Carefully Energized

For the past month, I've been sleeping better and eating better in the mornings. I've had energy to spend toward other ends beyond just getting through 40 hours of work every week. I've been using most of this energy to get Strings of Betrayal (really need to change that title) back up to speed with the on-line writing course. And get back in touch with family and friends that never heard from me while I spent a lot of time sleeping or hugging a bucket.

So I was a bit concerned when I started to have some mildly odd symptoms on Monday. Severe dizziness accompanied with mild headaches and nausea, a yellow haze to my vision, some minor swelling, and the realization that I have gained twenty pounds in ten weeks (versus the ten pounds that is recommended). I don't mind the extra weight. I expected to gain weight these nine months, and I expected my bod would gain whatever weight it needed for this little boy growing inside me. But the additive effect of these symptoms raised preeclampsia concerns. I don't have any of the more serious, red-flag-raising symptoms, and everything I'm dealing with (only occassionally, really; the new symptoms seem to be noticeable in the afternoon) is explainable as normal pregnancy stuff. But it is frustrating that just a month after getting some semblance of normal energy levels back that I have to start taking it easy again. My OB isn't too concerned at the moment, just wants me to watch the salty and sugary foods and rest a bit better in the evenings and keep drinking the 3L of water I've been chugging since Andrew first made his presence known. While bedrest has the appeal of ending my suffering at the DDJ earlier than Oct 3, it's not a situation to strive for.

Genre Issues

A while ago it got around the writing blogosphere that Tor is looking for erotica/romantica. For some reason this got me pondering whether or not The Masque and its universe would be considered in that category. It definitely has more sex and sexual themes than does your basic SF. But did that necessarily mean that it would fit more in the erotica genre than SF? I decided to pick up a couple of erotic novels by authors I respected from reading their blogs (Alison Kent being one, though I don't know if she writes romantica more than erotica, and I'm not sure where the boundaries of subgenres are within this genre or if there are any). Anyway, after reading these two books, I realized what I realized after reading a basic romance novel. I don't write either of those genres, nor do I really want to. Why? Formula.

Romance and mystery in particular are two genres that are slaves to a formula. It's the nature of the genres. In romance, the formula is as follows, and it is the primary focus of the novel. Step 1: Boy meets girl (or vice versa) and there is a Potent Attraction of some kind, which can manifest itself in everything from a look to a sexual encounter--the type of manifestation usually depends on the genre. Step 2: Something prevents boy and girl from being together. Step 3: Boy and girl overcome this obstacle. Step 4: Boy and girl finally get around to admitting to themselves and each other that they are in love. The only way you can play around with these steps is by changing subgenres within the genre. And then you encounter a much more specific formula. I'm shying away from romance novels right now because I'm sick of the formula.

It's the same with mysteries: mystery presents itself, clues are chased down in a particular fashion, mystery is solved. I stopped reading mysteries at some point in college because I kept seeing the formula instead of the story and was very, very annoyed. I've found that the way for me to enjoy mysteries despite the formula is to pick a series with some sort of intriguing element. For example, Nevada Barr writes mysteries set in National Parks. As I am a National Park junky, I love these books because I can get caught up in the setting whenever the formula starts to rear its head. Although this creates the Jessica Fletcher Syndrome. If you ever run into Jessica Fletcher anywhere in these United States, turn around and run because someone's gonna die. Similarly, if Anna Pigeon is a park ranger at the National Park you are visiting, make a hasty exit because a dead body ain't too far away. The only way to avoid this syndrome in mystery serials is to have your character be a cop or bounty hunter or in a setting where murders happen frequently. Smalltown Maine and National Parks aren't them.

Side note: I'm finding paranormal romance an excellent diversion from romance formulas. Cases in point: Lynn Viehl's If Angels Burn and Holly Lisle's Midnight Rain and Last Girl Dancing (reminder: check out the freebie chapters and pre-order; kickass paranormal/suspense premise).

Romance plays a heavy part in my novels, mystery less so. But I could never write in those genres because of the formula. I prefer SF and fantasy because there seems to be a distinct lack of formula in these genres, other than your basic storytelling plot arc: hero wants something, villain presents obstacles, hero overcomes obstacles and usually learns something in the process. All nice and vague--ample opportunity to play. I suppose that authors in romance and mystery must feel that same opportunity or somehow prefer the formula, otherwise they wouldn't be writing that genre.

All this is what made me realize that, while my books might stretch the boundaries of SF and fantasy because of their romantic elements, they are most definitely SF and fantasy. This might mean I'll run into the same issues that S.L. Viehl does with her StarDoc books, but oh well. They are the stories I want to tell. And that's what matters, not the genre label.

Visions of Being a Published Writer

I've been browsing through a few blogs, reading about marketing your books, writing newsletters to readers, blogging as a marketing tool, and other sorts of things. I read these things to get a feel for what may or may not be expected of me when my Big Publishing Day comes. Lots of good ideas out there, both of what you should and shouldn't do. Mainly I just read and get a sense of "I can do that" or "can't do that" or "don't want to do that".

When I think of me as a published writer, I think about doing stuff locally for signings and interviews, working with schools to get kids reading and interested in science. I think about using my blog and maybe a message board to promote my books, something user-friendly and regularly updated/used that's intended to be fun and a way to get the word about my fabulous writing. ;) I think of someone who attends one big con a year, a local one, and a writing conference at the most. I think about being on a couple panels, trying a reading here and there (I'm a very extroverted person, and I used to do the readings at Mass, but reading my own work out loud with inflection and character and stuff just makes me start blushing furiously), using whatever popularity I have to get more butts in the seats at the art auctions, chatting with other writers and fans. Nothing too crazy.

Then I read this: Neil Gaiman's tips for a signing. Wow. I'm not sure I ever want to be as popular as some of those tips would indicate he is. That kind of success would put a lot of pressure on me, just like making the New York Times Bestseller. I'm not sure I want all those expectations. I'd rather have a decent-sized reader/fan base to keep the publishing contracts coming at a modest enough size to give me the time to write my books and the money to help out the family as much as is needed. Anything more than that might start taking the fun out of it for me, unless I figure out how to live only for myself and not get caught up so much in what the world expects of me. I suppose that would be possible, now that I think about it more. Afterall, I did kiss off the idea of a career using my degrees because I want to write. And I did it all for myself. So maybe there is hope for me to be very successful as a writer and still be true to myself and my stories. But I think I'd rather hang out in the "mid-list" popularity for a bit to make sure.

Made a Cut

My essay, The Purple Heart, made it to the second round of Holly's Talyn ARC Contest. Read the other finalists here. Now it's time for Holly to really look at the entries and decide which two make the grade. You can help out by voting here (must sign up to be a member of Holly's blog--it's free and spam-free and easy and worth it to read advance snippets of her upcoming books and such). Notice I didn't say "vote for me". There are a lot of great essays in the contest, so vote for your fave. While I've never seen an ARC, let alone owned one, and would very much like to change that, I entered the contest more out of my own need to write at least something about my brother's story, and I'll be buying Talyn when it comes out anyway, if only for the kickass cover art alone. :) So go check it out and read up on Last Girl Dancing while you're at it.

Dental Hijinks

I tried for the second time to get that damn tooth of mine seated for a permanent crown. No dice. I got into that dentist's chair and immediately started sobbing. Couldn't stop. Dentist (who is also pregnant, about seven weeks behind me) didn't even get a chance to shoot me full of novacaine. I'm not sure I mentioned the first round of this experience. The actual root canal procedure itself was a breeze compared to drilling out the temporary crown and prepping my tooth for the permanent one.

The problem with the first time we tried this was that I had just been in the car accident not much more than a week before. Something about the drilling sound, vibrations, and pressure just absolutely freaked me out. We're talking hyperventilating through sobs freak out. We're talking nightmares for two days freak out. We're talking sudden flashbacks of the experience in the middle of meetings and commutes freak out. Yes, we're most likely talking post-traumatic stress disorder freak out.

I tried all weekend to settle myself and prepare for this morning's trip to the dentist. Frustrated Mark because he kept trying to get me to be rational about the whole thing and I just couldn't manage it. Pissed myself off because I had to reschedule the damn appointment AGAIN this morning when I couldn't settle down enough to even try the damn procedure. Also slightly miffed with Andrew because if he weren't tossed into the equation, they could pump me up with some laughing gas or happy pills to get me through this procedure.

By the way, what kind of sense does it make that the docs were willing to put me on anti-depressants for the rest of my pregnancy back when I had my work stress insanity in April but they're not willing to let me take one little anti-anxiety pill to get me through an hour or two of dental work? Are the drugs really THAT different? I was and still am much better equipped to deal with work stress and pregnancy symptoms than I am to get over irrational freak outs about a dental drill. Hell, I'm better equipped to deal with the stress and mild depression symptoms (which I'm still not convinced I really had, but apparently I worried a couple of docs who supposedly should know better) than I am to sit in a chair that months ago had a spider on it. And a very small spider at that.

Anyway, the third time has to be the charm for this permanent crown prep because the temporary crown cannot last for another rescheduling. Oh, and meanwhile, my dentist whom I love has decided to opt out of my insurance network as of this weekend. So the cost of the crown prep will likely be $100 more than it would have been today, had I managed to swallow my fear. Or I can always try to find a new dentist to try this procedure out with. Me no rikey my options. Stupid tooth.

Suddenly Pregnant, My Brother the Bugler & Other Stories

It's amazing how many people have commented on my Big Fat Belly this week now that I've started wearing maternity tops. I haven't suddenly gained a pregnant belly, but that's what everyone seems to think. It's probably just a matter of perspective. My belly has reached the right proportions that the eye can't just chalk it up to a little extra chunkiness, there has to be a kid growing in there. There are a few people I haven't managed to tell in the area, and I'm sadistically looking forward to seeing them at some point this summer now that I'm showing. I like the sort of life changes that you see before you hear about them, the positive ones, anyway.

