And There Was Much Rejoicing

Seems the idiots at PublishAmerica, the most notorious of the vanity presses trying to masquerade as a valid alternative to traditional publishers, didn't understand that whole trademark thing. They're getting sued by Encyclopedia Britannica over the use of "PublishBritannica" as the name for their UK branch. For more info, scroll down on this page to see a very exhaustive web analysis of how PA tried to cover the gaff by doing a mad search-and-replace for "Britannica" with "Britannia" that didn't quite work. Also, be sure to pay attention to the nice diatribe against PA's reputation and status as a publisher that EB includes in their filing.

While I'm happy to see a valid suit with a good chance of sticking go up against PA, I can't help but wonder what's going to happen to authors who are already trying to fight against their PA contracts. This may not help them.

One Day I'll Laugh at This, I'm Sure

Spent 24 hours in the hospital this weekend. I was having some nasty contractions and stomach cramping Friday afternoon and evening, and they hauled my butt in to make sure Andrew wasn't trying to show up a couple weeks early. On the way into the hospital, we had to pull over so I could toss my cookies in a spectacular fashion not seen since February. Andrew looked to be OK, heartbeat a little fast, and my cervix wasn't dilated, but it was starting to efface. But, there was the problem of my rising temperature and inability to keep anything in my tummy. So in the hospital I stayed. And the weaker I got, the more pissy Drew got. Everytime I had to get up to use the bathroom, Andrew's heartrate would plummet down to 70. As soon as I was settled back in bed, it would got back up to the slightly elevated 170 that was the product of my hight temp (never broke 100.4, but that's pretty high for me).

So Mark and I got to experience what it's like to have an extended stay in Labor & Delivery. He got to experience the couch-bed, and I got to appreciate why the beds in L&D aren't designed for resting sick folks but for women in active labor. The only time I've been on a more uncomfortable surface was when I was stuck on that friggin' backboard in the emergency room after my accident in April.

I'm still feeling icky, running at 50% at best, but I have no more vacation days or paid leave to draw from. So I'm at work, trying to force myself through four hours at least so I can chip away at the other four during the rest of the week and hopefully not have to come in on the weekend to make up the rest of the time. One day, I'm sure I'll be able to look back at this non-complicated pregnancy during which my baby has shown nothing but the best of health and laugh at all the silly minor things I've had to suffer through that are in no way connected to me being pregnant but that have managed to all hit during these nine months. I can't think of another year when I've had to deal with so many random illness and health issues. To give you some hint of how Murphy is running amok in my life, the last time I had a stomach virus like this weekend was over ten years ago. I'm now at 35 weeks, and I'm really hoping that I'll stay in the clear of all this random stuff until Andrew's ready to come on out.

Tomayto, Tomahto

Every morning, I read Making Light and then I read Paperback Writer. So I did a bit of a double-take when the posts I read this morning back to back referred to the same article about writers and found two rather different takes on it. Of course, Making Light is the blog of the Nielsen Haydens, Tor's big shot editors, and Paperback Writer is the blog of Sheila Kelly, multi-genre novelist (and check out her latest S.L. Viehl titles!). This will naturally give you two different points of view on the matter of writers and the publishing industry. But while the editors cheered the author on--though admitting that he had just been proven wrong by their own company--and seemed to think it a great idea to beat would-be writers with the idea that their "novel within" does not an immediate classic make, Sheila found much to snark at. Reading both POVs, I found myself nodding in agreement with both.

I agreed with the editors' POV because of that phenomenon that doesn't seem to want to go away: vanity publishers. This is where amateur writers crank out their novels, maybe run it through spellcheck, know it will be a multi-million bestseller because it poured forth from his very fingertips and it's his amazing life story and how hard is it to write anyway cuz I been done speekin and rightin since I been yung, get one form letter rejection, decide the traditional publishers are just morons in a cartel slaving away to the Grishams and Clancys, and find that for a few measly dollars they can get their masterwork in print and on the shelves where it will take off in seconds and earn out the money put in. So I'm thinking that this Clare guy is talking about a much-needed shout-out to that lot and the folks who run vanity presses. And I can get behind that. Definitely.

