Barren Mare

The us in let's

E. and I were enjoying a quiet cuddle in the kitchen the other night; the puppy had fallen asleep at our feet after an extended session of charging around with a crazed apache look in his eye.

"He's very sweet, isn't he?  I mean, when he's not gnawing on the furniture, destroying the living room rug or trying to hump my leg," I murmured.

And E. concurred that indeed, the puppy is the sweetest.

"So what do you want for your birthday?" I asked, apropos of nothing.   

"A baby," E. promptly replied.

Oh. I didn't know what to say to that.  What do I say to that?  That they were all out of stock at the baby store when I checked last week, so it might be tricky sourcing one? That we just got a "baby", only he's small furry and puppy-shaped?  That I too would like a human baby, but it seems there is the small hurdle of IVF to be overcome to make it so. 

Thing is, E. is very good about stating, baldly and matter, that in his view, it is simply a matter of "making it happen." He always says this with a look on his face as if it is the most obvious thing in the world and why on earth haven't we gotten around to it already.  Unfortunately, there are two little problems with this approach.

The first is that the devil is in the detail.  I'll give you an example. We talked for a long time about getting this puppy. The fact of the matter is we both work all day out of the home. Fitting a small puppy properly into that equation takes some juggling and organising.  Whenever I pointed out to him the various concerns I had about the need to share responsibility for a dog, E. would shrug his shoulders and say calmly, "We'll deal with that. Let's just do it."

And therein lies the second problem- ultimately, despite all the avowals to share the load, the brunt of the responsibility invariably falls to me. I'm the one who runs home every lunch time and immediately after work to let the dog out, never mind that I have to re-arrange my schedule to ensure I come home early enough. I did all the researching and phoning around to get a suitable dogwalker booked, then scurried about getting a set of spare keys cuts (a saga in its own right- don't ask). I order Little Guy's food, I bought all his toys, his leash, his collar, his crate. I read the books on training and housebreaking and I take him to the vet.  And-all of that takes up a massive amount of time and energy in my already busy routine.

But somehow this is sort of overlooked when blithely asserting "let's just make it happen."  It's as if the "us" in that sentence gets lost somewhere in the void between letter t and the apostrophe s. 

Now, I'm not completely stupid.  I know E., I know how our relationship works, and when taking on something like a puppy, I knew exactly what I was signing up for. I wouldn't have done it if I had thought it would be an unbearable, intolerable burden, or even if it was more than I was prepared to tackle.  And in fairness, it's not as if E. doesn't help out around here; for example, he does virtually all the grocery shopping and cooking. He does all the driving, when there is driving to be done. He's always very willing to chip in if asked, and to a large extent, he does the best he can.

But that's the point- with the IVF thing, I don't want to have to ask. I don't want to have to designate tasks for him in order to get the job done, nor do I want to do it all myself. I don't want to end up taking sole responsibility for researching IVF clinics or the latest advances in treatment, or making the appointments, organising the scheduling and so forth. Aside from the fact that it's exhausting and I'm soooo not up for it, I've also come to realise that I took on too much on my own last time. In hindsight, it was a big mistake on my part. While it seemed OK while it was happening, I have come to the view that perhaps a lack of investment and involvement in the process on E.'s part contributed a lot to the problems we experienced afterwards.

I don't believe the struggle to get one's partner/husband/thingie to engage is an uncommon situation. I have had many discussions with women, who are all in the same boat.  Many of us have simply had to bite the bullet and take the lead on the treatment side of things- because let's face it, otherwise things never move forward beyond the aspirational. And I think for the most part, because we want the baby so very badly, we're willing to put up with an awful lot, including a lack of input or engagement that might not otherwise be acceptable.

But I learned a hard lesson last time.  It nearly broke me. And I won't put myself through it again unless I know things have changed, that it can be different. So the question is, and remains to be seen- is this something we can really do it together?