In other pregnancy news, Andrew let me sleep through the night last night. Of course, it's because he wanted me to sleep for a good three more hours, but still. I fell asleep around midnight and woke up just before six with the usual "gotta pee, gotta eat" urge I usually wake up to a 3 AM or so. Too bad today was a work day, though, otherwise I would've fallen back into bed. Andrew's still miffed about me not getting more sleep as he's been kicking at me regularly this morning.

And with no seque, my mom told me about my brother's experience as part of a Marine color guard. Skipping past my confusion because I thought he had officially left the Corps and wasn't in the Reserves or anything that would require him to be in a color guard, I found out that my brother can bugle. Probably not as well as the Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy from Company B, but that's not gonna stop me from calling Brad that when I talk to him next. Gotta hand it to those Marines: they don't miss a thing in training, especially when it comes to color guards.

Drew's Room

I could talk about how the workload at the DDJ managed to get a notch worse this week. Or I could talk about how Muse is damn near liquifying brain cells, trying to get me to write, or at the very least outline. But I decided it would be much more pleasant to talk about the decor in Drew's room. (I've always like Drew as a nickname for Andrew; now I love it. :))

Before we knew we were having a boy, Mark and I decided we wanted to go with gender neutral regardless of our child's gender. Blues, yellows, greens, stars, moons, teddy bears. We found this amazing nursery pattern at Babies R Us. Isn't it great? We're going to highlight the gorgeous sage green. Unfortunately for Andrew, the nursery will be coexisting as our study until Mark graduates and we're able to jet on out of here and (hopefully) into a house with at least three bedrooms. It'll make for an interesting look. The rocking chair that Mark brought with him from his family's home will be perfect for nursing Drew and soothing him on rough nights. And we're slowly but surely building our collection of fun baby books and such.

And that's about as far as we've gotten with the nursery. We probably won't get much farther, though, since we know it's likely that we'll be moving right about the time Drew's six months old. It's still a heck of a lot of fun to think about.

Allow Me to Introduce...

...my son, Andrew Thomas. Poor thing isn't even breathing air just yet, but he waves hello all the same--much to my bladder's annoyance. We had our spiffy ultrasound last week. Got to see Andrew's spine, heart, stomach, bladder, arms, legs, the lens of his eye. And, of course, we also got to see the organ that clearly defines Baby as Andrew. The technician gave us the usual disclaimer that only seeing the body part in question at birth would make everything 100% certain, but that third leg really couldn't have been anything else.

Mark and I had names picked out over a year ago when we decided to give this parenthood thing a whirl. And that's why Baby already has a name. So while I might occasionally reference this thing growing inside me as Baby and Junior, I'm going to be using his actual name more and more often. That way I also get used to the idea of having a boy, as intuition had me convinced Andrew was female. I promise that'll be the last time I inflict such horrible gender confusion on my son, though. But if Baby the Second is also a boy, then all bets are off. :)

Mmmmm....Steak....

Baby let me have steak this weekend!!!! A nice, medium-well, juicy piece of beef smothered with portabello mushrooms. I'm taking advantage of this sudden OK for beef by making a roast this weekend. Our menu can expand beyond chicken now. And there was much rejoicing.

"Mandatory Overtime"

Just as everyone was packing up on Friday afternoon, our Esteemed Manager (I'll call him EM from now on, and feel free to come up with other fun descriptors that begin with the letter E) decided that a particular project was falling behind and the team had to come in on the weekend to work on it. Technically, this isn't my project, and I'm only a "backup" member of the team. But I had to come in anyway. I had been planning on going in anyway as the project that is actually mine is also falling behind, and due slightly before this other one. The DDJ is still as awful as ever, but I'm not letting it bother me quite so much. Mainly because I came to a couple realizations: 1) I may have the skills and enough power to try to make things change around here, but if the Powers That Be refuse to listen to me, then it's SOL for them; and 2) I've got meeting minutes going back to November that clearly lay out how I had said we should handle a particular issue and more minutes that clearly indicate that no one was doing anything about my suggestions, so it won't be MY ass on the line if things get SNAFUed in a hurry. Plus I think my job's protected due to being pregnant at least until three months after birth. Then they can fire my ass.

Ah, the DDJ. I've got my application into my dream job, so keep your fingers crossed, that 1) they'll interview me and 2) they won't mind hiring a woman who is quite obviously pregnant and will be needing maternity leave just about the time she'll be fully trained at her job. :)

Scorcher

Today got into the 90s. And we're still in spring. Ick. I'm going to be very pregnant during July and August, and they're shaping up to be very hot months. I went on a maternity clothes run tonight, hoping to find some of those nice, loose, flowy skirts that never get wrinkled (or are just crinkly enough on their own that you can't tell). Found some light maternity t-shirts that will help, but no skirts. I think I'm going to check out Babies R Us this weekend and see what they have. My mom's friend's daughter recently had a baby, and she sent me all her maternity clothes. Unfortunately, she didn't have to work during her pregnancy, so I'm lacking in the nice pants/capris/skirts department. Plenty of good shirts, though. Oh, and I better pick up some maternity undies this weekend too. Junior likes to sit very low in my belly, right about where all the underwear elastic is hitting. Baby may not mind, but my bladder is beginning to feel like it's in a pincer attack with the elastic and Junior's enthusiastic punches and kicks.

And if anyone has invented one of those personal climate control suits, send one my way please. I have a feeling I'm going to be wishing I could walk around in a 68degree bubble for the next couple months.

Writing Status

Writing. Writing writing writing writing. Even my revised goal of finishing a draft of The Masque before Baby's Big Day seems less and less likely. I'll be very happy if I can finish my "Princess Incubus" short and submit it to a writing contest before Baby's Big Day. As for the on-line writing course for Strings of Betrayal, I'm slowly but surely getting caught up after lagging two months behind. And I still can't make up my mind about the fate of Human Dignity.

The good news? I go to my crit group nearly every Tuesday (there are some Tuesdays where I need sleep more than I need writing comraderie). I am being mentored by a published author on a monthly basis, maybe twice a month after the insanity that is May passes the both of us by. And as soon as I get the OK about using the author's name, I'll share it and my experiences with our mentoring here. I participate in the Forward Motion Think Tanks fairly often. I blog as often as I am able--which, you'll note, seems to be more often. And, of course, rarely does a day pass that I don't think about my various projects and manage to jot a note here and there.

So writing is still a part of my life despite the vagaries of my job and my pregnancy. It's not occupying the part I'd like it to play, of course. But I'm dealing with that necessity a bit better each day. It's still going to frustrate me. And maybe I'll figure out a way not to let it bother me quite so much by the time Baby and Baby the Second are out of the house. By then I'm sure I'll have a host of new Issues to work on. :)

As I go through these thoughts on my writing and it's place in my life in the past, present, and future, I'm reading with interest Holly Lisle's struggle with her own writing future. She seems to have reached a point where she doesn't want to propose (sell) a book and then write it. She'd rather do what us amateurs have no choice but to do: write the book THEN sell it. I confess that I'd rather do things that way for the rest of my writing career, but that's mostly because I'm an organic writer and I discover the books as I write them. Makes it hard to sell a book before it's written. As I will be providing only supplemental income with my writing when I no longer have to deal with the Dreaded Day Job, I may be able to get away with writing books then selling them. We'll see.

And that's the writing status as of today. Primary goal is to finish and submit "Princess Incubus". Secondary goal is to finish a draft of The Masque. Of immediate concern is finishing up my last couple weeks of missed assignments for the on-line course.

Rough Essay

Holly's doing a little contest to give away her ARCs of Talyn. I remember reading the first chapter or so of this when she posted them special at Forward Motion sometime last year or perhaps even the year before (isn't the cover art beautiful?). I pre-ordered my copy of this book last night, alongwith Holly's Last Girl Dancing and the new Harry Potter. (I also ordered the last Tori Amos album I need to complete my collection; no one keeps Strange Little Girls in stock.)

Anyway, when Holly posted the contest, I knew I had to enter. Not because I had to have the ARCs, which would be cool, but because of the topic of the essay contest: rediscovering honor. I've known since Thanksgiving that I have to write at least a short story about my brother's experiences in Iraq. I've also known since then that I'm nowhere near the kind of writer I need to be to do that story justice. But I've also known that I can't just leave the story unwritten. So here's the essay I entered into the contest.

----

I haven't seen my brother since he came back from Iraq the second time. I'll have a chance to give him the fierce hug that's been building at our family reunion in July, but until then all I have is a picture of him receiving his Purple Heart.

He's one of only a few Marines in uniform. The rest are standing in formation, at attention in the grass behind him. There's an SUV, a couple of civilians, and a trashcan cluttering up the background. My brother has the medal pinned to his chest, and he's shaking someone's hand.

But it's his eyes that I see right away whenever I look at this picture. I see him watching an improvised explosive device fling two of his men from the truck and send shrapnel into the driver. I see him fighting to save the life of the young man who didn't make it. I see him hearing the news that the two other men in the truck were honorably discharged, one without a foot, one with severe damage to his arms. I see him waking up suddenly under the bridge his company protected, thinking it was a bad dream but the bandage on his own arm telling him differently.

I see honor. I see its price. And I know I will never look at a Purple Heart without the same mix of pride, despair, anger, and relief that I feel right now.

----

There are a couple of details I wasn't able to put in the essay due to the 250-word limit. But that's only part of the reason why this little essay is just a glimmer of a beginning for the story I want to write about my brother. Love ya, Baby Bro.