Then I read Sheila's comments and realize that the author could have been--and most likely was?--being snooty and condescending to all those whom he's just beaten out in the publishing race and deciding he can now Tell It Like It Is and get some of his former competitors to give up so he has a better shot of making it to Book 2. He derides the notion that publishing is a game of "who do you know", yet also blames the problems of the industry for taking chances on the unknown (or maybe just taking expensive chances on the unknown, instead of offering reasonable advances). So does this mean he kinda knew someone and got a modest advance as a quasi-unknown and THAT'S the way to get published? Or is he telling publishers to stop accepting any work from unknowns and become much more cartel-like in the hopes that the writers of bad, bad slush will slink off into oblivion?

I dunno, maybe Brit publishing houses are really stupid and routinely crank out $50,000+ advances to first-time writers who then never amount to anything. Maybe Brit editors also have no sense of how to hone a writer into "ripeness" and so books that needed more work get out on the market all to feed the publisher's need to pass something on to posterity. Maybe Brit editors are so starry-eyed and idealistic that they ignore good business principles and throw good money after the merest hint of a potential Next Big Thing. But it doesn't seem to translate to this side of the pond, not from my experience with publishing houses and agents.

And, really, do we need another article deriding both authors AND publishing houses? Wouldn't an article talking about how to revise that novel "stirring within loins" into a decent book be better? Or something otherwise useful?

The Offical Tour

Mark and I filled out the various bits of paperwork and toured, officially, the Labor & Delivery area where Drew will be making his first appearance in this world. We felt a little disappointed when they used the room I hung out in a couple weeks ago on the tour instead of a different one. And while we absolutely love their "rooming in" policy for new babies (staying in Mom's Postpartum room instead of lining up in cribs in a glassed-in nursery), we missed oohing and aahing over all the newborns. Thankfully I wasn't having a horomonal swing, otherwise I might've started banging on postpartum room doors, demanding to see a cute, scrunchy-faced baby. And the L&D area has a computer with internet access, so I'll be able to post the news of Drew's birth myself on this blog when it happens. Tres exciting.

Mark and I put together a birth plan of sorts as part of the paperwork we had to fill out. For medication: wait and see. I've got a lot more options for pain management than I realized, and I'd like to experience what my labor is going to be like and try out a decent amount of those options before I decide on narcotics and epidurals. Of course, I may get the full force of labor beating me over the head right away and start screaming for DRUGS NOW. So, "wait and see". Also, we're going to pick up a few fun aromatherapy lotions and oils to have on hand. And we'll pack a nice goodie bag of suckers and such in case I want to keep my mouth moist with something other than ice chips. We also noted in out birth plan that we're scientists and don't mind and even prefer to have the details of what's going on given to us.

But we're most excited about the music we're going to bring. Given my drama queen tendancies and Mark's sense of humor, we're laying down odds that Andrew will choose some sort of climactic music sequence as the moment of his birth. We're going to help him out by bringing a decent selection that's soothing for me, gets my muse juices flowing (I figure what better way to distract myself from painful contraction than to run through plot and outline ideas with Mark--especially when I'll be ready to start putting my characters through serious hell and map out the horrid demise of the villains), and also provides Drew with several appropriate crescendos and finales for his first big moment.

It's getting down to the wire, and Mark and I are pretty excited as we face this big, huge, gaping unknown. We're both pretty stoic about things, knowing that at some point, Drew's gotta get outside of me. We don't know when and how exactly and we're not entirely sure what we're going to do once he's out except wing it with a lot of love, but we've got our A-game with us and we'll be ready to accept whatever the details will turn out to be. Setting up the birth plan has allowed us to furnish the process with a few personal touches that will bring a sense of the family we've built already to the moment when Andrew shows up to bring his own personality to the mix. Feels good.

Hey, He's Local!

Read a great interview with Dan Simmons, a local writer who I haven't managed to read yet. In fact, he's so local that his daughter works at the Borders Cafe where my critique group meets. (Well, until they uprooted the damn thing to make way for a new Seattle's Best Coffee shop/stand/cafe/what-the-heck-ever. The staff is a bit exasperated that many customers managed to miss the small signs they had around the Cafe area the last couple weeks. I could quibble with them as the signs, small with small print, seemed to indicate only that Seattle's Best would be coming to the Cafe. As they had a very serviceable Cafe setup, I figured it would be a simple product change, not a renovation.) He's so local, that I've heard rumors he regularly donates signed copies of his novels to the local used book store, which I used to frequent but never remembered to see if this rumor was true. He's so local that I think I drive by his house on a regular basis. I say this not to sound like a stalker, but just to revel in the fact that I have an incredible writing resource really, really close. (Actually, I have several. This particular area of Colorado seems to be a stomping ground for some kick-ass writers.)

