Do you remember last year when I was talking about having coils jammed into my fallopian tubes? After doing a bit of research and singing some songs about maybe having a third baby somewhere in there, I decided to go with a more temporary solution: Mirena. Many of you have had good experiences with your Mirena, but a few of you have HORROR stories!
Here’s the scoop. That thing that I thought was a third baby somewhere in there ended up being a puppy named Scout. I’m good. (Mostly.)
This morning I had my annual paper-gowned appointment, and as I was poked and scraped, my doctor and I talked about American Girl stores and Adiana Permanent Contraception. According to the brochure (Adiana. Not American Girl.), it’s “Safe. Simple. Forever. Adiana.” If you have any experience with it, I would love to hear your words. I’m scheduled to have it done on August 19th at 7:30 in the morning. August 19th is Bill Clinton’s birthday. (It’s also Tipper Gore’s birthday! I didn’t know those two shared a birthday! Also, John Stamos! And Missy Higgins!!!)
Speaking of loving to hear your words, I want to thank each and every one of you who spoke up last week when I was moaning about my clutter. It feels good to know that we are not alone, doesn’t it? As I sit here at the computer eating a 1.13kg container of mixed nuts, I’m pleased to report that my kitchen sink is empty and my piano bench is no longer being weighed down by correspondence from the elementary school. (I actually practiced the piano in the dark yesterday afternoon. Our power went off in the morning, came back in the afternoon, went off again in the evening, and came back to stay at around 9:00. The dog was very uncomfortable with the off and on, and by “the dog” I mean “me”.) ((I’m still convinced that the second power loss came about because of the hateful thoughts I was having about my neighbor. I won’t get into that right now, because I need my air conditioner to keep working.))
As Jeff cleaned off one of our desks yesterday afternoon, he found a few of my 1996 sketch pads. (1996 was the year I spent dressing in short skirts and opaque tights and using a messenger bag as a purse. In that messenger bag was a sketch pad, a book of Mark Strand poetry, and lots of Rolaids to combat the obscene amount of coffee I was drinking.) I was never an artist, but I loved to pretend—as long as no one was around to watch me pretend. If a coffee dump was crowded, the sketch pad stayed in the bag.
While flipping through my (admittedly cruddy) drawings last night, I came across this, and it made me insanely happy—not because it’s great, but because I can remember exactly how I felt when I drew a flippy collar that actually looked sort of like a flippy collar.