Like a Kid on Christmas Morning

This is another story from way back.
____________________________________

I used to live on a quaint tree-lined street of brownstones in Brooklyn, NY. One weekend in Summer 2001, Steve came up to visit from his Naval station in Norfolk, VA. He got the best parking space he'd ever gotten in Brooklyn, right in front of my house.

That Sunday, we returned from brunch and found two ambulances and three police cars on the block, one flipped-over rented Jeep Cherokee, one psychotic driver of said Jeep, one totalled Saturn parked in front of Steve's car, and Steve's Ford Contour with several additional contours and minus one passenger-side mirror. It was driveable, but not in good shape.

Word on the street was that the driver of the flipped Jeep was on three depression medications, including Lithium. The cops were trying to figure out if they could arrest her for reckless driving but they didn't because they couldn't determine if she wasn't supposed to be driving while on the meds. (Personally, I thought the evidence spoke for itself, but who am I to say?) She was screaming profanity at the police, who were just trying to help. After some psychotic rocking on someone's stoop, she slumped over unconscious, but not as a result of injuries.

Thankfully, she did have insurance.

The person who owned the totalled Saturn was completely AWOL. That car had been pushed up on the sidewalk by the impact of the Jeep. It had at least one flat tire on the passenger side, and the plastic passenger side panel was pretty much gone. The car had Minnesota plates, implying that the owner was either just visiting or a new arrival to the area. The police put a note on the car. Talk about an unpleasant surprise.

And the car was in a Tuesday spot. By this I mean the owner had to move the car by 8am Tuesday for street cleaning.

On Tuesday, I woke up at 7:40am like a kid on Christmas morning. I ran to the window to see if the Saturn owner had come to move it yet. He hadn't. I opened the window and hurried to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I rushed back to my window to see a fresh-faced young man in a white dress shirt, tie and khakis approaching the unblemished sidewalk-facing side of the Saturn.

The young man stopped for a second when he saw the car, no doubt thinking, "Hmmm, I don't remember parking my car on the sidewalk." Then he opened the driver's side door, tossed his bright blue new backpack in the backseat, and got in the driver's seat, closing the door behind him. I held my breath in suspense as I watched him back out of the space and start off, but he got no more than six feet before stopping and backing neatly into the space he'd just tried to vacate. He'd finally realized something was wrong.

He perfectly parallel-parked the car, and got out and walked around to the passenger side. He stood in shock for a moment, and I could see his shoulders sag. His hand went up to his chin, in a "huh -- what the heck do I do now?" pose. He did not see the note on the window that the police had left for him.

In the grandest of Brooklyn traditions, I was about to yell out my window to tell him about the police note under his wiper when my neighbors came running outside. (Clearly, I wasn't the only neighborhood denizen watching the drama play out.) I heard the young man say in a daze, "Someone hit me." The dad neighbor ran around to the front of the car and picked up the police note, handing it to the young man. I saw the dad neighbor gesturing behind the Saturn to where Steve's Ford had been hit, then making looping motions with his arms and pointing in front of the Saturn to a pile of broken glass left there by the flipped Jeep. The men spoke briefly in low tones.

Then I saw the young man walk back to the drivers' side, open the door, remove his backpack from the back seat, and walk away, waving to the neighbors. It was 7:57am. I went to take a shower. By 8:30am the car had been towed.

Just another day on Sackett Street.

Most Embarrassing Moment -- Cat Hands!

I had to give a presentation today at work. It was really informal, but I was nervous nonetheless. I always am. I blame my nerves on an incident in (of course) my junior high years.

During the summer between 8th and 9th grade, I enrolled in a weeklong "Drama Camp" with a couple of my dramatic friends. I was never much of an actress, but I did have a tendency to enroll myself in various summer camps, so there I was. It ended up being all about the musical theater. I can sing, but I'm not much of a dancer.

Most of the 100 or so campers had been attending Drama Camp for at least a couple of years. Girls outnumbered boys about 8 to 1. As a newcomer, I was immediately among the uncool. The director's daughter Nina was clearly the golden child of the attendees, and was called upon (by the director) to demonstrate each and every acting technique, musical interpretation, and dance move. She did so with joy and gusto. I had conflicting emotions, feeling that Nina had delusions of grandeur, and feeling that I was way out of my league.

I did ok in the voice portions of the camp, but my inherent uncoolness in those surroundings kept me from trying out for a solo. I muddled through the acting workshops, crashing and burning with such flair in the improvisational portions that I actually earned praise. And there was dance. Well, dance is not my thing, as I mentioned. When the dance instructor asked us to separate into two groups, experienced and inexperienced, I happily joined the latter. We spent many hours learning a routine to a song from Cats.

I just looked the song up on iTunes. I knew I'd recognize it if I heard it again, even though I didn't know the name at the time. Turns out the song was a piano instrumental of The Jellicle Ball. It's perky and jazzy. (Listen to a clip here.) Just the song if you want to have 100 campers leaping around on stage making cat hands.

(Even today, 19 years later, hearing that song drives a stab of fear through my heart.)

In dance class, I carefully chose a spot toward the back, and learned the little routine. I conscientiously paid attention when the dance instructor chose a "cue" girl. When this girl ran on, the inexperienced group was supposed to join her. We never did a runthrough of the whole number, but the instructor seemed satisfied.

So recital day came around and hundreds of parents arrived to see what their tuition check had wrought. Some songs from Once Upon a Mattress went well, with the director's daughter Nina in starring roles, again and again. She's in love with a girl named Fred and all that. Toss in some Les Miserables. We all stalked across the stage singing emphatically about the end of the day when you're another day older. Then the time came for our big dance number, and we moved to our places.