Because as far as I am concerned, the only way it can work is if I can really rely on the fact there's an us in that innocent little phrase:"let's make it happen." 

How we met

When people ask me how E. and I met, I have two stock replies: the first is that we met in a bar, which is more or less true. The second is that we saved each other lives while fleeing from a pack of ravenous wild boar which had escaped from the zoo, maraudering through the sleepy village of Aucterfachtermachter. In either case, the answer is designed to evade the full truth- which is that in fact, we met online. I don't know why I should be coy about it; all the best people meet that way nowadays. I mean, you're here, aren't you? Exactly.

But for some reason, meeting online is regarded in certain circles here as sort of...odd. So most of the time, we basically skim over that reality and offer up a streamlined version. Because after all, we really did meet in 'real life' for the first time in a bar. A nugget of honesty there, enough to keep flinging out the version with a straight face.

I've realised though, in thinking about our relationship, that I'm doing us a disservice by not telling the real story. So the other day, I went back to the very beginning. I've been holding on to my former dinosaur of a computer for the sole reason that I haven't ever gotten around to transferring those first email exchanges between us into another format. Looking through the files was like sifting through a box of love letters. He said...then I said back...then he told me about...and then I sent him...then he replied....

I remember clearly the first time I talked to him on the phone. We had been emailing back and forth for awhile, until finally emboldened, he offered up his number. It was early summer, and I sat on the floor of the bedroom in my lovely old flat with the endless Scottish evening pouring in over my shoulder. We talked for over three hours. I don't recall much of what we said, but I recollect clearly tracing the coil of the blue braided rug with my feet over the space of those hours. Around and around, over and over, while listening to his beautiful voice.

By the time we hung up, we had agreed to talk again, to meet. A week later I walked into the bar and he stood up. I had never believed in love at first sight until then. It was like being hit by lightening. He bought me a drink, which I gulped way too quickly. He had stacked the change in a neat pile on the table, toying with the spare pence while we talked. I noticed he had spilled a tiny bit of toothpaste on his blue shirt, near the collar. The first time he touched me was when he took my wrist so he could look at the time on my watch; we laughed when I pointed out the clock just above my head.

I had trouble sleeping for most of that summer. So astounded was I at my luck in meeting him, this amazing person, my heart folding with so much hope that I would wake in the night and be unable to get back to sleep. I found myself taking extra care when crossing the street, cautious that this new, tremulous joy not be ripped away by a careless step.

Sometimes when I think about our history, I believe that the lightening bolt was not entirely a good thing. I was so certain that this was what I wanted, you see. For the first time in my entire life, I was in absolutely love with somebody who seemed to love me back. But I realise now that this certainty was a gift I couldn't keep. That life was always going to intervene at some point. Life with these hard choices, hard decisions, and hard losses. And yet even now I can't decide how best to move forward or move on.

Which is why I sit here. Sifting through old love letters. Remembering what was. Telling the truth.

The glue that binds us together

E. and I recently began making tentative plans for a holiday. Or rather, as usual, I started making plans- throwing out one enticing option after another for him to chew over like a puppy with a bone. Eventually, he will pick one he likes, and we will go with that. I already like them all, so it's good. At this point, given that our relationship still often feels as if it's supported only by wobbly foal legs, I am not reading too much into all this. It seems to come down to the fact we want to get away somewhere, and we figure we may as well go together.

You know I don't like talking too much about the various fissures in my present situation, which are deep, complicated and possibly impenetrable. However, it does seem to me that even if we hadn't been coping with our particular brand of relationship crap, we would have another major issue to sort out.

And that is: when the dream of a family dies for a couple, what replaces it?

I mean, OK, so you intend on spending your life with somebody. Usually, for the relationship to work, that entails more than just "love." There must be common goals, interests, values. Something to bind you together, to each other. Obviously in many cases, one of the primary goals is to have children- to create a family together and to raise that family in a manner mutually agreeable to both of you. So you start planning your future around that possibility: moving to a bigger house, somewhere with a garden, checking the budget, re-arranging the work timetable, imagining the reality of a couple turned into something larger, greater, more intricate.

When the option of children and all that comes with it is suddenly wiped off the road map, what is left? E. and I, we thought we were ready. We'd bought a warm, child-friendly flat together. We'd deliberately chosen to buy a car which could fit a stroller in the back. We sat down and looked at finances, decided I would work part-time, investigated nurseries close to my office. Then, as you know, we embarked on a long fruitless endevour with an unsuccessful outcome. Until everything we'd planned and wished for had not come to pass.

What I am still not sure about is whether in the absence of a family there will ultimately be anything to keep E. and I together. Whether the space between us can ever be filled with something that will take the place of parenthood. Whether holidays, pets, new cars (ones designed to look sexy rather than to be practical), our mutual careers can ever provide the necessary glue to bind us together for the rest of our lives. Whether we can give all the love we would have given to a child to each other.

I know there are a great many couples who have no desire to have kids; who in fact delight and glory in their child-free state. I am sure there is something I can learn from them. But what I wonder is: if you come into the relationship with hope of parenthood in your heart, can you ever really be satisifed with something else when that hope dies?

I don't know the answers to all these questions. But I guess while I'm figuring it out, I may as well plan a holiday.

Where is Tenzing Norgay when you need him?

I feel compelled, after reading your very interesting and thoughtful comments, to try to clarify some of my thinking. Not because I feel I must in any way justify my choices to you but because it's a discussion which I think warrants some further examination. Oh, and I thought of an analogy, albeit one involving artificial limbs. After all, I do hate letting an analogy go to waste; think of all those starving blog posts.

Here goes:

Supposing you were just about to climb Everest, and then you fell and broke your leg. Suddenly, the climb is pretty much out of the question. Sure, you could in theory have a go, but that would be crazy, right? I mean, it wouldn't do your leg any good and it would hamper your already somewhat tentative chances of making it to the top. But all of that is kind of irrelevant. It's not even a question of how much further damage you might do. Your leg is broken. Why are we even discussing whether it is possible to climb Everest?

Legs can heal, of course, if you wait. But that might hamper your chances, too. You're not getting any younger after all, and your leg might not ever be as strong as it was. Or with the passage of time, you might decide you want to do something else besides climb Everest.

There is one rather drastic option and that is to amputate the leg immediately. They can do wonderful things with prosethetics nowadays, you know, and if you're willing to deal with the present hassle of going through the surgery, the therapy, and the search for a proper replacement, then your chances of success are pretty damn good! Huzzah! Everest awaits!

Except on balance, you realise kind of like your leg, broken or not. OK, so it's looking oogy right now, but actually, you're sort of attached to it and you'd like to see if it can get better, at least for awhile longer, before you lop it off entirely. You also realise that when it comes right down to it, Everest is high, cold and pretty fucking scary. That the leg- breaking has wounded you perhaps a little bit deeper than you initially thought and you're not sure you are up for the fresh trauma of an amputation. And really, wouldn't it be nice not to think about any of this crap right now but to just sit down, have a nice cup of tea and perhaps do a bit of knitting.

Hmm. OK, so having written all that down, maybe it's a crappy analogy after all. I guess the point is I'm not quite ready to consign my relationship with E. to the bin solely so I can look to meet someone else with whom I want to have children, who also wants to have them with me, and with whom I will actually manage to pull it off. I might consign him for other reasons, of course, and end up on my own. Naturally, one of my criteria for a new partner would be that children could be part of the equation. But, no, I'm not going to prioritise that search over everything else. If it ends up being too late for me, so be it.

I don't think that means I am necessarily choosing "a relationship" over having children. I'm more saying that for me, unless I am in a strong relationship, I don't want to even consider adding children to the mix. For the avoidance of doubt, I am absolutely not interested in being a single mother. I hope you understand, that is in no way casting aspersions or judgement on other people who choose that route- but for me, no.