Alive & Kicking

A few weeks ago, I felt the first flutterings in the general area of my womb that could've been attributed to Junior's active limbs. I've been paying attention for more certain signs of movement, but I didn't get a clear "Yes, this is definitely Baby kicking" until last week. I had just indulged in a plate of nuggets and fries, my usual late-night snack. I was laying in bed, watching a taped episode of The Simpsons. I decided to press in slightly to see if I could get a definite response from this thing growing inside me. Sure enough, I got a mild little thunk back that couldn't be anything other than Junior. So I had Mark repeat the process. Evidently we had annoyed or excited the kid, because Baby responded to Mark's mild pressure with a vehement soccer kick that most likely could've been seen had Mark's hand not been on my Big Fat Belly.

The best part about feeling Baby move is the reassurance and realization it brings. This child is no longer just something that makes me exhausted and sick. I have regular tangible evidence that this is a person, living and growing and learning and preparing itself for Real Life. It's amazing what these kicks have done for me. I've slept so much better. And the mornings have been so smooth, almost even normal. I'm still a little tired during the day, but it's not the bone weary exhaustion it's been. I feel more energized. Of course, this could just be a couple of good days and the swing back is somewhere on the horizon. But I feel pretty damn good right now, and that's what counts.

I do find it really strange that when I was just "sick" with no real tangible evidence of pregnancy (beyond that which could be obtained at a doctor's office) I couldn't feel normal. But now that I've got a creature kicking me from the inside, I'm back to my usual self. Pregnancy sometimes seems so bizarre as to be an abberation, not a normal part of life.

The Mystery of Three

My mother is the oldest of eight children. The youngest, my aunt DeeDee, is only three years older than I am. She got married three weeks before I did--I was a bridesmaid in her wedding and she was my matron of honor. I found out earlier this week that she is expecting her first child three months after my own first enters the world. I told her that if our second children our separated by some increment of three, I will start an investigation. :)

She's just starting out on this crazy thing called pregnancy. It seems so long ago that I too was fretting about how long I had to wait for my first OB appointment, or first discovering the joys of a constantly full bladder, or first realizing that sleep would be an elusive yet often demanded thing for the next year or so, or wondering if it would be possible to mainline antacid as a means to ease heartburn. She hasn't experienced any morning sickness as yet, and I'll keep my fingers crossed that she doesn't.

It's nice to have someone I know very well going through this with me. DeeDee's not close by, but she's close at heart and that makes me feel a whole lot less alone in this process. Maybe alone is not the right word. But I didn't have anyone I knew to share this with who's going through it too. It's nice to have that now. Plus I get to share the little nuggets of womanly and motherly wisdom that I've been learning along the way instead of just taking all that wisdom from others. Makes me feel useful, even when I can't be bothered to drag myself off the couch or out of bed on the weekends.

So congrats to DeeDee and her husband Mike. Now when we all get together for my grandparents' 50th anniversary in July, I won't be the only one waddling or stretching out clothing. I'll have to make shirts: DeeDee's will say "Grandchild on Board" and mine will say "Great-grandchild on Board".

Fun Quiz

Via Kat, a nice time-waster. I found the results pretty well in-line with how I think of myself: overall, balanced. :)

Your brain: 80% interpersonal, 100% visual, 100% verbal, and 120% mathematical!

Congratulations on being 400% smart! Actually, on my test, everyone is. The above score breaks down what kind of thinking you most enjoy doing. A score above 100% means you use that kind of thinking more than average, and a score below 100% means you use it less. It says nothing about how good you are at any one, just how interested you are in each, relatively. A substantial difference in scores between two people means, conclusively, that they are different kinds of thinkers.

Link: The 4-Variable IQ Test written by chriscoyne on OkCupid Free Online Dating

Two Heads Not Better Than One

I am two people right now. No, not in the "quick get the crazy pills" sense, but in the "philosophers might have some fun with this" sense. This miracle of life can get pretty mind-boggling at times. To think that this child can't survive without me is pretty daunting. My body is sustaining myself and Junior. And meanwhile, Daddy is only having to deal with some second-hand impacts. Lucky duck. He contributed some nucleic acids, maybe some vital proteins, and that's it. Everything else has been all Baby and me. That leaves me wondering exactly how men came to be and still are the "dominant" sex. I don't mean to sound bitter or sexist. It's just one of those things you think about during a bad bout of morning sickness. Right along with the thoughts of "we've been doing this for HOW many thousands of years and evolution hasn't found a better way to create new life" and "can't we just lay eggs like lizards".

But back to the two people, one body thing. I can definitely say that two heads are most certainly not better than one. Simple case in point: food. I miss steak. Juicy, spicy, covered in A-1 steak. Baby clearly is not interested in this delicacy. I'll think about the taste of steak and start to salivate. Then I think about swallowing a bite of steak, and my stomach gives the negative anticipatory rumble. This dichotomy has me bothered enough that I haven't even tried to repeat this thought exercise with something like salmon. I should really start building menus that I can stash somewhere and just start having all of these Lost Meals as soon as Junior's out and about. That's assuming that the little runt won't decide to take issue with any of the Lost Meal byproducts showing up in breast milk. At least then I'll be able to pass the kid over to Mark for him to deal with whatever unfortunate results occur.

Similarly, having Baby's input on my life right now makes getting work done interesting. I'll be all excited about getting some writing done, and Baby will promptly decide it's Nap Time. It's to the point where a successful weekend is one in which I've conned this child into letting me clean the bathrooms or balance my checkbook. At least I can get a lot of reading and TV-watching and music-listening done. Baby seems to enjoy the Simpsons and Whose Line and CSI, but can't be bothered to let me stay awake through the Star Wars trilogy and finds Law&Order unimpressive. Baby loves Carol Berg's fantasies and Nevada Barr's mysteries, but isn't very interested in Lemony Snicket or the morning paper. Tori Amos is a fave, especially the really melodic piano bits, and the string-quartet awesomeness of Bond is appealing, but nearly all radio stations are a no-go--at least while I'm driving. In short, it seems Baby really likes me to laugh and think and dream. While I certainly loved these activities before, I get extra joy and reward from them now. It's interesting.

OK, so I guess two heads can be better than one. Rather, this second person growing inside me is finding some ways to give back as it takes sustenance from me. Maybe Baby will feel so generous as to let me enjoy a big steak this summer.

Snap, Crackle, Pop

I finally snapped last week. All because of warm milk and turkey sandwiches, or rather the suggestion of them.

Week 15 of my pregnancy had been fantastic, notwithstanding all the damn car minutiae we were going through. Week 16 brought back the joys of bad sleep and morning conversations with Earl Chunks, my trusty green bucket. By the time I got to Week 17, I was starting to fall asleep in meetings at work and losing concentration during simple tasks. I called my OB to try to convince him that the normally trivial pregnancy symptoms of exhaustion and morning sickness were having a profound impact on my life and health. I thought for sure that mentioning that I had run a red light and caused a car accident most likely due to exhaustion would finally get this guy's attention. But no. He comes back with warm milk and turkey sandwiches as the next fix to try. This came the day after I was seconds away from quitting my job because I had just gotten a new pile of work and no help to get through it. I lost it.

Week 18, this week, of my pregnancy saw me at home, taking a week off from work (without pay because my three remaining vacation days are spoken for with family trips) so I could try to get some sleep and get on top of all this stress. And, of course, find a new OB. I did get a lot of sleep, and most of my mornings were fine, although Baby can't seem to let me go longer than ten days without finding fault with something I ate for breakfast. But trying to get on top of the stress has been rough. I had some heart to hearts with Mark to find the best ways for the two of us to deal with my stress and his stress without creating more stress. I progressed further in my quest to accept the reality of my current situation: energy levels that I can't depend on, rough mornings, lots of naps, strange reactions to even the mention of some foods, etc. But when it came to figuring out how I might handle returning to work, I kept coming up empty.

Then I realized a couple of things. One, that I've dealt with exceedingly stressful situations before in my life and emerged just fine, and even weathered the storms with a helluva lot more grace. Two, that in those previous situations I had the comfort of knowing exactly where I was going in life (career in research) and of good, unwavering health. Three, that while I now have life goals and direction again, I am unable to proceed toward them with the gusto I would like due to Mark's needing to finish up his degree and my needing to bring home the bacon until he's got the letters after his name to do so. Four, that I can't rely on my body at all to be healthy at any given time. In short, nearly all of my strength is tapped in just getting through the unique stress and health issues of each day, sometimes each hour. So it's no wonder that a downward spiral in my work situation combined with the extracurricular joys of a car accident and root canal are all converging to make me a basket case on a regular basis. I've got to learn new coping strategies because the fallbacks of life direction and health are no longer givens that I don't have to worry about.

So while I don't necessarily have any answers to make the months leading up to October 3 any easier, I at least have a better understanding of where I am and why things get to feel so overwhelming. And knowing those things will hopefully help me see warning signs well in advance of the snapping point I hit last week.

One Day I'll Learn

I've been grousing a lot about how icky I feel. And I got to thinking about how that might be misrepresenting both me and pregnancy. Let me make this clear: I am not a wimp or a whiner, and pregnancy isn't this awful condition to be feared or avoided lest you feel as miserable as I've been describing or worse. It's just that, with Mark being "stuck" in grad school for another year or so (pray for cooperative fruit flies so we can lower that number), I'm the major breadwinner for the family. I feel this responsibility acutely. And it's driving me crazy that the one time I absolutely need my body to be 100% so I can provide for this child in the future is the same time that I have to make every concession my body asks of me in order to provide for this child right now.