It started strong, with the experienced dancers on stage first. I saw the "cue" girl preparing to enter and I readied myself for our big moment. The chorus ended and the experienced dancers began to cat-leap off the stage. Cat hands! Cat hands! I followed the cue girl onto the stage, cat-leaping. Cat hands!

As the fray of experienced cat leaps dissipated, I cat-leaped forward, per the routine. Then I looked around. Somehow, instead of 40 or so inexperienced dancers on stage, there were ... four.

We stood, nearly paralyzed on stage, through an entire verse, our faux paws poised in front of our chests. I later viewed my parents' videotape of the debacle and realized that our moves were confined to panicked sidelong glances at one another and tiny, abortive cat-hand swipes. As the second verse neared, I debated fleeing, but realized I'd look a lot better if I at least did the remainder of the routine. Own it, Megan! Own it.

Cat hands! Cat hands! Step step step! Cat leap! Cat hands! Cat leap off the stage! THANK GOD.

I burst into tears as I reached the stage wings. Meanwhile, the dance instructor yelled "EVERYONE!" and both groups ran on stage, sans the four of us who'd just run off. But other than the cat hands, the two routines were very different. As I wept off stage, dancers began leaping into each other. Cat hands! Collisions! Bad falls! A complete disaster.

I don't even know how it ended. But it was, without a doubt, my most embarrassing moment. And it decisively ended my dramatic career.

Tooling Around All Groggy

My first trip out of the house, post-surgery, was a trip Friday night to the all-organic Elevation Burger, which always seems like a great idea prior to the schlep to Falls Church, and seems like less of a great idea after waiting 15 minutes for our food and driving all the way home as the burgers cool in their paper sack. I made the trip more complicated with my delayed reaction times. Steve doesn't really know the way there, and since it's near my former office, I usually give directions there and back. This time, they went like this:

Me: That was the exit we just passed.

Me: We just drove by the entrance to the Beltway.

Me (as we speed down the right lane): We're supposed to turn left here.

I was definitely still showing some effects from being anesthesized 33 hours earlier.

On Saturday, the big outing was a trip to Giant to get some pine nuts for some homemade pesto. It was late afternoon when we pulled into the parking lot, and the sun was streaming in the car window. Steve looked over and said, "golden hair," reaching out to touch my wayward, unstyled locks. At that point, "Sister Golden Hair" by America started going through my head.

Well I tried to make it Sunday, but I got so damn depressed
That I set my sights on Monday and I got myself undressed
I ain't ready for the altar but I do agree there's times
When a woman sure can be a friend of mine

Well, I keep on thinkin' 'bout you, Sister Golden Hair surprise
And I just can't live without you; can't you see it in my eyes?
I been one poor correspondent, and I been too, too hard to find
But it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind

Will you meet me in the middle, will you meet me in the air?
Will you love me just a little, just enough to show you care?
Well I tried to fake it, I don't mind sayin', I just can't make it

Well, I keep on thinkin' 'bout you, Sister Golden Hair surprise
And I just can't live without you; can't you see it in my eyes?
Now I been one poor correspondent, and I been too, too hard to find
But it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind

Will you meet me in the middle, will you meet me in the air?
Will you love me just a little, just enough to show you care?
Well I tried to fake it, I don't mind sayin', I just can't make it

That night, after we ate some blackened chicken and pasta with homemade pesto, we were listening to some music, and what should come on but Sister Golden Hair. At the chorus I reached for Steve's hand and pulled him up to dance a bit. I thought it might lift my spirits.

And then along came Wendy. Our quiet little beagle came trotting up and actually started barking and happily pattering around with us, completing a little family triangle. Such as it is.

What Is This Blog?

It seems to me that the most interesting blogs stick to one subject ... mine is bouncing among a few unrelated topics. I don't want to write a miscarriage/infertility blog. That would be far too depressing. So what's this thing about? Why would anyone care what I have to say?

I need to find a new focus.

Moving On

My D and C on Thursday apparently went fine. I'm tired and crampy, but ok. I bled a LOT the evening after the procedure -- like pour a pitcher of red kool-aid in the toilet bleeding -- but since then it's been minor.

I waver between believing the line about bad luck, and wanting to know what went wrong. Since Dr. Mango turned out to be a huge @sshole, I won't be finding out any information from the procedure. (It's often possible to determine if there were genetic abnormalities in the embryo, which would mean the miscarriage wasn't due to anything my body did.) Dr. Mango also refused to provide me with any painkillers after the procedure. HATE him.

So what's next? I have no idea. So much for a "miracle of life" blog.

Cheesecake Adventure

Steve pointed out this morning that we haven't made any exotic food in at least a week. But I did make a white chocolate raspberry cheesecake from scratch yesterday. So that's something. It was quite tasty. I also liked that it was smooth, tangy and not too sweet.

I'd never made a cheesecake before, so this was the maiden voyage for my springform pan. What a pain in the butt. Not sure when I'll make a cheesecake again, unless I really want to impress someone.

I used this recipe for the crust, and this recipe for the cheesecake.

The Waiting Continues

Had another appointment with Dr. Mango. He didn't seem to check any new blood tests (although he ordered another one) and he didn't do another ultrasound. He suggested a D&C and I agreed. He gave me the same lame speech about getting pregnant again, and I interrupted. "I know the schpiel." Just let me out of here.

Then I walked around all day with my cell phone, waiting to hear when the D&C would be scheduled. Of course, they never called.

I'm getting tired of even writing about this. It's been two weeks since it stopped growing. Time to get it out.