So, what can be done about all this?
Well, I did it. I rewatched all 7 seasons of Gilmore Girls. What started as a temporary feel-good measure turned into a feel-good bender. I feel lost now without more episodes to watch. How can I be done? Waaaaah.
Oh how I love that theme song. I love it so much that I could never bring myself to jump past the opening credits. I had to hear it and I had to sing along... 153 times. It gave me warm, fuzzy feel goods every time. In the world of TV show openings, it's definitely one of the best. I'm so glad they never changed it (aside from a few clip updates along the way). I hate when shows
ruin change their intros.
If you ever find yourself wallowing in the aftermath of miscarriage (yeah, that finally happened*), I highly recommend going back to the beginning of Gilmore Girls to binge-watch your blues away. I don't think I've seen this show since it went off the air, so diving back in all these years later is almost as good as watching it for the first time. It's such sweet, feel-good fun — exactly what I need right now. I doubt I'll rewatch all 7 seasons, but I'm halfway through season 2 and it's still giving me joy. I think I'll keep going for a while.
* So, the miscarriage... That was the most
horrifically painful unpleasant five days of my life. My doctor told me it would be like a heavy period. What a big fat lie that was. Thank God for so many women on pregnancy forums describing every painful, gory detail of their miscarriage experiences or I would've thought I was dying. Am I being dramatic? No. It was brutal. The "death cramps" I used to get in my early years of womanhood would've been a welcomed trade-off.
The first day... holy shit. If there's one day I'd like to remove from my memory forever that'd be the one. It was excrutiating. By the wee hours of the following morning, I was so fatigued and my body so stressed from all the pain that I started having these extreme chills with uncontrollable shaking with every contraction. My temperature dropped to 96.4º! That was a little scary. I think it scared the man too because on more than one occasion since then, he's said, "I'm glad you didn't die."
After that first 24 hours or so, the pain wasn't quite as severe and it mostly came at night. Mostly. There was crampiness during the day, but I mainly just had 2-3 hours of bad pain every night for the next four nights. I really think miscarriages should be like they are on TV: pregnant woman walks into the bathroom one day and declares something's wrong. Cut to next scene and she's fine, just not pregnant anymore. The end. But for me, the whole process ended up taking five days. Five miserable, awful days.
Emotionally, I think I'm doing okay. I'm a little up and down and even though it's now been several days since all this, I still have random weepiness. Aside from a sense of loss over what might've been, I've still got a substantial level of pregnancy hormone coursing through me, so I guess feeling emotional is to be expected. I've got weekly blood tests to monitor my hormone level until it gets back to normal and I've got an ultrasound coming up to make sure all the "products of conception" (gotta love those medical terms) are gone. Fingers crossed they are because if I require medical intervention after going through five days of natural hell, I might just crack.
In the meantime, I'll be hanging with Lorelai, Rory and the rest of the quirky characters of Stars Hollow.
Did you know that when you're over 45, you have less than a 1% chance of conceiving naturally? I didn't. Not until I recently (and rather unexpectedly) found myself as one of the less than 1%. Yep, I got pregnant. It was a shock to say the least, but it's amazing how fast I embraced the idea of having a baby even at my ripe old age. The man seemed excited too.
My doctor was less enthusiastic, practically calling the pregnancy unviable from the moment my blood test came back positive. Her reasons were statistical—miscarriage rates are extremely high for women over 45. I already knew that because in between the time of my 3 positive home pregnancy tests and the blood test results, I'd filled my days obsessively reading everything on the internet about "advanced maternal age" pregnancies. So I tried hard to keep my emotions in check and expect that this pregnancy was unlikely to go anywhere. I wasn't very successful, though.
When I had my first ultrasound a week or so later, they measured the "fetal pole" to be 6 weeks 1 day and no heartbeat was found. With that news, my doctor declared it unviable. There was another ultrasound scheduled for the following week, as well as more blood tests to confirm everything and now that I'm on the other side of all that, it's a done deal that this little sliver of a life never made it beyond 6 weeks. And I'm so sad about this. I'm like crazy sad.
What makes it all worse is that I didn't get pregnant and miscarry, I got pregnant and it died and I didn't miscarry. What kind of mother nature fuckery is that? As I sit here writing this, I've got a teeny tiny dead fetus in my womb that for whatever reason won't come out. "Missed miscarriage", they call it. Fucked up, I call it.