So I'm getting a tad irked with my pregnant body for not letting me work the 40hours or more without collapsing from exhaustion every night and weekend. I'm rather pissed at this mortal casing for not letting me finish a book that I could try to get published in time for Junior's arrival or shortly thereafter (yes, I know that's not all that realistic anyway, but this "gotta provide" thing is freakish in its primal, instinctive nature). And I'm really annoyed that I have to kowtow to my stomach before I can make weekend plans to work with some writing friends on putting together a consulting business. Does it matter that it would be unreasonable to consider 100% non-stop effectiveness while trying to work three jobs (the nine-to-fiver, writing, and consulting) even without the added "job" of pregnancy? Apparently it didn't to me.

I know--in the logic sense--that our financial situation is fine. Sure, it's not ideal, but it's very capable of keeping Mark, Baby, and myself fed and well cared for. Even with the unexpected car loan foisted on us last week. I know that we'll find a way to keep day care costs and frequency of use to a minimum. Mark is a genius when it comes to finding ways to make the best of tight money and time situations. But there's that illogical, emotion-ridden part of me that feels the weight of this child growing in me and knows that I want more than "we'll find a way" for this new life. I have a feeling I'll be fighting this part of me for the rest of my life, and that I'm in no way unique as a parent to feel this. I'll always try to find even more resources to give this baby. Always be willing to run myself into the ground to get those resources. Because, after all, my life isn't nearly as important as this child's. So sayeth the illogical, emotion-ridden, Mother Bear, instinctive part of me.

And so I grouse about the exhaustion and the morning sickness. I get frustrated every time I have to set aside weekend plans. I feel the stress levels rise every time I think of the long list of items I haven't been able to get to since February. I take on more and more at work, hoping to compensate for all the sick days I've taken and all the times I have to leave early or arrive late and make up the time at home or on the weekend. Every "relapse" into exhaustion and morning sickness after a day or so of feeling good drives me insane. Not because I can't hack it (though I'd much rather NOT have to deal with these symptoms), but because it's keeping me from being in what I think is the right position to provide what I want for this child.

But I'm trying to be easier on myself. Every woman experiences pregnancy in different ways, and I can't keep denying the way my body's responding. And railing against it doesn't do anything for my blood pressure or general state of being. I'm trying to live better with this, give myself evenings to just read and watch TV without feeling guilty, actually take lunch breaks even if it means working an hour or so on the weekends (which I can now do from home, a definite plus). Funny how it all works out. I've spent much of my life living for others, working for others, beating myself into oblivion to make everything around me run smoother. Now I'm facing a situation where in order to work and live for someone else, I have to work and live for myself because that someone else is physically a part of me.

This child is a blessing in so many ways.

The "New-to-Us" Car

Bought a used car last night. It's another Saturn, same year as our dearly departed car, less miles, a few upgrades. The big selling point for me was that it had cruise control. Ever since I had surgery on my right knee, I'm unable to drive for more than an hour and a half without cruise control. Otherwise fluid builds up in my knee and things get stiff and very, very, very painful. Thankfully, anywhere I have to drive in the area rarely takes longer than an hour and a half to get to. Unfortunately, I can only spell Mark for an hour and a half whenever we go on road trips to see sights and visit family. He doesn't mind too much, but I do, because I do enjoy driving, especially in the Southwest. I'm also far more alert than he is in the morning, and it'll be better if I take the first leg while he gets a few more winks of sleep.

Other cool bells & whistles: keyless entry, power windows & locks, CD player. It's one detraction: it's gold with tan/brown interior. Not my fave color combo. If we had been a bit quicker yesterday, we could've gotten almost the exact same car but in silver. Oh well. I'll live with the color for all the other perks. Here's hoping we're not having to do this again in another four or so years.

Turning Point

I think I might have felt Baby kicking and punching last night. I felt a few odd fluttery spasms on one side of The Womb, and then the same thing on the other side a while later. It could've been Junior thanking me for the yummy dinner. Or it could've been gas. Or just some new symptom of pregnancy. Can't seem to run out of those. Still, it was neat and got me looking forward to the coming weeks.

I seem to be out of the first trimester woods. I'm getting five hours of sleep every night, and they're good hours. If I time my schedule a bit better, I may even be able to get six or seven hours consistently. I still wake up every morning at 4:30 AM, but now I can climb back into bed and get a few rounds of 20-minute light naps in before the alarm goes off at 6 AM. And my stomach isn't unsettled in the mornings anymore. It's nervous. I can't explain it, I can't seem to appease it, but at least food goes down and stays down.

But all of this could change by the weekend. Who knows? I don't think it will, though. It's like I can tell my bod's adjusted to Junior's presence. I feel more active, more alert, more stable. I think this finally means that my weekends are finally mine again. I don't think I'll need to spend this entire weekend passed out on the couch or in bed, recovering from a work. This has me so excited! I have a ton of stuff to catch up on. Like my on-line writing course assignments. And research for a writing consultant business so pals of mine want to start up. And how 'bout actually WRITING some more, eh? And then, once I get caught up, maybe I could start participating in housework again and give Mark a breather from running the house. The possibilities boggle the mind.

Total Loss

Our four-year-old car is totaled. Just like my last car, I managed to mangle the frame just enough that trying to fix the thing would be way more than the car is worth, and probably wouldn't be anywhere near as safe and stable as it had been fresh off the assembly line. And, of course, the car has grossly devalued in the past four years. Shockingly so, actually. So we're looking at a small loan to get even a decent quality used car. I'm of the "in for a dime, in for a dollar" school of thought when it comes to loans. I figure we might as well get a brand new car and try this again if we have to get a loan anyway. Mark's much more financially savvy than that, but if we can get a steal of a deal on financing for a new car, then he might think about a new one.

Last night we visited our young, dead auto at the tow lot and cleaned the puppy out. This was the first time I got a good look at the damage. Yipes. I really beat the shit out of that car, considering I was only going 30mph. Managed to hit the other car with enough force and at the right angle that it spun and slammed into me, smashing my rear bumper to bits. In addition to crumpling the front right side like an accordion.

And the car still reeked of that godawful airbag dust. But hey, at least I've got my Tori Amos CDs back.

A New Family Tradition

When my mother was about 14-15 weeks pregnant with me, she was in a car accident. Crossing a state road, got clipped at the rear by an 18-wheeler. Did a 360 into a ditch and a 180 back out of it. Gave her some bruising and whiplash, decimated the groceries in the trunk. Probably rung my bell a bit, too, but I turned out just fine (except for a few pesky genetic issues that were already set in stone by then for me).

So Friday afternoon I decided that I couldn't let my mother outdo me and a root canal while pregnant certainly couldn't compete with a car accident while pregnant. Yup, good a reason as any to run a red light, right? Before I give all the fascinating details, be reassured that I am fine and Baby is fine. I have a small scrape on my arm from the airbag deployment, a tiny bruise on my knee from hitting the bottom of the steering wheel, and a few sore muscles on my neck and where my seat belt kept me in place. Oh yeah, and my ego's a bit battered, but it can take it. Baby's ticker is still going at 159-161 bpm (my nurse says this is an indicator of a girl), and we even heard some more kicking and punching today, not that I can feel it yet.

It all started Friday morning when I decided that Mark and I needed some Mommy and Daddy time. We arranged to take the afternoon off and grab some lunch together and then maybe pick up a baby toy or some baby books or something equally sappy. I was on my way to pick him up, listening to Tori Amos and getting a little day-dreamy about the whole "and baby makes three" thing. The sun was shining, creating all sorts of fun shadows, and I was about to head under a bridge just before a stoplight. The car next to me slammed on the brakes, my first indication that perhaps the light was red and not green. I checked, saw the red, immediately slammed on the brakes, and started swerving to the left to avoid the car already pulling out into the intersection. For a few blissful milliseconds, I thought I had stopped in time. I relaxed and exhaled, only to come to a half-second later, trying to catch my breath, staring at a deflated airbag, a bumper (not mine) twenty feet in front of me, and a neatly crumpled hood (mine).

By this point, the delusion that I had avoided the accident was looking mighty preferable, and I had a hard time getting back to the present. Then I started to freak. The baby, the car, the money, the bay, the car, the money, THE BABY OHMIGOD THE BABY WHAT HAVE I DONE WHAT HAVE I DONE. Then I started to multitask like I've never multitasked before. Other people were out of their cars, checking on me, bystanders were calling the cops, I was trying to answer everyone's "are you OK" questions, assess the damage of the car, my own personal "broken/good" gauges, apologize profusely to Baby, call my husband, and sob. While trying to assure Mark that I was OK, but to just get here now, I realized the car was smoking slightly. In a strange haze of "what do I save", I fumbled for my purse, took my glasses off because they had been knocked askew by the air bag (and in my disheveled state I had failed to realize that I just needed to resettle them on my nose), and got the heck out of my smoking, greenish-yellow fluid-leaking car.

I made it to the curb and the sobbing started in earnest. By this point, two people had attached themselves to me: an EMT who happened to be there, and a very nice woman named Linda who took it upon herself to get me calmed down. The driver of the other vehicle stayed with the cars, checking out the damage. I'm pretty sure he was the first to ask me if I was OK, but I honestly don't remember. Eventually Linda got me calmed down and joking about the fact that my mother had been in an accident while pregnant, how we had just the day before replaced the car battery, how a root canal wasn't excitement enough for Junior, etc. This gave the EMT time to take my pulse (an adrenaline-fueled 120 bpm). And then the cops and paramedics started showing up. This was a haze of very kind faces making sure I was OK, taking care of all the details like getting the other guy's info, clearing the intersection of debris, towing the cars away, etc. At some point, the put me in a neck brace and started to get me on a backboard. I asked them to wait a few seconds until Mark got there so he didn't have to show up just as I was getting wheeled into an ambulance, because this was all precautionary, not necessary.

For those of you who have never been on a backboard before, I really don't recommend it. For the first half hour, it's not so bad. But by the time you've been on the damn thing for two frickin' hours, you're ready to invent an entire new language using nothing but profanity. Any pain I had in my neck from the accident was nothing compared to the back pain from being stuck on that damn orange backboard for two hours.

Everything slowed down and became basically ordinary at the ER. Some Xrays, a CAT scan (here's hoping Baby takes the trace amount of scatter radiation and turns into the Stops On A Dime Xman), a quick fetal heartbeat monitor, and we were ready for our friend PJ to drive us home. All in all, while Mark and I got to spend quite a bit of extra time together this weekend, this was not the manner in which I had hoped to spend it. I slept away most of Saturday, waking up only long enough to pick up the rental car after Mark found out that his driver's license had expired. Sunday I was supposed to host a writing group, but we were hammered with a decently impressive snowstorm yesterday and had to cancel the meeting. And I didn't have to mess with Earl at all this weekend (excluding the intense conversation we had Friday evening; note to self: Baby does NOT like spicy pork BBQ).

I was quite content not having any exposure to the reality of what emergency response folks do. But now that I've experienced their skills firsthand, I'm truly amazed and grateful that we have people like that in the world. Everyone who helped me get through Friday afternoon was amazing. I felt safe, protected, cared for. It was nice to have a moment to look around and realize that everyone wants to help.

Now I'm just waiting for the phone call that will tell me whether or not the car is totaled. If it is, this will be the third car Mark and I have lost since we've been together, two of them within days after replacing the battery. I think I've satisfied my adventure quota for a while. Hopefully at least for the next six months.

Good Stuff

I was so absorbed in my little "woe-is-me" tirade on Sunday that I neglected to mention the big, awesome news from last week. My brother is back from Iraq, safe and sound in the good ol' US of A. Of course I can't see the pipsqueak until he has time to drive up here in May. But he's back, and he'll be out of the Marines by the end of the week, maybe even done with Reservist duty. Big Sis is very happy. About that, anyway.

I actually had a somewhat normal morning, excluding the fact that it started at 4AM. But my stomach seemed almost pre-pregnancy stable. The "almost" reared its head when I tried to eat a nice bagel, egg & cheese sandwich Mark whipped up for me. The concept of such a breakfast sounded good when I asked Mark to make it for me. The concept started losing its appeal as soon as it was placed in front of me. I took a test bite and my stomach advised me that taking another bite would be most unwise. So Mark got a spiffy little breakfast instead. But at least there was no bucket hugging this morning. (And I've decided that the bucket's name is Earl Chunks.) And I also found a blog that made me realize things could be a lot worse. This poor woman. She seems to have the support network she needs to get through this, and she doesn't have to be anywhere for 40hours a week for that silly money stuff. But I had a brief glimpse of what she must be suffering on Saturday when I couldn't get anything to stay down until I finally passed out from exhaustion and gave my stomach time to sort itself out. If every day of the past 14 weeks had been like Saturday morning, I would be making appointments for a vasectomy and a tubal ligation the day after I delivered.

I'm so glad my body is behaving today. I was just so tired of it all last night that I cried for a good ten minutes. I needed today to be a good day. Who knows what kind of day tomorrow will be, but at least today is good. At the moment. :)

Bad, Bad Week

So much for pulling out of the first trimester woes. They were back with a vengeance this week. I'm thinking of naming my constant companion, the green bucket of former mopping yore. Afterall, we're getting to know each other fairly intimately, especially after yesterday morning. It took my stomach five hours to realize that it actually wasn't supposed to return the items I kept trying to give it. And then there's this whole sleeping issue. Junior seems to think that it's not all that important. That four hours of sleep is enough to enable a pregnant woman to get through a forty-hour work week. This child and I are going to have words if next week doesn't show some glimmer of improvement.

And don't even get me started on the DDJ. Or my writing. Not after this week.

Survived

I made it through the first and the worst of the three-part root canal experience. The next two appointments will not be as long and won't involve nearly as much rooting around in my mouth. The worst part about yesterday's appointment was anticipating it. My stomach was a mess yesterday and the day before. And the minute I walked out of the dentist's office, I felt 100% better, back to the normal I've been feeling since the middle of last week. Yes, mornings are still strange, and apparently Junior really likes having me up at 4AM every morning. But everything's really calmed down from what it was throughout the first trimester.

I've got a couple posts nattering around in my head, mostly about my adjusted writing goals for the year and such. Hopefully I'll start posting at least a couple times a week soon. It all depends on the DDJ and if things start to settle a bit here.

Wha?

I had a post about entering my second trimester that went just before my little snippet about getting a root canal. I know I didn't hallucinate it because I even had some comments on it. I'm confuzzled.

Can We Say Fun?

The mildly annoying toothache that started up this weekend just became a real pain in the ass. Turns out I've got enough decay in one particular tooth to make my dentist cringe in sympathy pain. Thursday will see my initiation into the Wild World of Root Canals. Thankfully the procedure is just like having a cavity filled only longer (well, "just like" from my perspective, at any rate). And our dental insurance is nice enough to keep the price tag on this way down. But, wow. Didn't expect to deal with this kind of a first during my first pregnancy. Joy.

Ten Weeks Down

I got on-line over an hour ago to post something deep about myself and my pregnancy. I made the mistake of trying to catch up on my blog reading first. (See, I've been out sick after lasting a glorious half-day at work yesterday. I keep having pep talks with Junior about letting me sleep through the night and operate with a passably normal stomach so I can go earn that silly little thing called money that will be very important for things like food, clothing, and diapers. Sometimes they take.) Sheila linked to a post by Patrick Nielsen Hayden about some crank's fun ideas about women and hard SF. The ensuing comments on the topic sucked an hour out of my life. It had its entertaining moments, lots of headshakers, but it left me with an overall thought that The Battle of the Sexes will be perpetuated forever, with women always having to prove something and men never having to do so. So that hour was a pretty sad hour.

But it wasn't why I hopped on-line. I wanted to post because I'm now a quarter of the way through my pregnancy. That's not the milestone I'm most interested in, of course, not when I still feel like a foreigner in my own skin. Not when I still can't guarantee I'll be able to get through a full week of work. Not when breakfast still decides to make a return appearance a couple of times a week (though thankfully not this week...yet). As I went through yet another day spent at home instead of at work because the thought of being more than twenty feet from my bed and my fridge makes me not only nervous but faint, I thought that I might be having a better time of the first trimester if I actually enjoyed my job. Wouldn't it be easier to work through my feelings of ickiness if I liked what I do for fourty hours every week? Maybe, maybe not.

Such thoughts lead me to consider why I don't like my job...and why I didn't like the one before that...and so on. I can make excellent arguments for why I haven't been happily employed ever since I realized that I didn't want to get my PhD. And all of these arguments skirt around a greater potential issue: the problem isn't the job(s), it's me. No wonder I skirt around it. But something about being pregnant at the same time that my brother's in Iraq, my mother's going through her own private hell at her job, my grandfather's been diagnosed with lung* cancer, and Mark's grandfather just survived a heart attack, really got me thinking and analyzing and taking a severe look at how I perceive myself and my life.

At some point during my childhood, I told myself that life would be "happily ever after" once I finished school and got married. I'd get a job and be successful, as would my husband, and we'd have a perfect nuclear family, and eventually we'd retire to go RVing through the country and harass our kids. But here's the thing: that "happily ever after" mentality led me to the grossly inaccurate assumption that life only required effort through school and finding a mate. That everything would be peaches and light with no active input on my part. Disney's probably the biggest culprit behind such a horribly flawed reasoning. I mean, we never see the "happily ever after". It's just assumed that everything will be OK from then on out. That just getting together was the hardest thing they'd ever have to face in their lives (sometimes worked in with another Big Issue that, miraculously, always resolved itself seconds before or after they got together; nice timing). This combined with my parents' big push for me to get a college degree before I got married (with the unspoken caveat of "or you'll end up like us"--which sounds way harsher than I mean; my parents did have it rough until my father became an officer in the Air Force, but things always seemed to be more or less average middle class after that; of course, I could be wrong, I was only 6-18 at the time :)), led me to the conclusion that life wouldn't be anything to get worked up about after college and marriage.

Gotta love those fun, debilitating delusions. Even though I just blamed Disney and my parents, it was a more or less conscious decision on my part at about the age of 12 to come to that incorrect conclusion. And then, genius that I am, I let that flawed logic rule my life until a few weeks ago. The logic hasn't been working so well the past couple years, always leaving me bewildered when I realized that I hated whatever job I had at the time and that I couldn't do the work I wanted to because life circumstances just don't allow me to not have a guaranteed income at the moment. That twelve-year-old inside me as been crying out "no fair" for a while now, causing a lot of hurt and confusion and depression and general ickiness. I never understood how I could be so unhappy with true love beside me and a successful education behind me and gainful employment to boot. I started to think something was wrong with me, that I was just a bad person. Mark kept insisting that this couldn't be true because he loves me and he wouldn't if I were a bad person. Since I trust his judgement of character pretty much implicitly in all other things, his argument made logical sense. But I wasn't buying it.

Then I got hammered with the reality of Life After School and Marriage over the past month. And one thing became very clear: "happily ever after" is not a passive thing that just happens. It requires the same effort that life required before. Even as light bulbs starting flaring to life in my noggin, so did a whole lot of frustration and shame. I couldn't believe that I had honestly deluded myself for so long that life could require anything other than my active participation to be a happy thing. How much of the past 2-3 years have been a hell of my own making because of one stupid mistake in reasoning in my childhood? I could really go on, railing away at myself, but I suppose that's something best reserved for my next session with my therapist. And, honestly, I know enough about myself that at least 75% of the diatribe would be more for the sake of drama than anything else. What can I say? I'm a writer with a long history of Drama Queen tendencies.

