Thou shalt not google.

I was originally planning to write a list of "Ten Commandments For When You Are A Broken Typewriter," but they all boiled down to the above: THOU SHALT NOT GOOGLE. Google can only hurt you in these instances. And as the daughter of a hypochondriac and a medical-procedure addict, I've always tried to keep self-diagnosis to a minimum. I like to roll in to a doctor's office, list off my symptoms, and let them tell me what it is.*

Unfortunately, my situation of the last few months has made me opt to throw my normal rules, for the most part, out the window. Googling will only do two things:

1. It will keep hope alive.
2. It will terrify you even more.

What is below is an abbreviated stream-of-consciousness googlefest.

1. I googled my symptoms via WebMD (and this was suggested by my enabler husband. I was pregnant! Hope lives! Then, negative blood test results come in. Hope dies.

2. I googled PCOS. Symptoms list: Cystic ovaries, obesity, marked hairiness. Now, I defy anyone to find a woman who doesn't think she's fatter than she should be and also hairier than she should be, but this is not helpful. I pictured myself in three years as a cross between a Wookie and Jabba the Hut. I am too vain for this, and begin researching electrolysis and lipo. Also, since these are really areas along a spectrum, isn't it possible I'm already hairy and growing stout? I mean, if I was hairy I wouldn't tell anyone about it. Except my husband, from whom I have extracted a promise to have someone come in and tweeze me every week if I'm ever incapacitated.

3. I googled thyroid problems. I'll never be the lucky bitch with a thyroid problem who continually loses weight,** I'll only be the fat one with ADD and tingly hands. Fortunately, I won't be hairy.

4. Cannot look at the dark side of the coin anymore. Begin googling "pregnancy" and "negative blood tests." Find a chat room in which somebody has posted that they had negative blood tests and now have a kid. Hope has a faint pulse.

5. Discover other nasty things to read about on google, like "miscarriage" and "ectopic pregnancy." Alternate between sad and scared. I mean, Christina Yang from Grey's Anatomy almost DIED from an ectopic pregnancy.

6. Repeat 1-5. A couple of times. And by "couple of times" I mean "couple hundred times."

7. Discover am definitely not pregnant. Fall into funk. Wonder if I'll be lovable once I only speak in honks and have a chick in a bikini chained to me. Although why I'd want to look at some skinny bitch is beyond me.

8. Receive email from friend who points out that you only get fat and hairy if you are already fat and hairy, leading me to think that it's less a symptom and more a cause. Consider writing letter to WebMD and every other medical site protesting. Realize it's not only futile, but that I really only did it to myself.

*Hilarious side story: Once, in the throes of agony due to sinus infection over the hoildays, I went to the emergency room. I told the doctor that I was feeling pain and pressure in my upper jaw and that it was pain similar to the last time I had a sinus infection. He looked at me and asked, "What do you want me to do?" I want you to make the pain stop and the infection go away, Buddy. What, you thought I came here to tell you that and now I'm ready to leave?

**I'm not minimizing thyroid problems here, folks. I'm only relating my complete and total shallow reactions that are totally looks-based. Because that's how I roll.

Not The Mama/The Electric Kool-Aid Baby Test

Sometimes, when we are not brave, we have to borrow a little courage. I usually try to borrow it from my friends, but sometimes I borrow it from complete strangers. In this case, I'm borrowing from the cojones of The Sassy Curmudgeon, whose blog I have stalked read voraciously for the past few months.

She hit a chord when she posted about truth in blogging, which engaged me in an internal debate about how much I wanted to share (I'm mostly anonymous except for the people who know me personally, and since I actually don't resemble a cupcake you wouldn't know me on the street; I started this blog to write, and I am not writing because it's all too much to put OUT THERE; what if someone figures out who I am? Well, let's face it, I probably wouldn't say it at a dinner party, but if you and I had been having coffee for a couple of hours I would have totally told you because everything falls out of my mouth; I hate whiny blogs, but I did make a vow to tell the Truth recently . . . .)