The interview's great. It's got some tone that remind me of my undergrad genetics professor who basically stood up in front of the class at the beginning of the semester and said, "Hey, I've got a great big ego, but I'm aware of it, so now that it's out of the way, let's do some learning." Not saying Dan Simmons has a big ego, just saying that his tone reminded me of that prof, whom I really, really liked. He was my favorite in the biology department because he wasn't the usual patronizing jerk who lorded himself over everybody while expecting you to fall down in abject workship. Anyway, Mr. Simmons has some really cool things to say about story structure that are in-line with the way I visualize my plots. I'm still not at the point where I have the tools and the broad vision to see my structure in all it's 3-D glory (and as much as I love the double-helix, I doubt I'll be able to pull off a structure that sophisticated anytime soon), but it was neat to see another writer who thinks in 3-D terms. We're really rare, as I've found out from the strange reactions I get when I ask fellow writers about software that lets me plot and outline in 3-D.

I guess I better pick up one of his books.

Almost Went There

This blog's been around for 2.5 years. When I first started posting, I often went off on rants that were the products of highly held opinions with some substance to back them up, but not really enough to make my rant much more than hot air. After shoving my foot in my mouth by flying off half-cocked in similar fashion at other places on the internet, I realized that internet debates and rants were pretty much a waste of time. Except to blow off steam, but I found other ways to do that. You're not going to convince anybody you're right and they're wrong in an internet debate. If you do, it's going to be the exception to the rule. More often than not, rants and internet debates turn into a villification of what you're railing against and not any sort of coherent argument for what you believe. So somewhere in the past 2.5 years, I stopped getting into internet debates. I stopped even really making comments on blogs and posts on message boards. It all seemed like a waste of time and energy and did nothing more than get my blood pressure going. It helped that I was laid off last year. I used to have all sorts of time at my previous job to surf the net and let those little pits of the internet swallow me whole and consume so much of my life. When I got laid off, I stopped having direct, easy access to the net, and I found I didn't have a need for it beyond emailing, the occasional blog post, research, and reading what my internet buddies were up to on their blogs. I'm glad that happened.

Yesterday's post brought back a little of that old ranting. Part of me needed to say that, and liked blowing off the steam that had built. Part of me really regretted the throwback to what I feel was a bad habit. Today, I almost jumped into the fray in the discussion that sparked yesterday's post, but I chose not to. And I'm glad I did. While I feel I have a valid point, I also feel fairly confident that the person I was trying to get to see that point wouldn't. And I'd be right back in the thick of a pointless, time-wasting debate where the language kept getting hotter and hotter until tempers made rational discussion impossible.

I'm not going to link to anything, and I'm not going to carry on a one-sided debate to get my points made here as opposed to where they'd be a direct response. I said my piece yesterday, and it was against an amalgam of attitudes and assumptions that I've encountered in a lot of places over a lot of years, not just one thing. It bothers me that people will always assume way too much about me just because I'm middle class (and have basically always been so) and because I went to Notre Dame (and it bothers me even more that people automatically assume that my parents had to have paid for that education just because it's an "uppity" private school) and because I have a graduate degree. Does it bother me because it's unfair to me? Sure. But I think the greater injustice here is to the person making the assumption. The assumer is writing off a whole big chunk of good people for no good reason, and I think that makes the assumer's world all the poorer for it. But hey, we're sitting on a stuffed-to-the-gills world and we've gotta keep it manageable. So assume away if it helps make things a little less overwhelming.

And look at that, I still managed to carry-on a bit of a one-sided debate just then. Sheesh. OK, now I'm done. No more.

College Degree = No Right to Complain?

I've encountered an attitude in several places and blogged about it before that because I went to a swank private college that I'm not allowed to be upset with my life or that I must have had some excessive life of privelege.

Bullshit.

