Random thoughts. The only kind I have.

Well, after my previous whining and self-pity, I'm feeling a bit more Zen about our prospects for parenthood, feeling like it will happen somehow, someday and I need to not be a total spaz about it. There are millions of people with WAY worse problems than that. I have Lisa, and I have a good job, and I have my health, and I have family and friends who love me, and I havea nice place to live and enough money to pay for it. So, I just needed to remind myself that this is only a bump in the road, and not the end of the road.

And a cool thing happened to me Saturday. On the back of my car, I have a magnetic version of the Service Flag, which the Department of Defense authorizes certain immediate family members to fly in honor of a serviceman or woman either serving, or killed in service. (If you're not familiar with this, it was a much more common thing in WWII, and a blue star represents a living service member; it is replaced with gold if the servicemember is killed.) The flag on my car belongs to my niece Alexis, and it bears two blue stars, symbolizing that both her mom and dad are in service.

Anyway, as I drove to work Saturday morning, I heard a honk and turned to see a station wagon coming up behind me, then beside me, on the left. The man driving the wagon was in his 50s, with long hair and a very bushy beard. And he saluted me, a perfect, snappy salute. I smiled and nodded, a bit taken aback (having first wondered if I'd cut him off, and then wondering if he was about to flip me off--no, I'm not cynical), and unsure if it was proper or improper for me to return his salute, not being a veteran myself. I hope I didn't offend him by not offering one in return; I'm sure he understood. Anyway, I think this man was likely a Vietnam-era veteran, and those guys are truly amazing. The patriotism they show--maybe not for every president or every act of Congress, but for this IDEALS this country is built on--is truly unbelievable, when you consider the way our country treated them while they served. (My father served during Vietnam, though fortunately his unit remained stateside throughout his two-year hitch; still, he can tell stories about the insults hurled at him for wearing the uniform.) Many of those men were drafted, serving not because they chose to but because they had to. And they are the ones now who will salute you in traffic, when all you've done is be the older sister of a soldier. Even if you do have an anti-Bush sticker and a big ol' rainbow flag on the rear window of your car.

Perhaps....

I should consider changing the name of this blog. After all, we are not two mommies, or even one mommy. We are two aunts (and damn good ones) but not mommies. And maybe we will never be mommies. Every single couple from the core group of people we started out with on Fertility Friend is either pregnant, in the process of adopting, or has had a child already. Could it be that we will have a baby, but he or she is just in line behind all the other babies, waiting for his turn? (We do both despise queue-jumpers, so it would be like our kid to wait, and even to encourage others to go ahead.)

I stay away from Fertility Friend precisely because fertility has not, so far, been my friend, or even my acquaintance. But when I do drop in, I start to feel a pressure and sadness and anxiety that I don't like. It's as if all of your friends, one by one, hit the lotto jackpot and you kept thinking, 'I can do this, I can do this. I'd better buy a ticket now, right now, today. And I'd better not skip a day, because that might be THE day, my one chance, the day I'm destined to WIN.' As soon as I log off of there, I'm back on the sperm bank websites just for kicks, like browsing at QVC, even though we have a known donor who happens to be a dear friend (and a hottie, according to my sister--it's ok to say that because, even though he reads the blog, he already knows she said it). And this insane chant just runs through my mind: chart, temp, insem, wait, test, repeat. And I want to go wake Lisa up right now and say, 'Hey, what are we going to do about this? Shall we try again, start the adoption process, or decide we'll never be parents and grieve and move on?' She'd kill me, because she doesn't get anxious like I do. Good thing, huh?

The cheese stands alone.

This concludes the I-Feel-Sorry-For-Myself Pity Party. I now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

And more good news...

As I'm just catching up on my blog reading, Shelli & Narda are very close to adopting a newborn girl, provided the birth mother doesn't change her mind. (And I hope she doesn't, not only for Shelli & Narda's sake, but for the fact that she's a very young, single girl and keeping the baby might not be best for either of them.)

Congratulations are in order...

for Jen and Cait, who are pregnant and feeling a mix of joy and fear that must be making it hard to even sit or sleep or think. I'm very happy for them...they deserve this happiness as much as anyone I can think of.