And today she told the truth about not being a mama. And I'm not a mama either. And I feel as though I can be brave because this woman who writes a blog I like and admire could tell the truth. Because what I didn't perhaps get to in the last post was that the truth is messy and unpleasant.

I haven't seen my good friend Aunt Flo in over 85 days. And no, I'm not pregnant. I will tell you that the pregnancy machine that makes home tests et al is an evil machine which likes to continually tell you that the test is probably wrong, and you may be pregnant. But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself here -- you see, I've been a little bit pregnant from June until last Friday, and I've been freaking out for most of that. My sister and I decided that this was a giant worldwide conspiracy involving EPT, and my doctor’s office.

Evolution of the Conspiracy:
January-ish – Pull the goalie. Try to monitor cycles to figure out when to do what.
June 26 – go visit my in-laws
June 30 – four weeks since last cycle. Home from in-law visit, go to bar to unwind from trip. Drink myself into oblivion, aided by husband’s BRILLIANT idea that I should give myself a margarita for every day I spent at the in-laws, as a reward.
July 1 – Hangover.
July 2 – Realize that my cycle should be coming in the next week. Immediately become moody.
July 3 (or thereabouts) – go tie another one on to get to my “one margarita per day spent with in-laws” requirement, because while it was only six days I am a freaking lightweight.
July 4 – Hangover. All I want to eat is chocolate-covered pretzels. So I make them and devour them in front of the TV. Husband tries not to be disgusted by my behavior.
July 10, or thereabouts – Extreme fatigue. My days go a little something like this: Get up, dress in workout wear, plan to run and then clean and apply for jobs. Sit on couch to watch Regis and Kelly. Take a nap. Watch CSI. Nap some more. Move to bedroom. Nap again. Now it’s 4:00 and I take a shower and put on pajamas. This continues until late July.
July 16 – Get a little worried. Buy a stick, pee on it, and celebrate its negativity with a half a bottle of wine.
July 20 – I can no longer button my pants. This is weird, because they are only tight around my middle. Buy fat pants, which are waaay loose in the leg and butt but I can button without feeling like I’m being sawed in half. Also, now have to pee every twenty minutes and am having periods of dizziness. Begin googling “pregnancy” and “negative home pregnancy test.”
July 23 – Get a little worried. Buy a stick, pee on it, and celebrate its negativity with a half a bottle of wine.
July 25 – Repeat
July 25 – Freak out. Call doctor. Schedule blood test. Also negative. Celebrate with wine.
July 29 – Travel to VA to help with sister’s move. She suspects something’s up and tries to out me by asking me to go get margaritas. I go ahead and tell her what’s going on, and she tells me about the time that all the home pregnancy tests she took were negative too. In related news, my niece is now five. I freak the fuck out.
August 7 – I buy another stick and pee on it. Negative. But I no longer trust the damn things. Am still battling afternoon fatigue. No pants fit. Look markedly pregnant in form-fitting clothing, and am scrambling to find things that help me hide it, because while it’s cool when you are pregnant to tell people who figure it out, it’s uncool to have to explain the whole thing to people, who then get confused and treat you like that crazy woman with an hysterical pregnancy from Glee.
August 13 – Return home, call nurse practitioner. Beat myself up for the margaritas, wine, and painkillers.
August 16 – Fat pants no longer fit. Am of two minds – if I’m pregnant, FABULOUS! Time for new clothes! If I’m not, I am a disgusting fat pig.
August 18 – See nurse practitioner. She asks for date of LMP and then we have the following conversation:

NP: So you’re thinking pregnancy?
Me: No. I’ve had several negative home tests, and a negative blood, so I doubt it.
However, my sister also had several negative home tests although the blood came back positive, and my niece is now five.
NP: Well, let’s get you another blood test today, and I’m going to wheel in the ultrasound machine to look at your baby!
Me: Great!
NP: This could also be a thyroid problem or PCOS, but I doubt it because this is the first occurrence of symptoms. I’m thinking pregnancy. Now, I’m not an ultrasound tech, so if we don’t see a fetus it doesn’t mean there’s not one. I want you to continue as pregnant until we have an answer for you.