Anyway, listen, when I said that I can foresee as far as next Tuesday, I really meant it. I might change my mind about everything I have said above at any point. Watch this space.

Make mine a double

I'd like to give you a proper update about the doings here at the Barn, but we continue to flail wildly in a state of unholy flux. Nothing is really clear yet, and it seems to change from day to day. We're splitting up! He's moving out! No, wait, he's not, or at least not yet! Maybe later! Or he might stay! But the relationship is still over! Or maybe not quite completely! We want to work it out! No, we don't! Oh, fuck this! Or, not!

Is it any wonder that my primary means of functioning these days is to ensure that there is constant supply of mulled wine or perhaps a tasty single malt whiskey? Since everything relating to Christmas continues to grate on my raw, flayed nerve-endings, it seems to be the only way to really dull the drumbeats of doom, at least temporarily.

Of course, this approach has its hazards as well. Yesterday, for example, I endured the tedium of a colleague's retiral do by quaffing three or four glasses of cheap but potent wine in quick succession. Yes, my stomach was completely empty. Yes, it did go straight to my pointy little head. Errmm, ish blurry nice to haff drinksh. Chrishmush naw soo bad, really.

Somehow during the course of the evening, I found myself undertaking to embark on the study of the Japanese language. I must have been pretty convincing in my enthusiasm for this plan (me? learn Japanese? who knew?)- since upon my arrival at my desk this morning, I found my colleague had considerately deposited a number of her own language tapes and books for my learning pleasure. Good grief. What have I gotten myself into?

Also, I've been noticing that notwithstanding all the comradely drink induced joie de vivre, people are generally so much more sympathetic and understanding of heartbreak and relationships woes than they are of the pain of infertility. I suppose that's hardly surprising, really- most people can relate to have one's heart spattered all over the tarmac at some point in their life, whereas the fine subtleties of the Dance of the UltraSound Wand are not so easy to comprehend. I don't even need to go into the detail of my troubles at home; the mere mention of any stress on that front, and folks start patting me like a sick puppy. There, there dear. There, there.

It's all much appreciated, of course. But the bottom line is I have been having problems with E. for, oh, about five minutes; as opposed to the relentless torture of infertility which has lasted for at least the last year and a half, and during which time nobody particularly gave much of a flying fuck.

Wee dram, anyone? Make mine a double.

The Difficult Thing

I'm out of the bath and into my fluffy slippers and cashmere "sleepy pants", as they are referred to in this house. Shall we talk some more? Oh yes, let's do.

I should say that one of the reasons I was more than a little hesitant about discussing what is going on is because E. knows about this blog now. And while I don't think he's reading it, or is even particularly interested in what I say here, I somehow think it would be extremely counterproductive to our fragile equilibrium if he were to see me spilling the nitty gritty of all our very private stuffus into the gaping maw of the Internets.

So I will try to exercise good judgment on that score and keep it fairly general, if possible. Along those lines, constructive comments are always welcomed, but I will exercise editorial discretion and delete anything I feel is inappropriately nasty. [Editor's note: Of course, these ground rules may be revisited in the event of a break-up, in which case I will be stacking a set of pitchforks by the door and letting you have at him. Heh heh heh.]

Those caveats in place, I must tell you: infertility, and all it brings with it, is in my opinion not the main cause of my current relationship woes. I have now realised that the problems- which are more to do with intimacy and commitment- have always been there, coiling in a dark sludgy oilslick under our feet. Unfortunately, until now I just chose to ignore it.

And that was actually quite easy to do. Because in fact, the whole challenge of trying to have a baby has probably helped mask those underlying difficulties for some time. You see, I truly believed that although E. didn't want to get married, that he was still fully committed to me, and to us, in all the other important ways. We bought a flat together, and although he didn't live here seven days a week, I thought this place was considered home. We had a number of shared goals and plans for the future, not all of which were baby related. Our lives meshed with each others in a thousand ways, large and small, as is natural when you build a full-fledged partnership with someone over time.

Then of course, there was the baby thing. I never even questioned his commitment to me once that began, because until the IVF failed, we seemed to be so much on the same page about it. We wanted a baby, so we would do whatever was needed. And I never for one minute imagined that he would put me through something like IVF if he wasn't sure he loved me and wanted to be with me.

I know if you asked E. what was going on, he would tell you: he did want all those things. He was committed, or at least, he thought he was. But then something changed. For one thing, he moved in. All of a sudden, "Sweet Committed E." has been replaced by "Confused Thrashing Manbeast". Also known as "I Guess I Don't Know What I Want After All E."

Meanwhile, I was merrily traipsing down the rose-strewn path, thinking that despite not having the family we hoped for, other nice things could be put in place to at least attempt to compensate for that particular disappointment. Thinking that at least I still had the love of my life by my side. Therefore, imagine my ugly surprise when, with no warning whatsoever, on bedding down one night with Sweet Committed, I discovered I had woken up to Confused Thrashing Manbeast.

I believe the person I love is still in there somewhere. I see signs of him from time to time. But there are days when I am really not sure he is ever fully coming back. And the difficult thing is not knowing, all things considered, how long I should wait, hoping for that to happen.

The Hassle Factor

Whew. We do have a lot to talk about. This might run on for a couple of posts, so pull up a seat and pour yourself a tasty margarita or other cocktail of choice while I try to set my world to rights a little.

Firstly, I can assure you that tempting as the offer of having E. run over with BHM's truck may be, we are both still in one piece. In fact, I am doing surprisingly OK, generally. There is a zesty autumnal tang in the air, and I am suddenly feeling alive to the possibilities that this time of year seems to suggest to me.

Now. Many of you, in your comments, queried precisely what E. meant when he said that pursuing further fertility treatment was "too much hassle right now". Such a snippy little word, "hassle", isn't it? And note my continued use of the phrase "right now", which to my mind is a important and significant qualification to any bold statements made at any point about what we should or should not do.

One thing to bear in mind here is that with E., we are dealing with a particularly tricky species of man-thing. Namely, the red-blooded hominus caledonius, otherwise known as the Scottish male. Take your usual brand of uncommunicative, inarticulate and emotionally closed off male, and multiply it to the power of forty-two.

E., I think it is fair to say, has a lot on his proverbial plate. Leaving aside all the IVF stuff, he's just moved in with me permanently and full time, a first in the course of our long relationship. There's still stuff everywhere and nowhere to put it, because we suddenly realise this flat is too small and we will have to move again. Hurrah! Won't that be fun. And not only has he changed jobs, but he's taken a potentially risky career step. We both felt it was the right decision, but which at least in the short term is bound to increase the overall sense of that day to day fuckityfuck feeling.

It may sound like I am defending E., and in some ways I am. Because aside from anything else, I'm perfectly alive to the fact that infertility is a soul-sucking drain on a person's time and energy. And there's a huge part of me that is also screaming "Enough! Enough! "- though more on that in another post. But ultimately, the thing is, I respect E.. I respect the fact that we have both been through the mill this year (although it's me who has bourne the brunt of it, a fact he accepts). I appreciate that the thought of heaping more poo on the steaming pile of turds that is our experience of trying to have a child is an awful thought, even before you take into account all the adjustments to other major life changes and stressors. .

And I do believe, if you strip away some of my initial anger at the way he put it, that he didn't and doesn't mean to be hurtful. I think, as many commenters suggested, there is a message underneath the word "hassle", which encapsulates so so much. It was JennaM who really hit the nail on the head. Yes, I think that may be exactly what he meant: "hard...tired...can't we just pretend for awhile." Or maybe that is what I am capable of hearing, because it's what I myself think sometimes. Plus, he hates more than anything to see me crying and upset, and nothing brings out the weepy creepy in me like infertility related stuff.

Lastly, without going into the detail, I don't know if I can properly convey to you exactly what was involved with my intended Plan. But trust me, it is daunting- even for someone of my exceptional organisational tenacity, and even if he had agreed to it, I don't know if I could have actually pulled it off. It's so compelling to just put down this heavy load we have been carrying, and here I am suggesting what for us seems like the Mount Everest of fertility treatment.

Truth is, I think I could have sold it to him better. What I said was something like, "Honey, I think we should do international IVF somewhere very far away. We have to make two trips, the first of which is to basically re-do all our initial testing for no apparent reason but at vast expense. Oh, and then I have to stay out there the whole cycle, because there is no prospect of any local monitoring. Ah, and the total cost? Well, my sweet, I've made a few calls and if we both sell a kidney, it's totally affordable! OK? You with me on this?"

And then when he said no, I burst into hysterical sobs and fits of rage. Mmmmm. Perhaps not the most convincing sales pitch ever.

OK, so, that's one angle to all of this. Now, just to give a balanced view of where my head is at, in my next post I'll talk about why maybe we should run E. over with BHM's truck after all.

Driving, dancing and failing to communicate

We had quite an enjoyable time at the wedding this weekend. The weather wasn't great, but apart from that, the happy event itself was- well- happy. The bride was glowing, but not yet showing, to my secret inner relief. It transpired they had actually been trying for eighteen months, which softened my mood toward the "news". My mood, and indeed my general ability to stand upright, were then softened even further by the night-long free bar at the reception.

The only downside was the sheer amount of driving to get there and back- five hours each way. I had rather envisaged that we would use the time to have a long, heartfelt discussion about our lives, our careers, our impending IVF.

However, I had forgotten my famous status as the Passenger Most Likely to Fall Asleep on Long Car Journeys- or else lapse into a sort of comatose trance as the miles pass by. I don't know what it is about being a car that makes me so...sleepy. It's always been that way. Since poor E. was doing all the driving, I did do my best to at least try to stay conscious. But my inherent travel-induced doziness meant in-depth conversation was somewhat limited. Instead we just played Rufus Wainwright over and over again, drinking endless cups of coffee from the thermos.

We did have a short discussion about why we were driving in the first place, as opposed to flying. It's really not a very interesting conversation, but I'll tell you anyway.

"How come we didn't fly down?" E. asked.

"Because it was too expensive. We left it too late to book it. However, if we had booked it when we first received the invitation, it would have been cheaper than a Starbucks latte," I replied.

"You never told me that it was cheap to fly when the invitation came."

"I did. I checked it right away and I told you. I told you, and you said you had check your desk diary and think about whether we could go away that weekend. And by the time you made up your mind that we could, it was more expensive."

"No, you never told me about the cheapness," E said.

"Did so. "

"Did not. You failed to communicate that."

"Yes, I did tell you."

"Did not."

And so on. See? I told you it was very boring. I think I may have even fallen asleep halfway through that conversation, that's how dull it was.

Apparently, I also "failed to communicate" a number of other things over the weekend, such as that we needed to get our stub stamped at the hotel every time we went in and out of the parking garage if we wanted a discount on the fee.

When I was not "failing to communicate", I was "failing to retain key information", such as the location of the pub where people were gathering before the start of the wedding. Why it should have been my sole responsibility to retain and communciate all this vital information remains something of an unfathomable mystery. Makes me think we have a few things to work on in that department before the IVF fun and games start in June.

Lastly, I did tell a fellow wedding guest about the IVF. It was an ideal opportunity, actually. I really just wanted to hear myself say the words out loud, to see how I felt and what the reaction might be. But I also wanted to try it out on somebody who I probably wouldn't see again in the near future, or possibly, see ever again.

It was all very anti-climactic really. He nodded in a detached, slightly sympathetic way- as if I had just announced that my pantyhose were cutting off the blood supply to my lower extremities- before returning to his beer-soaked rambling about the demise of his relationship. Just as I was about to seriously consider impaling myself on the leftover toothpicks from the buffet table to break up the monologue, E. rescued me for a giddy twirl around the dance floor.