I don't know what it means that I am, in fact, at least 96% thrilled for them and only 4% jealous that it isn't us, or that I'm not even sure if I want it to be us EVER, or if I'm just telling myself that so I won't be as sad if it never happens. See, it all comes back to me, doesn't it?

Still searching for perfection.

Jeff has defended his choice, and his arguments are well-reasoned, but I remain unswayed. I refuse to believe that Melissa Manchester had the perfect pop song of any decade, much less of any two or more combined decades. For one thing, there's talking in that song of hers, and I can't truly lose myself in 3 minutes of pure pop bliss if there's any kind of spoken-word business going on there.

This guy brings up Nick Lowe, a very worthy candidate for Cruel to be Kind.

How about Rick Astley? Never Gonna Give You Up. Short , fun, catchy, produced by Stock Aitken Waterman, they who gave Kylie Minogue her musical start...what more could you want?

Jeff said Philadelphia Freedom was too 70s. Is there such a thing? Not even the Bee Gees (whom I love) are too 70s. Maybe Chevy Van is too 70s. Maybe.

Two ponderous questions....

I worked late tonight, and arrived home at 7:30 or so to find Lisa (with migraine) and Alexis (with baby powder all over her, having just popped the cap off the poweder with her teeth, spraying the white talc all over her face and chest). Lisa mentioned that her migraine was probably premenstrual, so I said, "Hey, maybe this month we'll remember to write it down and start temping and call G. to see if he's willing to do a donation."

She looked at Alexis and said, "Uh, I don't know." To inseminate, or not to inseminate? Ponderous question number one, still awaiting an answer.

Question number two, as posed by Jeff, is, "What's your idea of the perfect pop song?" I've already had to take issue with his selection of Melissa Manchester's You Should Hear How She Talks About You, especially coming as it did at the expense of Belinda Carlisle's Mad About You.

So, how would I answer the question? Well, in thinking about it, it occurs to me that when I think of one song by a particular artist, I tend to think of at least one more. So, this writing of perfect pop songs must come in bunches for some, and not at all for others. For example, I love Fleetwood Mac, but I wouldn't classify anything they've written as a perfect pop song. Here's my list of nominees, or at least a start. What do you think?

Elton John: I'm Still Standing, Philadelphia Freedom, or I Don't Wanna Go On With You Like That

Sheena Easton: Morning Train or Telefone (Long Distance Love Affair)

Go-Go's: We Got the Beat or Vacation

Wham/George Michael: Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go or Careless Whisper

And, not to be forgotten, Madonna's Holiday

Dove, beauty and the almighty dollar.

I'm torn by the new Dove advertising campaign for their firming lotions and creams. On the positive side, the ads feature models of all sizes (well, all sizes up to size 12, that is) and these women are curvy, beautiful and REAL. It's definitely a step in the right direction.

On the other hand, as Seth Stevenson points out in Slate, the message they're sending is that you're beautiful, sure, but shouldn't your skin be just a little bit firmer? If I'm fine the way I am, why do I need your product anyway?

And, finally, on the snarky side, I make two points:

I'm a size 14. I don't know how some of these women are fitting in a size 12, and...

Dove claims these photos were not retouched. I'm not sure I believe them. Real women sometimes have stretch marks, and I'm not seeing any on those thighs.

But now I'm just being a bitch.

Even if I DO hate the president...

...there are still so many good things in life. Like the Mamas and the Papas, yes, and Harry Potter, and poetry. (Lots of good people, too, but this is a "things" category. I'm including the Mamas and the Papas as a "thing," because as people, they didn't really do much for me. Except when Michelle Phillips was on Knots Landing as Nicolette Sheridan's mother. But I digress...)

I get a poem in my e-mail every single day from The Writer's Almanac, and some of them are so great they make my heart break and then heal again, a little stronger than before.

What We Need
(by David Budbill, from While We've Still Got Feet. © Copper Canyon Press)

The Emperor,
his bullies
and henchmen
terrorize the world
every day,

which is why
every day

we need

a little poem
of kindness,

a small song
of peace

a brief moment
of joy.

Monday, Monday.

I love The Mamas and the Papas. They're next to the word "harmony" in the dictionary.

I don't love everything, though: