought we might meet some straight women that we could also invite (not yet-- know anyone?) but I sent out an e-vite and I noticed that he hadn't opened his invitation. So I googled his e-mail address to make sure I had gotten it right, and there it was on this guy's blog and

BAM! JESUS FREAK. GOTCHA!

Michael had (unwisely) posted his e-mail address (with other identifying information) on a blog all about Jesus love and he, himself had quoted the bible chapter and verse and offered his contact information if anyone wanted him to pray with them "and Christ himself"...and then my brain died.

Ok? Okay. I know. I know it's wrong to be so intolerant, but you know what? Even though HE certainly thinks it's a completely altruistic offer to pray for people's souls with Jesus Christ himself, when people offer to pray for other people, there are two implicit things that they are saying: 1) I am saved; 2) you are going to hell.

To which I say: Look, I want nothing to do with your God. First off, I categorically reject the idea of a god. So there's that. And then there's the fact that religion is nothing more than a powerful tool that powerful people use to frighten and oppress other people (usually at a tidy profit to the powerful god-pimping people themselves) So there's that.

And then when I say these things out loud (which I try not to) these people always come up with the implicitly threatening, "What if you're wrong?" line of attack. (Like I better just hedge my bets and sell my soul to a make believe all-powerful dead guy with a crown of thorns JUST IN CASE they happen to be right?! I better shut up and cover my head and wash my man's feet just in case?!)

Indeed, I have no absolutely proof of the total absence of god (unless you count just looking at the state of the world) But if I am wrong, then I want nothing to do with the god that does exist (again, look at the state of the world!) and a god who would damn me to hell for living a pretty friggin' decent life full of compassion and trying my best to leave the place nicer than I found it, then that god can go screw its own damn self. That's all I'm sayin'.

(Oh, but Michael, you're still okay-- you've never pushed Jesus on me. You just scared me.)

I do have friends who are "spiritual". I even have friends who go to church. That's fine, but leave me out of it. It is the prosletyzing ones I cannot stand.

Hrrm. Rant much?

Speedy's officially trying to wean me off coffee. She bought decaf!! DECAF! This is going to be interesting.

Hit the snooze button one more time

So after the sperm delivery day and our much-anticipated follow-up with Dr. B. where we expected to hear, "So call us on your first cycle day next month so we can get started," instead we found out that my uterine septum was so large that its removal generated enough scar tissue to require subsequent removal, thus setting us back another couple of months while the tissue heals over.

How frustrating! I had really wanted to get down to business with the next cycle!

But I suppose this means I can enjoy the summer days (which have been unmarred by torrential rains for two days running-- a friggin' miracle this year!) with my coffee in the yard in the morning and a glass of wine at night.

And I will have the chance to take off that 5 lbs that came, unbidden, over the winter and seems to want to settle in for a while. After my nurse-mandated rest period (during which I only went to the gym once or twice a week) I am happy to at least be back on track. I would like to at least begin the whole process in the best shape I can be in.

I also know a certain lurker IRL (CB, I'm lookin' at you!) who is also looking to begin the process about the same time, so at least we will have a chance to compare notes and dissect details of trigger shot and IUI timing and frozen vs. fresh (Speedy and I may have a source of fresh jizz, pending his assent-- I don't know why we didn't think of him earlier!) and the minutiae of the process too tiresome to even blog about.

That is about as much positive spin as I can handle this early after a night coddling my big, "vicious" muzzle-wearing dog in bed because fireworks turn her into a skittish kitten who just wants to be held.

UPDATE: My potential source of fresh goods, a friend and long-ago ex, was willing to consider the proposal, but his questions (namely, about his 'parental rights', esp. if Speedy and I were to split, PERISH THE THOUGHT, etc.) indicated very strongly that it would not be a good idea.
Oh well-- onto possibility #2, Speedy's even-longer-ago ex.

Anyone have experience in soliciting for no-strings-attached dna from known sources? My very strong instinct is to disqualify anyone who views it as more than a really nice gift. While it would certainly be ideal for Speedytot to develop a positive relationship with an adult male, "parental rights" would never enter the picture in my mind.