I truly don't understand this attitude. Yes, I am the daughter of an Air Force officer (well, after the age of six, that is; he was enlisted before that, and do I really have to give my parents' story of the time before I was six to somehow validate myself in anyway?). Yes, I went to Notre Dame and the University of Colorado at Boulder. Yes, my parents took out some loans to help with ND's tuition. Yes, I am currently living a middle-class life. Yes, I also have the ability and freedom to indulge in a hobby that may one day allow me to work at home and raise my children. I fail to see how any of these facts (and I could present the other side of them that clearly shows that I fought my way, tooth and nail to earn every single one of them--well, beyond being the daugher of an Air Force officer; didn't have a whole lot of choice there, but I could go on about the negative impacts that had on my life) somehow negates any complaint I may have about the current status of my life.

In the past, the fact that I was going to ND has been used as the sole reason why I shouldn't be upset about my parents' divorce. It was inferred that my college experience was less because, since I went to ND, I obviously hadn't earned my degree as compared to someone who went to a state school and, just as obviously, had to work their way through it and fight every day for that degree. And it's also been implied that somehow I am less worthy as a human being just because I had successful parents who provided me with shelter, food, love, and material things beyond the basic necessities in life. Or rather, I am less worthy if I dare to complain about anything in my life because my parents gave me those things and I can provide myself with those things now.

Why should I have to explain myself? I'm very tempted to defend my fight to get where I am today. It wasn't easy. Sure, it could've been harder. Sure, it had nothing of the stress of wanting for basic necessities. But I'm not going to sit here and apologize because it wasn't. And I'm not going to detail my own little "sob story" to try and get other assholes to stop assuming shit about people because of a few random facts that in no way make the shape of any person. People who wear their lack of privelege or their sorrows as a badge of superiority over those who have the privelege and don't have the sorrows (at least based on those damned assumptions) just don't seem to get what it means to be human. Life is not a contest.

Delivery Wants

After reading this post about what one woman wants for her delivery, I got to thinking about what I want. All I really want is everything to have a safe and healthy resolution. Andrew's OK, I'm OK, Mark's OK. Beyond that, I'm fairly open to whatever happens, happens. Whether I have a quick and easy labor, or if I'm in agony for hours even with the epidural (which, I've learned, freaks me out more than the pain of delivering my son; something about seeing exactly where that catheter is going to go just gives me the heebie-jeebies; I don't like the idea of anything being that close to my spinal column, I don't care how safe and tried-and-true the damn thing is; of course, I'm sure I'll get over my ick-factor in a heartbeat if the pain becomes unbearable), or whether Something Happens and I have to have a C-section, as long as everyone's safe and healthy, I'm good. Sure, I've got a few preferred scenarios, but there's this innate sense of "however it happens, it's gonna get Andrew out of me and tangibly into our family and we'll go from there."

Actually, I do have a big want. To deliver before my due date. I was extraordinarily jealous of the women in the breastfeeding class last night who had August due dates. I love Drew, and while it's been fun having him wriggle and squirm and kick and punch my innards, I'm ready to have him in my arms.

By the way, of all the oh-so-pleasant terms used to describe baby's diapers (we learned what we need to expect and see to make sure Drew's getting all the breastmilk he needs last night), "explosive" is by far the most disturbing.

Having a Day

Really, that has to be about the most useless bit of modern slang. By virtue of being on this planet as it rotates on its axis, you're having a day. Everyone else is having one too. Even the plants and bugs are having a day. And talk about a lazy bit of slang too. Now we can't even be bothered to describe the day we're having when asked. But I love this phrase still because it gives the drama queen in me a chance to take center stage and inject that extra bit required to make the phrase even remotely understandable. A heavy sigh. A super sarcastic, cheesy, ear-to-ear, painful smile. A 'round the world eye-roll. A perfectly executed, despairing downward droop to the chin and shoulders. It's a phrase I can own in any way I want depending on the mood I'm in and the reaction I want others to have. It's me being a writer in the flesh.

So I'm having a day, she said with a heavy sigh. A very heavy sigh. I need a nice, long nap, but we have a class about breastfeeding tonight, so I'm stuck at work later than usual since the hospital's only five minutes from here and twenty-five minutes from home. It means I can leave early tomorrow, but today is the day I'm having. Work's slowed down a decent amount this week, but they've had bugs up their butts here about at least looking like we're insanely busy, so I've been finding inventive ways to look productive while I sketch out ideas for SoD, plot other ideas, research child care providers, or simply stare into space. But today I wanted to go home, take that nap, and wake up with the energy I needed to dive into the writing that's damn near bursting to get out of me.

I've found myself thinking of crazy, yet consequence-free, ways of getting my hands on the equivalent of one year's salary so I can chuck the DDJ for about the length of time it's going to take Mark to finish up. Needless to say, the list is rather short on anything useful. Except wasting time until we have to go to that class, of course.

Days like this are really rough. I've got the ideas, I've got the determination, I've got the energy (well, I will once I take that nap), but I'm stuck at the DDJ with a limited ability to take advantage of anything. Days like these, it often frustrates me even more to do the few, paltry things I can about my writing without getting my ass fired. Especially because I know this intense drive to write will most likely not stick around until I can make use of it on Saturday. Don't get me wrong: I'll still make Saturday damn productive. But it's not going to be what writing at home for hours could've been like if I'd had the chance to do it today.

Plus, it'd be really nice to go home and put my feet up so I can see about reducing the god-awful swelling. I don't think my ankles have reached the frightening puffiness experienced in Chicago, but they're getting really, really close. Makes walking difficult. Makes sitting even with my feet slightly propped up difficult. And it's just really disgusting to look at. Once I'm at 37 weeks, Andrew and I are going to have nightly pow-wows about starting the whole labor & delivery process a bit earlier than the docs have me down for. September 15 sounds a whole lot better than October 3.

Cool Stuff for Drew and His Room

Andrew's going to be one very smartly dressed little guy. My in-laws have done it again, sending me a baby shower in a box--well, three boxes, really. They did this for a wedding shower three years ago. Seeing as I don't really have family up here, and my local friends are for the most part starving writers in their forties and beyond, a true "surprise her with a party" shower just hasn't been in the cards. So the Buffalo relatives all congregate somewhere over there, have a little party, wrap up gifts and make cards, and send everything my way.

This time, Mark was kept in the dark also, as the shower was also for him as the Daddy-to-be. So we had a good time last night, opening the gifts and taking pictures of our reactions to Andrew's loot with the disposable camera they sent. Now we just need to finish setting up the nursery so we can put all the cool new stuff away instead of stacking it in boxes in the closet. (If we left everything just sitting out in the nursery, Addy would cover the homemade quilts with cat hair because she loves to lounge on soft stuff, and Nosey would introduce the monkey stuffie to every corner of the apartment, most likely trying to be friendly.)

Drew's got lots of cute outfits for the first year, which shatters Mark's original notion of just having the boy wander around in the buff, or maybe only in a diaper. (But knowing both of his parents, Drew is probably going to do a lot of fleeing from our hands after a bath to run around nekkid.) We also got the complete crib bedding set, now we just need the crib to put it in. And Drew also snagged his first play gym as well as assorted toys, stuffies, and books. He will be a well-entertained baby.

So a nice, big, family thank you to the in-laws for thinking of Mark, Andrew, and me all the way out here in Colorado. We had a great time with the baby shower in the box, the handmade cards were all adorable, and we'll send pictures of the nursery as soon as it's looking a bit more functional to show you how we've put your generous gifts to use.

Potential Threshold Crossing--Or Maybe Just More Amateur Writer Nonsense

I'm still reeling. I had an excellent critique of the first 9 pages of Strings of Discord last night. A challenging critique, one that indicates I'm already moving to a new stage of development as a writer. And I'm absolutely freaked. Deer-in-headlights, am I ready for this, can I really do this, what the hell do I do now, freaked. And just to make things even more confusing, I'm also buzzing from the compliment to my writing.

It's made for a confusing evening and morning.

I guess I should explain. We had a new member at our critique group last night. After the group regulars all gave their feedback (three very enthusiastic thumbs up with only minor quibbles), he then took it to the next level. Basically, he said that what I had written was a stock epic fantasy beginning. Something that could be published if it landed on the right desk at the right time, but it wasn't going to turn any heads, and it would likely launch me, at best, into a mid-list career. Assuming I could find someone looking for stock epic fantasy. But I have a great hook for the entire series, which I already knew, and he wanted that played up a bit more in order to vault my book above the stock epic fantasy out there.

Here's why I'm freaking out.

In just nine pages of rough draft and a brief verbalized logline/synopsis of sorts, he not only saw my hook and was eager to read it, but he also indicated that I was capable of doing it well enough to talk about how I could transcend the genre. If only he were an editor. That's why I'm buzzing. It's also why I'm freaking. Because SoD has only been my little project for three years. Something I believed in and knew could go places. I knew it would be a good shot at a breakout novel. But now someone else knows that too. There's a pressure in that. A sense of "I can do this and do it big, but someone else in the biz knows it too and expects it now". Yipes.