My big cathartic moment most likely came in the middle of a crying jag after a sleepless night and while my stomach was debating the pros and cons of retaining whatever I had just fed it. I had probably just missed a good day or two of work and gotten some odd comments on it. And the realization that my body, this vessel that I've known for more than 26 years, that I've grown accustomed to, that I know so well, is suddenly as unfamiliar as an undiscovered planet--all that combined to make me realize that Life Just Happens. You have to deal with it as it comes, preparing when you can, analyzing when you can. But you can't sit back and go "it wasn't supposed to be like this". For starters, it's hard to get anything done that way. And, the longer you sit around and look at something in dismay, the more new things there'll be to shake your fist at once you stop.

This realization took greater shape as I really looked at the way those I loved were dealing with their own unique events. My brother still cracks the same annoying younger brother jokes in his emails and calls. My grandfather insists he only knows he's sick because some doctor keeps telling him he is. My mother keeps "getting back on the horse" and doing what she has to do to make a bad situation better and she still manages to find the time to ease her daughter's "ohmygodwhatshappeningtome" fears. And then there's Mark. Taking all the cooking and cleaning and grocery buying in stride and always finding a way to make sure he has the right comforting things to say or do when things get rough for me. After I get over the initial reaction of "I'm a selfish twit of a person who doesn't deserve all this", I realize that I must be doing something right. No matter the silliness of "happily ever after" and how long a part of me clung to it, there had to have been at least one part of me doing the right thing and actually living my life instead of railing against the things I couldn't control. Otherwise, all these fabulous people in my life wouldn't be in my life.

I know that was a lot of personal junk to throw at you. It's worth it if any of my readers stopped and thought about their own "happily ever after" notions clinging to them from childhood. And I'm not exactly one to shrink away from airing my dirty laundry to the world. Probably part of that Drama Queen stuff again. Sometimes you just have to share those insights, even if they should have been obvious, even if they revealed a flaw you might be a tad uncomfortable with. Now the only thing I'm left to ponder is how long this insight would've taken were I not pregnant.

*I originally typed that as "lunch" cancer. This could be a sign of that other pregnancy sypmtom, something about reduced mental acuity. Damn horomones.

Baby's First Picture

At my appointment on Tuesday, I was surprised with the opportunity to do a sonogram. Not the one with all the bells and whistles that's going to happen at Week 20, but a sneak peak of baby all the same. The little tyke (and there's just one, so either the psychic thinks I'm going to get pregnant again this year--and I bet you can hear my joyful whimper at that prospect--or she was a tad off) was barely 1.5cm at the time. So click here to look at Junior's first opportunity to say "cheese".

SciFi Friday

Friday nights are great. First of all, it's the start of a weekend, and that's ALWAYS a good thing. Second, I get to hang out with some writers in an on-line forum and toss around ideas and jokes and such. Third, I get to watch three great science fiction shows: Stargate SG-1, Stargate Atlantis, and Battlestar Gallactica. Lotsa fun. Last night was no exception. SG-1 likes to do clip shows on a fairly regular basis, and they usually do a decent job of weaving the clips into a passably entertaining story (defending their jobs to the ever-annoying Senator Kinsey, revealing the existence of the stargate to other world governments, etc). But last night they really outdid themselves. The backbone story for the clip show was about a guy who, seven years ago, stumbled across a piece of Ancient technology at a garage sale. This little device gave him the ability to see SG-1's adventures through the eyes of Colonel O'Neill. He started writing it down as stories (which, of course, were always rejected by the top SF mags). The whole show was about this guy's life and what knowing of SG-1 did to him. His reaction to Daniel's departure at the end of season 5 was priceless. The writers obviously had a good time using this story-telling device to reveal the show's inconsistencies, dropped storylines, fan criticism, etc. It was great.

I'm still waiting for something with all three shows, though. Don't get me wrong: I like them and think they are excellent. But they've also all set themselves up for something more and they're not delivering as yet. SG-1 has had a strange season because they wrote themselves into a bit of a bind by having O'Neill run the SGC instead of remain a part of SG-1. So the usual "go off-world and battle the bad guys" storyline is rarely used. And Atlantis seems to be trying to pretend it's in a third or fourth season instead of its first, so we don't have nearly as much situation set up as I would've expected. Sometimes that's a good thing, but sometimes I get frustrated at the obvious depth of the world they live in that we just don't see. Granted, Battlestar Gallactica just started its series run in January, but a few things already bother me. It seems to me that a civilization capable of FTL travel and such should have medical technology a bit more advanced than our present day standards. I mean, what does it say about humanity if we can populate twelve worlds, chase the stars in ships, create a robotic race like the Cylons, but can't cure breast cancer or speed up the recovery of a knee injury? What exactly have they been doing since they left Earth? Everytime something medical comes up in that show, it always throws me right out of the story. I just can't believe that we'll be so far advanced in everything but medicine in a few millenia.

Anyway, despite my grumblings, I really like these shows and they make for an excellent Friday night.

The DDJ Strikes Again

I was right. The Dreaded Day Job is now even more dreaded. They took away my new responsibilities and the hopes I had of getting a new position. Which is really funny considering this is the second time this has happened, and I've only been aware of the new positions because OTHER PEOPLE in the company have shoved me into their path. I'm getting whiplash here. Do you want me to advance or don't you? Do you want to take advantage of my six years of higher education or do you want to keep me in a job that I could have easily done in junior high? Figure it out, people. It may not be the easiest thing in the world to get a new job while pregnant, but I'll find a way if this shit keeps up. And there will be Hell To Pay if I find out that I was denied the new responsibilities and position because someone got wind of the fact that I'm pregnant. If that's what happened, then I'm going to have a rollicking good time getting the DDJ to cough up the money we need to guarantee that I won't have to go back to work anytime soon after Junior's arrival.

Update: Seconds before I went to publish this post, my manager called me and my counterpart into his office and told us that we would be attending an intense training session with project managers and data management employees about addressing problem areas in the company. Not a new position, but it certainly is a change from the attitude of "no, we won't give you that opportunity and we also won't do anything to help you get any other opportunities". So things might be improving. Maybe. I won't believe anything until it's been happening for weeks and has been signed off by everyone in the company, thought.

The New Fail Safe

Jello. Jello is the only thing that works in the mornings now. Once I've had a bowl of Jello in me for about an hour or so, then I can move on to the apples and yogurts and such. If this stops working, then I'm going to look into the Unisom+Vitamin B6 tablets to see about making breakfast a more successful endeavor. The good news is that the nausea and bucket-hugging is primarily limited to the morning. Sometimes dinner is a challenge, but chicken seems to work very well there, so we're adjusting our menus accordingly. Now, if the chicken dinners keep working, then maybe I'll feel brave enough to start taking my prenatal vitamin every evening. Right now, I have to gauge how stable my stomach is feeling. I'm not too worried about Baby, because the little sack of cells is going to take everything it needs right out of my system. I AM worried about my own health if the prenatal vitamin intake is so spotty this first trimester. Especially with my history of anemia. But the docs are watching that stuff, so I'm sure I'll be fine.

We had our first appointment today. It was just an informational class with other pregnant women, and then we had to bleed for the docs. My first one-on-one with the nurse practitioner is next week. And then the next appointment after that will be the one where we'll hear the baby's heartbeat. We're excited about that one. That'll be in a month. I'm pretty sure that we could see/hear the fetal heartbeat with a sonogram either this week or next week, but that's not part of the health plan. So we'll just have to wait. It was hard coming in to work after all that baby talk this morning. I would've much rather spent the day at home with Mark, planning and making lists and being all gushy with the parents-to-be stuff. But there's yet another meeting this afternoon to discuss my new responsibilities at the DDJ. (Basically, they're trying to take them away from me now and just make me go back to the boring world of only faxing and filing. Yes, more fun changes afoot. Gotta love this place.)

On the writing front, I had a great session with my crit group. I was a bit nervous because I had brought a rather racy Masque scene (the word "breast" made an appearance--always a toughie to say aloud in the Borders cafe) and I had no idea if I had written it well. But they liked the scene and had a lot of good comments to make it even better and bring out a few plot points that were a bit too subtle in the midst of a hot and heavy kiss. You'll also note that "Princess Incubus" is now in creation, with a grand total of 407 words. It's a rough beginning to write, I'm finding. Going to need a lot of work in revision. As for getting new words in The Masque, I've got a lot of ideas to work with to push myself past the latest roadblock, thanks to a great Think Tank session at Forward Motion. So hopefully I'll start making some progress there soon.

Things are feeling more normal. But that's been known to fluctuate over the past couple weeks, so we'll see how it continues.

The Fail Safe Failed

For the past few weeks, I've been dealing with my new biochemistry to varying degrees of success. But the one constant I had was that apples and yogurt made up the perfect breakfast for me. Not so this morning. I could really gross you out with the details. Suffice to say that my stomach said an emphatic "hell no" to the apple and then to the yogurt an hour later. It's been appeased with Sprite and crackers. Soup for lunch should be OK as well. The really funny thing is this is the best I've felt all week. When I was semi-concious in bed on Monday and Tuesday (yay! more missed work), I remember thinking that morning sickness would be preferable to the insomnia and over-active acid that refuses to let my stomach stay full for more than a half hour. And I'm very surprised to find out I was right. It's amazing what you can tolerate if you've had a full night's sleep and less than eager stomach acid.