Speedy Sperm Delivery

Even though we have all but fully decided to wait until August to get rolling because of the cycle issue (and yes, we've gone full circle and are gung-ho on meds, now)today remains sperm delivery day. "Speedy" because this is what I call gf in our every day real life. I wish I had had time to get her a custom t-shirt made with a logo of a sperm and those little turbo lines jetting out of it to suggest motion, because it would really complete the picture that she is conveying to me via calls and text. The gigantic nitro tank, the car service to Manhattan, the labrynthine labs and the biohazard suited tech extracting crystalline vials of sperm from vapor-billowing vats of nitrogen (ok, that last I made up, but it might be like that.)

Come to think about it, I might have that shirt made anyway. Then insist that gf wear it on every insemination day.

UPDATE: SSD hit a speed bump: getting baby dady and the tank BACK to Bkln would have been prohibitively expensive in a yellow cab, so she took the subway and is now, as I type, lugging the nitro tank and baby daddy contents down 7th ave (Speedy, could you BE any butcher? I don't think so!) and accosting random passers by to take her picture for photo evidence later to be uploaded in this very space.

Baby Daddy Delivery nearly complete.

1. Speedy Sperm container pick-up:


2. Speedy sidewalk lugging:








3. Speedy sperm container in taxi en route to clinic #2:


4. Speedy Sperm on subway after "material" acquistion:



5. ...and back to clinic #1...:



Mission accomplished.

Quick Q:

I started AF early (25 day cycle!); my follow-up appt is not till CD 6. Will it be too late to do a Cl.omid cycle this time? If it IS too late, is it worth spending the $$ and extremely limited amount of "material"* we have on hand on an unmedicated cycle?
Thoughts welcome and any advice gratefully accepted!

* This particular "material" is of great nostalic value, being from gf's first ttc attempts, years ago. The donor (ideal in many ways) is no longer available. It was also much more expensive per ml, given all the time its spent is storage, that the usual stuff. NOt that it makes a real difference-- we are going to use it anyway-- but I want to give it its best shot.

Never mind. It's too late. Duh. I guess the only decision is whether to use the special stuff on this unmedicated cycle or hold off for the next one.

Aye aye

Gf and I are on our way to Jersey tomorrow where we will visit with her family, and I will endure inevitable comments about the 5 lbs I've put on since they last saw me and the shortness of my latest haircut. And then we are going shopping for clothes to wear to a wedding. Which will probably necessite a trip to the dreaded consumer industrial complex known as "the mall", where vendors of useless plastic-coated baubles, purveyors of cheap made-by-underfed-toddlers-in-some-ungodly-hot-country clothes jostle with mongers of deep-fried-carcinogen-coated-lard-pellets for my attention by liberal use of fluorescent signage and inventive fonts.

I expect that by the end of the day, I will bear a rather striking resemblance to my favorite prosimian, above.

Yes, it's time

Negotiated the first pick-up and transfer of "the specimen" next week from RE clinic #1 (gf's old clinic) to RE clinic #2 (our new one).
Let's get this party started.

post-op update

It wasn't so bad. No staples, no cutting this time. No info, either. The hospital where my RE practices is deeply impersonal and as far as I can tell, focuses solely on turnover.

After the waiting-at-the-bus-stop feeling of being sequestered in a barren room wearing only a disposable paper gown and terrible disposable socks, I was ushered through the halls to the OR where I waited, strapped to a table, for the surgeon to appear. The anaesthesiologist who had ealier gone through four veins before finding one that could work, knocked me out as soon as Dr. K. came in. I came to 2 hours later, bleeding and uncomfortable in the "recovery room," where mean nurses stake out their professional identity by seeing how rude and unhelpful they can be. I hate lying down and I hate waiting and when I want to go, I want to go, dammit. Every time I sat up, the Most Mean Nurse barked at me to lie down.

Fortunately, gf was able to slip in through the locked doors behind some other poor soul and bring me my book and cell phone so I could entertain myself after the mean nurses shooed her out and then proceeded to studiously ignore me. When I could not bear it any more, I texted gf "Get me outta here" and she came in again and I demanded to be set free. The nurse grudgingly unhooked me from the IV and I got dressed and left with terse instructions not to bathe or go to the gym or f*ck until I talk to the doctor, two weeks from now.