Okay, I’ve just stopped drinking the Kool-Aid. And now my NP is drinking it, and apparently I still should be, based on her enthusiasm. So I go with it. I’m a little bit pregnant.

As you’ve probably guessed, after twenty minutes of having a probe pressed uncomfortably on my abdomen while I stared at the ceiling tiles and tried not to pee, nothing was seen. NP continues to be upbeat and positive about “my pregnancy.” I go purchase a Bella band so I can wear my pants and begin nesting.

August 19: Blood test that day was negative. Am disgusting fat pig who is retaining water.
August 20: Begin googling “PCOS” (ACK! Will become fat and hairy!) and “low HCG levels, pregnancy symptoms” (these results can be really horrible – ectopic pregnancy, miscarriage, etc.) and “thyroid problems.” Cry in shower. Feel like less of a woman. Apologize to dead or mythical baby.
August 23: Trans-vaginal ultrasound. It is as much fun as it sounds. My husband looked like he was really trying to sink into the floor. I knew as soon as my uterus flashed on the screen that I really wasn’t pregnant. Have blood taken to check for thyroid problems. Receive call from NP to tell me that I am not pregnant, I have no thyroid problems, and both ovaries have cysts. (ACK! Will become fat and hairy!) NP prescribes hormones to jump-start things, and refers me to an infertility specialist. Now I am a fat hairy woman who cannot have babies.
August 24: Start hormones. Hate them already. Am headachy and moody, but am less swollen – successfully buttoned and zipped fat pants and wore them for most of the day without cursing the day they were created.

Which brings us to today. I’m awaiting a call from my infertility specialist, and wondering how much of this I want to do. I mean, I want to be a mom, but I don’t know how much in the way of interventions I feel comfortable with. And where do I draw the line?

So yet again I've told you the Truth. It was, as I acknowledged in my last post, exceptionally brutal. All bad jokes are my attempt to deflect, and should not be taken as proof of a bad sense of humor.

And for the Baby, when it comes -- know that this experience let me know how much I want you. Till then.

Tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth/Liars prosper*

The truth: we say we want it, but we hate it when it's there. The truth hurts, you know. People who are brutally honest are also, well, brutal. Honesty is supposed to be the best policy. But no one wants to be friends with a liar. So what makes a good friend? A policy of appeasement or a friend who can and does tell you the truth?

Look, I've been on both sides of both sides of this -- I've been mad when someone told me a truth I wasn't ready to hear. I've also been grateful to those who told me the truth. I’ve been the truth-teller, and also the appeaser. But let’s face it, both are dangerous positions to take. Europe’s policy of appeasement really didn’t work with Hitler; and being honest didn’t work so well for Galileo and Darwin and, depending on your world view, Jesus.

Maybe we should rewrite the platitudes about truth above.

I've been both a bringer of Truth and a teller of the lies people want to hear, too. But lately, I grow tired of being wishy-washy, which is what it all boils down to when you take my amazing capacity to be a human band-aid and mix it in with my tendency to be a people-pleaser and my ability to read individuals and situations fast and quickly. My childhood was rough, but at least I learned to be a human gauge.

But events of the past week have taught me that my policy of being pleasing and trying to be what a person needs at the moment that they need it is exhausting and stressful for me, and really not the best way to keep relationships going. It’s also probably not me being a good friend, since sycophants are rarely respected people of integrity.

This all came to a head last night, when I was talking to my friend, whom I'll call Jane. She's been having some problems with her baby-daddy, whom I'll call Dick. Dick Head.

Dick's been a real jerk for a while, but lately has threatened to (a) abdicate all parental rights, (b) sue for sole custody, and (c) kill himself.

I thought about it, and then I decided to tell her the truth, as I saw it: (a) this man is unstable and quite possibly has a personality disorder, (b) he's not good for her or the baby, and (c) she is enabling his behavior by allowing him to emotionally batter and manipulate her.