Mind you, I'm still very much looking forward to the second trimester when all this fun stuff is supposed to go away. It's like I can hear my bod going, "What the HELL is this new horomone? And you want me to prepare for WHAT? I'm sure the genes are in here--somewhere--for this, but do you know how long it's going to take me to find them and get them going and get this thing ready for THAT? Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll do it, but I don't have to like it." I'm thinking I might wear my "I survived the first trimester" badge with more pride than the "I got through delivery" one. That's probably NOT what I'll be thinking in the middle of contractions, though.

On the brighter side, it seems like my writing might just be able to get shoved into a schedule again. I was about to go crazy without it, but I've been so tired at home and busy playing catch-up at work that it just hasn't happened. The one saving grace there has been the Two-Year Novel course I'm doing at Forward Motion. I've had to address something writing related once a week since the beginning of the year. That keeps me from getting too far adrift in my other projects. And it keeps me sane when I just can't get to the other projects.

Intuition

About ten days before the home pregnancy test yielded two pink lines instead of one, I had a vague sense of being pregnant. Nothing physical, nothing scientific, just a mild case of intuitive insight. It happened when I went to the dentist and they asked if I was pregnant before doing Xrays. I told them it was possible--something I've had to do before at a doctor's visit and felt absolutely ridiculous doing because the chances were slim, but the scientist in me knew it was possible so I couldn't say no. But it was different this time when they opted not to do the Xrays until I knew for sure that I wasn't. I didn't feel ridiculous. I didn't think much of it at the time, except to file the information away in the "that's interesting" stash in my brain. By the end of the next week, I noticed that I had some mild nausea every morning at about 10. Nothing that a couple of Tums or just a quick bite to eat couldn't fix. Again, it went to the "that's interesting" pile. Then I was brainstorming some writing ideas the following Monday and on a whim decided to take a home pregnancy test. (Yes, not your average whim, but I've never claimed to be average. Or even sane.)

It was an interesting moment when Mark and I saw that positive test. Joy, excitement, peace. All bundled together to make for one of the most amazing feelings I've ever experienced. No doubt. No panic. Nothing negative. Over the course of the next few hours (in which Mark made me take two more tests before we let ourselves get too happy) I was in awe of the sense of focus that pumped through me. I knew everything was going to be fine, that this was right, that this was supposed to be happening. I knew. The only other time I've felt that way was when Mark and I decided to get married. That's not to say that I was so blinded by joy that I couldn't think rationally and consider the challenges of such a life-changing event. Instead, I realized that there would be challenges, and that we would survive them.

Since that Monday night, I've had fears and doubts and negative moments. Kinda hard not to when your body is dealing with an onlsaught of new chemicals and physical changes. But every time those swings start, I give myself a moment to remember how I felt when I first found out I was pregnant, and it takes the edge off.

Now, if only I could have such a focusing, intuitive moment regarding my writing, I'd be set.

Change

I've got a really good reason for the recent lack of posting, so good that ever other reason I've given before seems remarkably dull and inconsequential in comparison. And that's about all the lead-in I can think of. Better brace yourself for some big news.

I found out last Monday that I'm pregnant.

And now I can't think of a way to transition into the post about how that news has been impacting my life. I guess I better get the basics out of the way first: Mark and I have been planning for Junior's arrival for a while now, so we're absolutely thrilled and as prepared as anyone can be for this sort of thing; our families are extremely excited, giving us lots of fun phone calls and well-wishes and warm-fuzzies all over the place; everything seems normal and healthy at the moment; and I'm due October 3 (date definitely subject to change). This child will be the first grandchild for both Mark's parents and mine. The first great-grandchild for both my mother's and father's parents, and I believe for Mark's mother's. I'm pretty sure the first great-great-grandchild for my grandmother's mother. And I suppose now's as good a time as any to mention that when I had a free psychic reading done a couple months ago at the same shop that sports all the great Amy Brown stuff, I was told that I would have twins by the end of 2005. Of course, we're waiting for Baby's First Sonogram before we start buying double.

The immensity of this change is at once both joyfully and terrifyingly overwhelming. The physical impact of this change hit me hard last week. I was up all night with acid reflux and insomnia, one night only getting a grand total of 30 minutes sleep. I stayed at home Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, trying to figure out just what kind of food my stomach was going to prefer and seeing about getting at least a few hours sleep here and there. The stomach fun lasted into the weekend, making it impossible for me to do anything but sit in bed and crochet Baby's First Blanket (I'm halfway done, thanks to the ickiness last week). Things have been pretty good physically this week. My stomach likes the morning routine I've set up for it and is pretty happy with the food for the rest of the day. I make sure to eat something just before I go to bed to last me through the night, and I now sleep sitting up, so the acid reflux is minimal. I'm still pretty tired, I've got to deal with a propensity to be a lot warmer than I'm used to, and then there's the whole "I didn't think I could ever pee this much" issue. Mentally, wow. Having most of last week off was both good and bad. Good because it gave me a chance to sit back and go "This is HUGE!" and actually start to absorb the life-altering reality of being pregnant. Bad because I was so far removed from my normal routine of work and basic health, that the change got a bit too overwhelming at times and I felt like I would never feel "normal" again.

I actually looked forward to work this week. I wanted to get back into a regular pattern of living and start weaving this new piece of my life into that. It worked very well this week. It also helps that the Powers That Be at work finally figured out that it would be a Bad Thing to keep making me do my current job without acknowledging that it's far beyond my original job description. So they're going to update my job description and check with HR to figure out if I should have a new title or salary. That's a load off my mind. And it makes the frustrations of the DDJ easier to handle. I don't care if my new duties don't warrant a raise (which I really think they will)--I just wanted the acknowledgement that I'm not doing what I was hired to do.

Now the big task is to weave writing into this new situation even better than I had before. I'm pushing my way through some Masque blocks, and sticking to as much of my writing routine as possible. I'm still planning on finishing a draft of this book by the Pikes Peak Writers Conference. 2005 is definitely going to be an interesting year.

Another Week Looms

OK, here it is. Another Sunday night. Ask Mark: this is usually the point where I go a little whacko thinking about how far away the next weekend is. Tears, anger, frustration, resigned silence, you name it. Nothing good. I was going to say that I started that before things got crazy at work, but that's a lie. Things have been crazy at work since mid-November when I found out that one of the temps was quitting because of my counterpart. And then people started getting fired and quitting. And then rumors sprang up like wildfire and no one's even trying to put them out. And then management got really fucking good at double-speak and chasing their tails. Yeah, downhill for a while. Here's hoping my resume is being considered at the places I've sent it.

But I didn't start this post in order to bitch about the Dreaded Day Job. I started this to talk about my great weekend. Yesterday, Mark and I had barely pulled ourselves out of bed when someone from my crit group called and asked me to go with her and another of our critters to a writing workshop down in a southern Denver suburb. All that was required of me was to help said person set up coffee and cookies. I said sure. We got there and set up in no time, only to have not even a dozen people show up for the RMFW business meeting scheduled for just before the workshop. Somehow I ended up being impromptu secretary for RMFW's shortest meeting ever. (The minutes are about three lines long.) And then we all went to lunch and chatted. The best part of that conversation was when someone said to me, "You're published, right?" Glad to know I look the part or present the impression of being published. Then we had the actual workshop given by Sharon Mignerey, all about how to deal with this crazy job description we writers have. At one point I asked a question (basically revealing again in front of fellow writers my personal psychotic perfectionist tendencies - more on this later), and got a free signed book out of it. Always nice.

And today I read that book for a bit, just relaxing and pretending that the Dreaded Day Job was just a demented figment of my imagination. Later I sat down with some brainstorming software and mapped out the status of my writing. It wasn't quite as cathartic as I had hoped, but it did help to get it all out of my head and visualize it. Then I mapped out all of my ideas for "Princess Incubus". Everything from the original inspiration to the research to the plot outline. All on one brainstorm map. It's a very busy map, but I like it. Again, nice to have it all in front of me, with clear deliniations of relationships and ideas.

Tomorrow night I hope to do some brainstorming for The Masque, or actually write some of "Princess Incubus". It'll depend on what, if anything, the day takes out of me. Still, I'm pleased with the weekend. It was a nice assertion that the Dreaded Day Job (aw, hell - I'm just gonna start calling it the DDJ from now on; the world never has enough acronyms) isn't who I am, it's just what I have to do at the moment.

On the Recent Silence

I could've also titled this post "Why I LOOOOVE My Job - Ha!" Why? Because I've been given new responsibilites. I just cut a few lines of a rant that threatened to go on forever; they were cut because a couple of people I work with know this link--not that I think they'd run and tell anybody what I said, but CYA.

Anyhoo, I've been insanely busy learning new software, attending training to get the basics of just what my company does in the first place, and general craziness revolving around new people in new positions (not me; pittance raise, but no promotion in sight; but things are so unstable at the moment, so who knows). The past two weeks, I've come home (usually a couple hours later than usual) and collapsed on the couch, sometimes having the energy to turn on the TV. Any free time at work is usually spent speed-reading my blog list and email to give me some sort of break from all the insanity. And lunch, what's that? But I think next week might start to settle a wee bit, so maybe I can get back to my usual sporadic blogging routine.

As for the writing.... Not going well. All the recent work upheaval has made my mind so unbelievably scattered. When I've tried to focus it on my writing--ANYTHING about my writing--it's like I'm trying to hold water in a collander. Just ain't happening. So I've taken to listening to writing-related music on my commutes and letting my mind slip-n-slide all over the place with writing. Sometimes a few thoughts will gather substance and stay put for a bit. I tend to put the songs that generate that on a repeat loop and let that substance build.