I'm thinking as soon as I stop bleeding I can resume my gym-going and certain other activities.

When we got home, we called the center where gf has her leftover sperm stored and are going to go bring it back to bkln next Friday.

I proceeded to watch "Milk" and when gf got back from some errands, we watched "Religulous" both of which I would recommend, though I didn't really feel that the former was so incredible as everyone led me to believe. Good , yes. *AMAZING*, no.
Meanwhile, it continues to rain and it feels like everything is mildewed: towels, clothes, furniture, dogs. Everything feels damp and dirty and on the verge of rot. Let's hope in two weeks when I get the Low Down on my Down There, everything will be set to go.

The calm before the storm.

While I was out....

I know I said it in words, but here's the pictoral cliff notes version: renovation, renovation, kitten, renovation, renovation. Done.

Super, super excited for a fabulous new bfp, (the phrase springs to mind: "PufferTwins-- ACTIVATE!") and hoping that others who are still waiting for theirs will find peace while they wait...

Got my pre-surgery testing done today. When I asked the nurse why the simple hysteroscopy had to be performed under general anaesthesia, she described the procedure as "pretty barbaric"-- I kid you not. Great. That makes me feel just great!

Whatever. I am happy because all my vital were excellent: pulse, 53; BP 96/56... and the nurse said, YOU are 36?! Bless her heart. I will take it even if it just flattery. I feel pretty confident about this surgery. No cutting, so I expect the recovery time to be shorter than last time, though I am not making weekend plans anyway and am trying to do all the heavy lifting- laundry and vacuuming-- today to get it out of the way. I have a great book (Michale Pollan, In Defense of Food) and I plan on finishing it this weekend, nothing more.

So assuming all goes well on Friday and I actually wake up after the surgery, I will be set to start with IUI #1 in July! It is finally going to happen!

In other exciting news, my mother called me on Sunday, asked if I want to go to Ghana with her in November. Ummmm... YES! I haven't been exotic traveling since Nepal in 07, so I am due for a big trip. Because my then I will have either sold my co-op or Ex will have moved back in and taken over the payments, I will have the money to go. The worst-case scenario is that I will be pregnant and traveling with my mother (who I suppose I would have to tell if that were the case)...which is also kind of the best case scenario, too.

Unfortunately, gf will have to stay behind and tend to the household, but I promised to take tons of photos for her. I am looking into spending a couple of days with a chimpanzee rehab center. Scoping out future employment options for us while I am there.

All is pretty good these days. Let's hope I can keep this attitude throughout the ttc process.

Ornery

After four phone calls and lengthy hold times I have confirmed that yes, indeed October's surgery was a suprise twofer-- and I scheduled part deux for the 19th. Why waste time as my ovaries continue into their senescence?
I can't figure out why no one felt compelled to mention that this surgery would entail a Part 2 at the time of Part 1-- not that it would have changed anything, except maybe I wouldn't be feeling as pissed and grumpy as I do right now.
So I have assignments: pain meds prescriptions to fill, prenatal vitamins to get (Thanks Puffer), pre-admission appointments to make, surgical times to set.
And I am grumpy, grumpy, grumpy. I forgot how much I hate the medical bureaucracy.

Just the stats, man

FSH: 9.7 (+.5 since Oct 08)
LH: 3.0 (+.2)
Estr: 34 (+3)
ProL: 11.5 (no previous stats)

Thryoid--
TSH: 1.2
T4: 6.1
T3: 111
T3RU: 32.6

"Normal" range they say. Good. But all higher than before. And while it is tempting to say "well, these values fluctuate," it is also rather obvious they are all fluctuating in the same direction. I.e., getting older.

But since the scheduling nurse was not in today I was not even able to make an appointment to see the doctor who might answer my questions. Anyone see any red flags I should be aware of here?

Back on track

Thanks for your comments... I haven't vanished completely it seems.

This ttc world is kind of Kafkaesque in a way that I had forgotten. Good to have external checks.