Now I've got 3 options: wait to miscarry naturally (my doctor put a two week limit on that idea because of the risk of infection if it stays in there too long), take some pills to induce a miscarriage (I've read nothing but horrible accounts from women who took that route), or schedule a D&C to have my uterus scraped out. Eep. What I'd like is a 4th option that includes a backwards time jump so I can abstain from sex and prevent all of this from ever happening. But since I can't have that, I've settled on waiting another week to see if I'll miscarry and then schedule a D&C if I don't.
Sarah Connor will soon be pleased with my teeth. Why? Because the metal got an eviction notice. Translation: I'm getting my braces off!!!!!!!!
Wait. Halt. Stop cheering.
Those exclamation points of excitement were a bit premature. See, there's a slight problem with this celebration: I'm not happy with my top front teeth. Just one top front tooth, actually. And the more I look at it, the more I think it's positioned wrong. After staring at it in the mirror for a few days, I asked some family members what they thought.
"Looks great," they said. Augh. So it's just me? It's just my eyes that think this tooth looks funky?
PhotoShop to the rescue! I'm not sure if I hoped to convince myself the tooth was okay or hoped to convince them it wasn't, but I took a picture and did some editing. First, I just "filed" the bottom edges of my front teeth to simulate what I think they'll look when the orthodontist is finished (he said he was going to file them when the braces come off, to even them up). Meh. Even with smoothed edges, that one tooth still looked *off* to me. So I played around a little—pulled the tooth down a tiny bit, turned it a tiny bit, then filed the bottom edges. Aha! Now it looks good to me.
I showed these PhotoShopped pictures to my family, thinking I'd get a consensus of opinion. I got a split vote instead. So this is where you come in.
That doesn't mean I didn't like it when they first got together. I did. It was unexpected and thrilling and worked well, given the circumstances. So I was on board with Veronica/Logan for a short while. After the first breakup, though, no. It never worked for me after that. And now that I'm midway through season 3 in a rewatch, I'm hating their on-again-off-again thing more than ever.
For a "bad boy" hookup, I would've liked Veronica and Weevil. He wasn't in her league, intelligence-wise, so it would've been a short-lived what the hell was I thinking? kind of fling. But at least he was a bad boy with a good heart. And they definitely had some chemistry early on.
This is no normal crease, mind you. It's this shadowy figure that haunts my forehead and taunts me every day in the mirror. That's my perception of it anyway. To the plastic surgeon who wielded the Botox needle, it was only a "just starting" kind of crease. Eek. You mean it's going to get worse?! Six injections and three days later... *poof*. That crease had magically changed from a deep canyon to a mere indentation. Too bad magic always comes with a price.( Read more...Collapse )
This video is one I started like a year ago, I think. I messed with it off and on then set it aside for many months. Recently, I picked it up again and hey, whadya know, I finished it! The funny thing is I don't even like this song. I've never liked this song. I can't even remember why I started making a video to it. My best recollection is that I happened to hear it on the radio one day and some clips popped into my head and I thought it would be fun to cut them to the beat. That, of course, was before I had to listen to it 1000 times while editing (and difficult few-second second segments a bazillion more times).
Surprisingly, I don't hate the song more for being pounded into my head over and over. I didn't exactly grow to love it either, though. It just... is. What I do love is how this video turned out. And it really was fun to edit to such a strong beat — frustrating at times, tedious, but lots of fun. So here it is: A total Sarah Connor love-fest with a Sarah/Kyle theme, set to Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love".
Enjoy. Hopefully. Maybe?
How does that happen? Why is it happening with more frequency in recent history? And most importantly, how the fuck do we stop it?
Wikipedia has a list of rampage killings dating back to the mid-1800s that's pretty damn long, so these kinds of things have probably been going on forever. And while they aren't unique to the United States, we sure do have a lot of them. Nearly all spree killers are male too. I'm not sure what that says about the male brain, and more specifically the American male brain, but it probably says something. Is it less empathic? Does it have a greater propensity for violence? Is it more prone to severe mental illness? Is it more likely to lose touch with reality when stressed? I don't really think being male is a significant piece of the puzzle, but it may be a piece, whether biological, cultural or both.
We can point to the usual supects too, of couse: guns, video games, movies... but those are not causes. If they were, we'd be witness to horrific rampages in every neighborhood on a regular basis. But we're not because spree killers are a uniquely defective breed. I think the only true solution to their kind of madness is to learn how to identify it early and either treat the abnormailty successfully or remove them from society and keep them locked in padded rooms.