After briefly toying with the idea of going into work this weekend (and those of you who know me--at least since I left the PhD program--know that ordinarily the thought would never, not in a million years, not if I earned 100x my normal pay, ever cross my mind; THAT'S how bad things are getting at work), I've said an emphatic hell no and decided to do skitterish writing things as they pop up in my head. Brainstorm several ideas, converse with my characters here and there, work on "Princess Incubus", outline revision ideas for The Masque, whatever. I'm looking forward to it. And I finally bit the bullet and decided to have my crit group read HD and give me all the painful comments in June. So hopefully by the end of the year I'll have a final decision on that book's fate. :)

The short of it: Work Be Nuts, and it's messing up my writing in nasty ways. Next week's task will be to assess the ways I can remedy the situation (other than apply for other jobs, which I'm already doing).

Quick Plug

I was remiss last week in trying to beat into all my dear readers the absolute necessity of watching the Battlestar Gallactica miniseries and series premiere. Not this week. So, here's the plug: WATCH SCIFI FRIDAY TONIGHT!!!!! BG is wicked cool, and you should already know that SG-1 and Atlantis rock the Kasbah. Get with it and watch these awesome shows. Thank me later. :)

I'll write more about my silence in a couple hours.

I Have Seen the Enemy

Went to my new dentist today. Let's just hope there won't be a repeat of what happened the last time I was able to say that (i.e. I got fired before I could get my cleaning after the initial "my don't your teeth look lovely" visit.) I really like this new dentist. She has lots of groovy new toys. A laser tool that can check teeth for signs of deacy. A tiny camera to get upclose and personal with me teefies. This was actually a little daunting because I could watch the camera's output on a 20" TV. Blech! I ain't never gonna be no dentist! I actually got to see the plaque buildup in all its disgusting, yellow glory. Don't get me wrong: it was wicked cool to see what my teeth look like. And it was nice that they could get a sense of decay without doing myriad Xrays. But yipes! I think I may have been permanently spooked into flossing daily for the rest of my life.

Nah. Who am I kidding? :)

Annoying

Maybe I just didn't attend enough meetings at IBM to notice it there, but upper management at my current company is remarkably adept at carrying on a conversation without saying anything at all. Or worse yet, they'll say all the wrong things and create more work for the "underlings". I never thought a simple question such as "When is the next training class?" could generate five minutes of useless, barely even tangential, verbal diarrhea. And this, unfortunately, is the future of my life at this job. Gotta find a way to deal with this and stay sane. I thought such conversational gems were the province of politics. Obviously, I was very much mistakent. Grrrrrr.

Self-taught

Didn't get any writing done this weekend for The Masque. Basically, I had hit a chapter where I only had vague ideas of one or two things that needed to happen. I kept hoping that Muse would get her act together to give me at least a thousand words over the weekend, but no. So I used the time for other things. On Saturday, I read all the relevant bits of a book on Satan and his crew to finish up the research I wanted to do for "Princess Incubus". Got a few more ideas about that story, and I should be able to start oulining shortly. (Incidentally, I've marked this story with the status "in worldbuilding". That phrase as come to be my personal indicator for "pre-writing". Not sure why, just seems to make sense to me that way.)

I figured Sunday would certainly see a few bits of inspiration trickling from my fingertips, but no. I even tried to sit down and force just my questions and vague notions about the next chapter, but my thoughts kept sliding all over the place--to the point where I sat at my desk, pen poised, notebook open, and all I could think about was the chorus of a song I had just heard and it kept repeating for large chunks of time. I eventually got pretty pissed at this, so I put together a rather long playlist of good songs that strike me as appropriate for The Masque and the characters therein. I probably won't be able to write to it all the time as the songs, while good and relevant, can often distract me from the writing. Instead, the CDs will serve as driving music on my commute. I get a lot of good scene and idea sketching on that drive, even moreso with the right music.

But still my thoughts kept skittering away every time I tried to focus on them. I thought a movie might be nice, and "The Fifth Element" was on TBS. But I found that I couldn't even concentrate on the movie because of the regular commercial breaks. I got sick of this pretty quick and decided to trek over to WalMart and pick up stuff to teach myself how to crochet. My grandmother taught me--or at least tried to teach me--the basics a good fifteen or so years ago, but I never got into it then. And I've been wanting to learn for the past couple years so I can crochet while watching TV or movies that we've already seen. I picked up two little how-to booklets, the needles, some yarn, and a bigger cross-stitch hoop just in case I struggled too much with the new craft and wanted to go back to something more familiar. Then I put on our videocassette version of "The Fifth Element" and went to work.

My practice pieces are certainly nothing spectacular, but I've got the basic stitches down and enjoyed the learning a lot. My thoughts were still kind of skittery when it came to writing afterward, but at least they had settled with regard to every thing else. And then once we had dinner and settled into watching some "Simpsons" episodes...THAT'S when the writing ideas started clicking into place. And then they kept me up past midnight. That's my muse, though.

Taken Out of Context...

My husband abandoned me today, just like he did yesterday. Said he was off to collect virgins. He'll be impregnating them later this week. Such are the joys of being married to a man who does research on fruit flies. As he also studies their sex determination genes and proteins, asking him about his day often involves intriguing statements that might be rather shocking when not heard in the right context.

New Look

It took three hours, but I think the blog is stable for a while. I'll probably continue to play with it over the next few weeks (particularly the archive list - ick!). But I like the color scheme and layout. And I've figured out this whole title thing. I guess I'll have to think of another reward for writing tomorrow - assuming I can get Muse to clue me in a bit more on what exactly my characters are going to be doing in the next chapter.

Adventures in Astronomy

Mark and I braved the cold and snow last night to try to catch a glimpse of a comet, the Orion nebula, Saturn, Andromeda, and the Perseides (sp?). We managed to see the Orion nebula (pretty, whispy blues and greens) and Saturn (with the little bright speck of Titon right next to it) before his telescope decided to go on the fritz. One teensy, tiny screw broke, thus preventing the scope tube itself from resting appropriately on its stand. So we had to call it a night early and rush home to partake of amaretto-laced hot chocolate. And, of course, Mark has to special order that teensy, tiny screw at God-knows-what price before he can use his telescope again. I'm sort of mixed about this problem. On the one hand, there's a lot of cool stuff that I want to see and that Mark knows how to find and when to best view it. On the other hand, it was really, friggin' cold out last night! :)

Be Prepared

I'm getting ready to change things on the blog. The title. The template. Maybe some sidebar links. That's a reward for writing on Saturday. So probably Saturday or Sunday should see the big changes. Or maybe tomorrow night if I write a lot tonight. Just wanted to give fair warning.

Goals for 2005

I've been able to sketch notes on this idea, but anytime I tried to sit down and actually craft a post or something on the topic, I just couldn't. My mind was remarkably blank on anything but the vaguest bullet-pointed list of goals. Hopefully I can force something out of myself on the subject.

Personal Goals: Get better and better at living in the moment instead of always looking ahead to "better days". Stick with the daily journaling and exercise--this took a bit of a hit during the holidays. Figure out how to make the job work for however long it takes until things change. That one's going to be the toughie.

Writing Goals: Implement a reward system for my writing. I've actually already started this. Since I started writing regularly, I've used guilt tactics more often than rewards to keep myself writing and writing well. No more. The rewards can be as simple as putting a better spin on the stuff that I want to / should do anyway. For example, if I can get a particular chapter finished during my writing time tonight (doable), then my reward will be to continue some background reading and plotting for my short story "Princess Incubus" (and I did figure out why that title works).

Finish, revise, and submit The Masque. I'm still basically on track to finish a draft by the Pikes Peak Writers Conference. Then I'm going to let it sit for about a month while I do other things (such as submit "Princess Incubus" to a few SF & F magazines, outline The Masque, Book 2, and continue work for an on-line writing course). I hope to revise it and have it ready to submit by the end of the year, hopefully sooner.

Stick with a two-year on-line writing course. I'm going to use the course to write Strings of Betrayal. The course started this week, and I'm really looking forward to the rest of it. I like the syllabus and format. I think I could learn a lot to further adjust my writing system to my liking. Plus, it would be great to finally start So'B moving.

And at some point this year, I should really decide what to do about Human Dignity. I'm also hoping to start some kind of formal mentoring program with a published author or two this year. Hopefully they can help me with my various dilemmas about this book.

So that's a more fleshed out version of my goals for 2005. My overall goal for this year will be "improvement". Last year was balance. Without balance, you can't improve because you're never sure which way is up. Now I'm sure.

Dream House for 2005

In keeping with my previous post, click here to check out HGTV's Dream Home 2005. Probably wouldn't hurt to enter while you're there. I've been trying to check out the pictures (other than the front of the house, which is wicked cool), but our home connection stinks and it's taking too frickin' long. I'll oggle at work.

Dreams for 2005

I've got a longer post in the works about my specific goals for 2005, but it needs some extra time to rattle around in my head. So until then, I've got some dreams that I'd love to see come true this year.

First, the dream of Professional Writing Success. This can take the form of either winning a writing contest, getting an agent, or getting a book contract. Or all three. Though I might wonder what the flipside of all that good luck in one year might be...

Second, the dream of Better Employment. This can take the form of a new job for me, improved conditions at the current job, or Mark finishing up his research in record time and landing a perfect job in Tucson. Then we can start looking for a house and stuff.

Third, the dream of Time Travel, of sorts. All I really want to do for this dream is to make tomorrow June so my brother will be home and out of Iraq for good.

Those are the big dreams. I'm sure I can think of more, like perfect health for all my family and friends, better employment for them as well, financial security, etc, etc. But those three jumped out at me as I wrote, so posted they be.