Yesterday I went back to Dr. B's for some bloods. At least I think that's why I was there. No one quite seemed to know, but that's what my best guess was so that's what they did. I thought they keep track of these things, but at least I keep notes.

Back in January I wrote "Call in A. 1 wk b4 exp [.], schd bldwk, hyscpy reV." Obviously I missed April. And May. And I was wrong about the "hyscpy reV", which I has assumed was NBD but found out yesterday meant another surgery.

"Surgery?!"
"Oh yes, but it's very simple," the 14-year-old nurse told me.
"But I already had surgery."
"That's why we have to do it. To check the scarring." Which implies that I could be in for some even more surgery if they are not happy with the scarring. This not something I want to contemplate.

Somehow I thought it would be a simple in office check with a tiny little camera and maybe some cramping, or MAYBE an HSG (hopefully this time not with Dr. Anal Probe) but no-- I got the whole call next week to schedule pre-surgery testing and "no-food-and-water-after-midnight" routine.

And then she said, "Has the doctor given your your prescriptions yet?"

What prescriptions? We thought we were going unmedicated for the first couple of rounds. When I say this, the 14-year-old blinks her huge eyes like she's NEVER heard anyone say such a mad thing.

I would have asked "the doctor" in person, but she was ostentatiously blocking the hall that led to his office with all 78 pounds of herself, as she said, "you should talk to him about that, but I don't know," clearly implying that unmedicated IUIs are just not done.

But given the surgery, no IUI is happening this month anyway, so that gives us time to straighten the meds situation out as well as get gf's sperm out of lock-up, which apparently requires a whole ream of paperwork and notarized signatures. This sperm she has, all two shots of it, has been in storage for 4 years-- at $500 a year. By the time we have paid the administrative costs to get it out, the transport fees, the nitro tank rental, and the washing fees, this will be the most expensive sperm ever. About $2000 a shot, if you count the initial acquisition fees.

Still, I kind of like the idea of going with what we have for now.

I forgot to mention in my last post that in the last 3 months, I have had 3 friends get pregnant and 2 miscarry. They are all about my age and healthy. This slightly horrifies me because although I am pragmatic about the odds of a miscarriage, I know that in reality, both emotionally and in terms of re-starting the ttc ordeal, it would be devastating.

But I suppose I should not be worrying about that unless, until.

In other news, last night we had a fabulous renovation epilogue: gf and I had our architect and our designer and her husband over for drinks last night. What we thought would be an awkward 45-minute show-and-tell and a glass of wine turned into multiple-bottle, up-till-midnight gab-a-thon. Since gf and I often approach social events with a sort of "if we must" attitude, it was a pleasant shock to find that we actually enjoyed ourself (how's that for a co-dependent construction?) in the company of others. A straight couple and a gay guy, no less. Maybe it's true what they say about lesbians after all. We rarely have this much fun with them.

Catching up

Was it really that long I've been gone? It seems shocking.

I won't waste time with justifying my ill blogging behavior, because let's face it, probably the only one who actually noticed enough to complain was gf, who misses this apprently more candid version of the me she sees on a daily basis:

"What's up with your blog? I need to know what's going on in that head of yours!"

Ok, ok...

What happened in the last 3 months:

Sophie the beast made a full recovery and is back to her fighting weight of 110 lbs. I still outweigh her, but not by a lot. She's beautiful and when people see her goofy slobbery lovely face, they break into spontaneous smiles.

The renovation is done, complete, finished and beautiful. Gf and I now spend at least ten minutes a week on the couch (a lot for us), just admiring it:
"I love our house."
"Me, too."
"Did you clean the litter pans?"
"I will if you'll feed the dogs."

We hand-raised a teeny tiny little kitten from about 2 days old, bottle-feeding every four hours, to a real bumbling, meddling, frisky little miniature cat... and then (get ready for applause line) sent him to a new home.

We made our own beautiful mokume gane rings with our own hands and we love them.

Ex and I put our apartment up for official sale (2 BR, park slope, lovely, if you're interested.)

And I finally made a for-real follow-up with Dr. B. We're doing the blood work and maybe another HSG to see how the ol' laparoscopy came out, then going to Columbia Presbyterian when gf has some old jizz in storage and bring back daddy for unmedicated round 1 & 2. If those don't take, we'll have to order baby daddy #2 (already selected from CCB) and bring out the big guns.

**Gf: I writing this as part of the public record: come July next year, if there are no double pink lines, we call the whole thing off and plan a big trip or two and then decide how we get off this work-eat-sleep thing and do something that involves monkeys and travel for the rest of our lives.


So... onward and upward. And I am catching up on the rest of those blogs and crossing my fingers for success for all...

Anyone else find that pre-nats turn your stomach, not to mention seem to manifest primarily in bright yellow pee? I'd be happy to supplement the folic acid and B vits (as a vegetarian) but beyond that, are there any good prenatal nutrition books to circumvent the need for the nauseating supplements?

Looking forward, looking back

Since it has been a while I feel like I owe an update, but truth be told there is little to update. As of last week we had our kitchen installed, sans countertops. The countertop drama, like the lighting and plumbing dramas before it, is both endlessly annoying and too unendurably boring to experience, much less relay.

But we forge fearlessly ahead, stubborn in the belief that we will actually move in the next couple of weeks, as unfounded in reality as the belief may be.

In that spirit, I have been steadily packing up my place. This is an exercise in self-reflection and discipline. I preach asceticism, but am not above keeping boxloads of nostalgic mementos. So yesterday, in an effort to reduce the amount of unpacking and organizing we will have to do on the other end, I gave myself a strict talking-to and set the arbitrary limit of one file box full of nostalgia.

This necessitated poring through no less than five file boxes in the damp, mildewy basement where, every fifteen minutes, the lights would automatically flick off, leaving me in pitch blackness. Each time I would have to stand on my cramped and numbed legs and flail my arms at the sensor to bring the lights back on to resume my excavation.

It seems at one point in my life I had nothing better to do than write page after page of letters to friends, spilling the most intimate emotional details of my life. Sometimes I wrote to write them and didn't bother sending them. Apparently, my friends also had nothing better to do that return these missives, often in cramped handwriting on both sides of crowded pages, no margins, or single-spaced and typed, back when people actually used typewriters.

I had bags full of cards form back when people sent actual cards, and boxes of photos, from back when you had to get your film developed, and each frame was a surprise when you got the little envelope back from the photomat.

I found markers of milestones in my life: love letters with outsized proclamations of finality, and break-up letters as cold and clipped as the love letters were overheated and expansive:
"Masanori," read one, dated July 28, 1998.

I will be moving shortly and we need to deal with the issues we left unresolved in January. You are in possession of many of my personal belongings as well as all of the items we purchased together... As of this time, I have not received any compensation from you though you remain in sole possession of those items....

That I happened to write it on his birthday was surely unintentional.


Dearheart," began another.

How could you let this happen, let me fall back into your arms, trusting completely in our love-- then just as I fell past the point of recovery, step deftly aside and say, 'I can't do this, sorry!'....The walks in the park, the lilacs and gifts, the lazy days and sheer, giddy joy of being so enamored of one another, grinning like fools...what went wrong? Darling, I miss you every day.

She was my first girlfriend and first real love. I was smitten beyond any sense of pride. I sobbed on my kitchen floor for days after she dumped me, paralyzed with my grief.

I found photos of me with long blond hair and heavy make-up, and photos with my oh-my-god-I'm-gay shorn hair, photos from trips long forgotten, photos of friends long lost. Chunky me photos, skinny me photos, cheesecake photos and topless-at-the-dyke march photos. Even photos me in drag with breasts bound and faux facial hair, complete with pretty femmes at my side.

I found notebook after notebook filled with numbers, what I weighed, how many minutes I exercised, how many calories I consumed. These notebooks were perhaps the steadiest presence throughout the 15 years or so chronicled in my boxes. In my my incarnations, in every city-- Boston or Bangkok, San Francisco or Jakarta-- I retained this ocd obsession with weight, food intake, exercise output.

I found lengthy letters from people I only vaguely remember being close to, and realized that even though at one point we poured every emotional detail of our lives out to one another, I have no idea who they are now or what has become of them. Because of my complete and utter refusal to be on facebook, there is little chance I will ever find out. But almost as compelling as these past relationships with people whose lives don't touch mine at all anymore, is the fact that I was all of those people, all of those girls. A straight girl, a wannabe butch, naked and sanguine in repose, and topless and angry on Fifth Avenue. What has become of all those incarnations of me?

O, Blog, Why Have I Foresaken Thee?

I took a mental health break-- from myself. I can only stand to listen to myself whine so much about the renovation. Really, who cares? If I can't bring myself to write about it, who would really want to read about it?

Saturday gf and I spent six hours opening every box in the Giant Pile of Crap and poring over its contents-- the second culling. I had done it once already on my own. Keep, throw, throw. We pared down by at least another third from the initial culling. There's still more, but it's down to a manageable level. The Electrolux vacuum from 1956? "It works!" said gf, defensively. "I hate it," I countered. "My mother gave it to me!" she trumped. In college, all of my possessions fit into the back of my 1980 Volvo sedan with room left over for a passenger. I want to get there again, but for now the Electrolux stays. These are the compromises of love.

As of yesterday the downstairs office was officially complete. Walls painted, molding put in, outlet covers on. I came downstairs to check it out and the sunlight was hitting it just so-- it was beautiful. The cream color for the walls, the grained gray tiles we chose, the exposed beams... I do have to say, it looks nearly perfect. I sighed a happy sigh, texted gf about how pretty it was, then got to work with Adelio, our contractor's heavy-lifter, schlepping stuff from the Giant Pile of Crap upstairs to store in the completed room downstairs, so as to make room for the kitchen which will be delivered in boxes next week, and then, for the sanding and painting of the upstairs floors.

Now the checklists in my head are shrinking: things to purchase: drawer pulls, a floor lamp, night stands, reading lamps. A scratching post and a sisal rug (before the new couch is delivered and the cats see it as their new playground.) Door knobs, shelving, chairs for the dining table.

There was a give-away bonanza outside of our building. We filled the entires sidewalk spanning the from on the building and the garden of the adjacent building.Gf took sidewalk chalk and wrote on the avenues: FREE STUFF! with big arrows pointing the way. Almost all of the stuff walked away within minutes.

Saturday night, Valentine's Day. I am not given to large romantic gestures, though I do make an effort to appreciate gf and our mutual amazing good luck at having found each other. We went to see Melissa Ferrick perform at the Bell House by the Gowanus. I also got her this: Which, given my monkey fetish, was absolutely perfect. Even though gf was in a bad mood, it cracked her up when I toddled out of bed to present it to her first thing in the morning.

The concert was interesting...I adore MF and her songs also have special meaning for me and gf as there are some that we traded back in forth leading up to our relationship and in the beginning that perfectly reflected our experiences at the time. "Easy"; "Closer"; "One Year"; "Everything you get"... One of the first official things gf and I did when we were together at last was to drive four hours to Albany to see MF perform. And she has that manic energy that makes her an amazing performer, so we were really looking forward to seeing her on Valentine's Day.

But Saturday night, her energy passed "manic" and hit the upper levels of "frenetic." She played and sang and spoke so fast it was almost impossible to understand what she was saying. She kept having the lights guy turn up the stage lights even higher and crank her volume even louder so that by halfway into her performance she was like a supernova on stage, flaring with unbearable brightness. After one song, gf and I gave up our coveted spots within spitting range and moved back to get away from the blare of the speakers. I am not known for my sensory sensitivity; I can pretty much be oblivious to things like volume and light and crowds and energy, but this was beyond the threshold of pain for me.

About 3/4 into the performance, I am sorry to say, we actually left, not because we don't love MF and not because it was a bad performance, but just because the gestalt of the experience, the lights, the volume, the speedy speedy mania of MF and the ramped-upness of the crowd (not to mention the shrieking drunk girl behind us) had jangled us both thoroughly. It was as if her jitteriness had infected us on a cellular level.

But the night ended beautifully, back home, just us.

In a month we will be in our place-- not mine, over crowded with animals and furniture yet-to-be-discarded or still in boxes, and not hers with reminders of her ex literally carved into the beams and laid on the floor-- ours.

I can't wait!