And suddenly, happily, no words were needed.

In which I doth gently jest

It's shaping up to be a busy week here. We have our consult at the O.C. on Thursday, and then on Saturday we have to drive half the length of Great Britain to go to a wedding. I hope we can manage to hear the happy couple reciting their vows over the sound of shotguns cocking. The bride, of course, is pregnant.

Speaking of weddings, I was cheered up no end by the recent arrival of what has got to be the most absurd wedding invitation in the history of the world. I would stress that in the normal run of things, I would not stoop to snark on someone's nuptial invites. But in this case, Ye Who Invites Only One Half of a Long-Term and Very Committed Despite not Being Married Themselves Couple, Without So Much as Acknowledging the Existence of the Other Half, Deserves Ye to Be Mocked Forthwith.

I wasn't invited, therefore I can mock. Please note, if you are especially fond of Tudor themed costume weddings, or indeed have held such an event yourself, you will probably be offended by what follows and should look away now.

The wedding invitation arrived in a sealing cardboard mailing tube. Upon wresting it forth, E. and I were immediately doused in some sort of patchouli scent. Rose petals flew out all over our clothes and the floor (which by the way, I had just swept). The invitation (FOR E. ONLY) was printed on an elaborate parchment scroll, letters penned in swirling calligraphy.

"The theme of the wedding is Tudor Henry (circa 1536)".

I just love that level of precision. It's not just Tudor, people, it's circa 1536. The year Henry VIII wooed and wed Jane Seymour! Also the year he executed Anne Boleyn so that he could marry Miss Seymour a mere 11 days after the sword falling on his former wife's neck. But let us not mention that little trifling unpleasantness. Nor let us dwell on the fact that, notwithstanding all the little ups and downs of 1536, Henry was not exactly what I would call a role model for marital bliss. No, let us move swiftly on to a happier topic- guest's attire.

"Guests are requested to wear attire ranging from an old monk's habit to elaborate titled gentry costumes. Please note, this is not a fancy dress party. Anyone wearing modern clothes will be the ODD one out". And no doubt pelted with tomatoes, or summarily beheaded for treason.

The bride-to-be kindly supplied a second scroll with some, um, suggested ideas for costumes. I particularly like the one labeled "waffles", supposedly meant to illustrate a scene of cozy medieval domesticity, but which will hopefully inspire someone to go dressed as a breakfast pastry.

."Entertainment will be typical of the period." What, public executions? Jousting? Groping of comely wenchs?

"Remember, it is probably not a good idea to wear your best, as there will be no napkins or tablecloths. Or plates." In other words, don your second-best Tudor frock, girls. We wouldn't want any unsightly stains down the front of our favourite ball gowns, would we? I am sure the monks in their old habits will be OK though.

This marvel of Tudor madness then concludes:

"We hope you will join us on our happy day blah blah, which is so many years in coming. Look foward to seeing you blah blah blah. The theme is to have fun blah blah blah. For those of you who were at my last wedding, it's 21 years and one day later."

Now, call me crazy, but I am sure somewhere in Emily Post's etiquette book, there is a rule about how one should refrain from sending wedding invitations which casually mention one's previous wedding. Just a hunch.

Sadly, E.'s suit of armour is at the drycleaners, so he'll just have to pass on the happy event. Of course, he is devastated to be missing out on the chance to partake of wine or beer served in his "very own souvenir tankard or goblet".

On the upside, in blogging about this, I came across a handy quiz to help ascertain which wife of Henry the Eighth I am, I am. According to the quiz results, the answer to this burning question is that I am Katherine Parr, a well-bred bookworm with a passion for handsome rogues.

You?

Update: For those of you who clicked the link earlier and thought to yourselves, "But where is the quiz? Yon quizzeth is not before mine eyes!" Well, I had the link slightly wrong. Pray forgive me. 'Tis fixed now. Proceedeth.