For the most part, she deflected and tried to excuse his behavior. When she ran out of excuses, she yelled at me for not understanding, because I'm "rich.**"

During the course of our conversation, Jane expressed anger and resentment at Dick, at me, and at her other friends, who give her conflicting advice (like she should marry him.) I feel for my friend. But I wonder if I'm good for her, or she for me. I feel like I'm often there to listen, or to rescue, or both -- and I'm growing uncomfortable in that role.

So, back to friendships in general. What makes a good friend? I started a list, but it ends up reading like a list of things that make a good marriage, which in the end makes a ton of sense. Except that most good marriages start with some discussions about these things, and then you take a vow to love and honor (respect) and cherish (appreciate) each other, so it’s formal. Maybe we ought to have friendship ceremonies.

To Be a Friend, You Must First Be One***
1. Good friends respect each other, intellectually, emotionally, and physically.
2. Good friends, for the most part, offer support for each other in crisis or hard times.
3. Good friends make it possible to enjoy time with them.
4. Good friends tell you the truth, whether it is that you have spinach in your teeth or are wearing the wrong color lipstick or have managed to entangle you in a relationship with a toxic human being.
5. Good friends accept the counsel of the friends they have chosen, and if they disagree, can calmly discuss the situation, because they understand that the advice comes from a place of great love.
6. Good friends understand that emotional crises may dictate that number 5 be temporarily suspended due to extreme duress.

Honesty seems to be the most important underlying concept here.

It’s also the hardest. It’s easy to love someone, but hard to be honest about the relationship, especially to yourself. But as marriages take hard work, so do friendships. Because in order for me to have a friend, I have to be one, right? So I’ve got to be the sort of pal I would want – a person with integrity and wisdom who will tell the truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth. Truth that hurts more deeply than a manipulative and evil-intentioned lie. Brutal enough to make you bleed. Honesty, after all, is the best policy, although it is also the hardest and more painful.

So, folks, be prepared. I’m going to have to tell you the truth from here on out.

And, Jane? Dick is bad for you. Very, very bad. Take Spot and run.

*These are quotes from the frontispiece of a Stephen King novel. I can't remember who originally wrote them, nor can I remember what King novel. I may remember to look it up later. I may forget. Either way, I am trying to give credit where it's due.
**Gentle readers, I can assure you that I am not rich. I am a woman who graduated with a degree in English who is married to a man with a degree in English. You do the math.

***My mom embroidered this on a pillow for me when I was a kid. I’ve always tried to be the friend I wanted to have.

Lonely nerd seeks same.

I'm having a hard time making friends in Wisconsin. Now, I'm not necessarily the most gregarious person, but I'm nice and fun and a good listener and a weirdly obnoxious know-it-all who can tell you which direction your ceiling fans should go, and why the "white only between Memorial Day and Labor Day" rule came about. Also, I will tell you if you have spinach in your teeth, and as my friend Kim once said, "She's the kind of girl you want to go out and party with. She'll be fun while you're out and she can still put it together to get you back to your place safe."

Here's my problem: Midwesterners are friendly. They will talk to you as long as you want to talk. I like friendly people and I think it's cool that the folks in the Midwest, largely, are friendly. But I come from the South, where people are polite. They will only be friendly to you when they want to be friends.

So while I've been learning the language and am becoming proficient (eh?) I'm still learning the unspoken language. I guess it's why I now find myself in a mysterious limbo between "insider" and "outsider."

Except that I'm not colonizing the Midwest. I'm just trying to find some like-minded chicks.

In which I change the way I blog.

Folks, if you love it, you love it, but the truth is that I’m going to change the focus of this blog. I started it as an experiment to see if I liked travel writing. While I like it, I’m not a fan of so severely limiting what I write; so while I’ll post my ruminations on being a Midwestern Magnolia, I’m going to have to open this up to more than it is. Mostly, this is happening because stuff I want to write about is bigger than this blog’s boundaries – and since I made those boundaries, I’m re-drawing them.

This blog has now been rezoned.