The whole critique made me realize that it's time to move on to the next development stage as a writer. And I've been in this current one only since May, basically. I'm about to leave the comforting level of good, solid writing that has a decent chance of getting published but--if it does make it--it's not going to turn a whole lot of heads, it's going to go through a lot of rejection before it finds that magic combo of time/person to buy it, and it's going to launch a mid-list at best career. And there's really nothing wrong with that level. It would give me the chance to write for a living. It would get my stories in print. It would give me an audience. It would give me a chance to work up to other levels of writing and maybe eventually break out of mid-list. It would also be frustrating and long. It would make publishing that much more of a challenge.

This next level is the break-out level. That ability to take an idea and make it pop beyond what the genre is doing at the moment. This level makes the career I described above a definite possibility, but the least of what I would experience in publishing. This level makes it more likely that I would launch above a mid-list career. This level puts a helluva lot more pressure on me and this would-be career. Starting at this level means it becomes my baseline. That makes leaving the comfort of my current level really, really scary.

You know, this probably sounds like a lot of arrogant, self-indulgent bullshit. Maybe it is. Really, it was only one other writer's opinion, and, though he's been around the block with professional authors, he's still an unpublished writer. And I'm by no means an expert able to make the sort of predictions and career distinctions I just did with any sort of rationale other than my own observations and opinions and intuition. Regardless of whatever "level" I reach as I writer, I may never get published. I may only ever be a struggling mid-list author, never quite sure if my last round of sales was good enough to get me the next contract. I may write the 30 books or so that are in my head at the moment (this is the problem with epic series ideas), and they may only delight my family and friends. And that's OK, because I know I'll at least be doing what I love.

But if this critique is right, and my intuition is right, then I think I just crossed a threshold in to a world of amazing publishing responsibilities. Exciting, terrifying, and something I can't ignore.

Sneak Preview

I woke up Sunday at 5:30 feeling absolutely icky. Nausea, cramping, Braxton-Hicks, the works--hell, my bod even through in the potential of a bit of a fluid leak that may or may not have been amniotic (I never thought that would be something ambiguous, but circumstances can arise that make it so; trust me, you don't want the details). I shuffled around for an hour, trying various and sundry things to make me feel better. No dice. So I figured I'd call the after-hours care line and see what they suggested. Hauled my butt into the hospital for an unexpected, fully-functioning peek at the Labor & Delivery ward where Andrew's going to spend his first days.

The labor rooms are very large, gorgeous, and have amazing views of the front range. Private bathrooms with big tubs. Nice cabinets to conceal all that fun equipment they need for the actual birthing process. Somewhat comfortable couch for the exhausted father-to-be, rocking chair, radio/CD clock. TV. Really nifty.

We were there for about 2.5 hours, with me hooked up to a fetal monitor. They did the oh-so-fun cervix check and a quickie ultrasound. Andrew's fine, he knows what he's doing, and he seems to be keeping my cervix in line, too. My uterus just has that twitchiness whenever something goes remotely differently than what it's expecting. And absolutely no membrane rupture to be found.

So they sent me home. As happy as I am that Drew's healthy and not trying to arrive early, I'm really getting sick of these piddly, annoying things that keep adding up to give me worrisome symptoms that make the nurses drag my butt in for urgent checkups. They're not enough to warrant any sort of bed rest discussion, but it's just enough to make getting through 40 hours of work each week a chore, and then I have next to no energy for writing. I can feel my sanity fraying a little more with each unplanned trip to the doctor.

This Posting Lapse Brought to You By...

...the DDJ and More Fun With Braxton-Hicks. Our major client just finished up a three-day audit an hour ago. My life has been hell both last week and this week preparing and kowtowing to the auditors' every whim. I think we passed, so at least that should be some consolation. And the Braxton-Hicks I was experiencing last week developed the extra fun symptom of an interesting downward pressure on Monday. OB pulled my butt in ASAP again, and delighted me with the news that while the urinary tract infection has cleared out, the antibiotics used to treat it gave me a yeast infection that is making my uterus "irritable." I prefer "twitchy" because the twitchy uterus is making ME irritable. :) Hopefully once this latest infection clears up and the stress from the audit goes away, my uterus will be less irritable. More on the life lately this weekend when I have time to breathe again.