Can I make an observation?

In this house, it is an ill-wind that brings the words "Can I make an observation?"

I don't know why the observer never learns that in uttering that phrase, he or she might as well grab a sharp fiery stick and prod the soft underbelly of the observee.

"Can I make an observation" usually means: " I am about to say something I don't think you really want to hear, but I am going to say it anyway, although I will try to frame it in neutral tones so I sound more like an interested passer-by than an accusatory asshole, even though in this context I really am an accusatory asshole."

It doesn't help when the observer picks a particularly bad moment to start making such "observations". Take this morning, for example. There I was, standing in front of the closet doing that work-wear crisis thing, feeling especially bloated and cranky.

Actually, bloated doesn't begin to cover it. I feel like every ounce of moisture in my body has suddenly migrated to my lower belly region where it has congealed in one gigantic pooch of misery. On days like this, where comfy boy-jeans or oversized combats are out of the question, all I can do is scrabble around the wardrobe for one of my pairs of drawstring fat pants.

I have two pairs of these trousers, both of which are vile and heinous. The hems are too too long and drag on the ground. Also, I was finding that the drawstring tended to make my shirt bunch up in the front in a weird position over the pooch. So I cut the string off altogether, and now the pants just sort of hang in a limp manner below around my waist region. I say "waist region" because I am short waisted to the point that for all intents and purposes that part of my body barely exists.

Anyway, there I am, late, blemished, waterlogged and crabbit. I ask you, is this a good moment for E. to come up to me and say, "Can I make an observation?" No. No, it really is the worst possible choice of timing.

"What?" I snapped.

"This is a really messy house. I mean, there is stuff everywhere all the time. It's dusty. The counter tops are covered with stuff. It's messy."

"Well, I guess the fucking CLEANING FAIRY hasn't shown up this week then," I roared as E. beat a hasty retreat into the shower. I flipped him the bird, threw on my fat pants and stormed out of the house, wearing too much lipstick to compensate for the appalling state of my skin.

I've been stewing and mulling over about this all day. I know that there was probably nothing personal in the comment- E. was not intending to cast aspersions on my housekeeping skills, but GGGRRRRR AARRRGH, it irritated me. Especially since I can't remember the last time I saw him with a feather duster in his hand. Especially since I went into the kitchen straight after and it was all his crap all over the counter! Especially since, in all honesty, not a messy house. It's really not.

What this makes me think about is "The Deal". You know, the way couples negotiate the division of household labor, or even labour as we call it here, adorning it with an extra "u" for good measure. Everybody has to adapt to their particular circumstances, and almost everyone I know does their best to figure out what works best for them as a team, as a pair.

Our deal is fairly well set. We never sat down and agreed it- it just happened, due to our strange living situation. We both work demanding, full time jobs. E. does most of the grocery shopping (because he usually has the car) and most of the cooking because he likes it (and because despite my best intentions, I am really crap at it). He does all the chores involving the other flat. At the moment he also does almost all the commuting back and forth. And I do pretty much everything else here. The laundry. The bills. The ironing. The dishes. All the cleaning.

But sometimes, when I am having a very busy week at work, stuff slips. Only human, I tell myself. Despite best superhuman efforts, still only human.

I really would like to figure out a way to balance the juggling act a little better- to take better care of myself, of E., of us, and of our home. I can't see how I can do that unless we try a radical shift, like me working part-time. I'm just not ready to do that yet, for all sorts of reasons.

I suspect a more immediate solution might involve E. picking up his own goddamn socks for a change, but in all fairness to him, I think he has a lot on his plate as well. Which means something else might have to give. But what? There is not much give left, for either of us. At the end of the day, most of my remaining energy is sucked dry by the spectre of infertility. Leaving me exhausted and indifferent to the invading hoards of dust bunnies, those wispy barbarians now laying siege to my home.