Friday, August 19, 2016

An ode to Burns

Or as I call it, Mecca. Oh sure, I know what you’re all saying right now, the hoi polloi chiming in as they will. “But Miss Tasha, there’s supposed to be only ONE Mecca – that’s kind of the point – but here you are with all these Meccas: Cedarburg, Superdawg, Farm & Fleet, The Manor, and now Burns.”

To which I say, yes yes yes, I hear you, and I acknowledge that you’ve said something.

So, moving on. I set out knowing full well that I may meet the icy cold Specter of Death on today’s ride, given that there’s apparently one water tower in all of eastern Oregon, and it’s about 591 miles from Burns. So be it. These are the kinds of sacrifices I bravely make, dear friends, if only to serve as a lesson to others. The day starts off on a good note though, as I’m trying to get onto the main road (“Main St.”) so that I can head north on my route.

I’m coming off a side street, so I wait for a pickup truck to pass. The driver stops. He looks at me. I look at him. He looks at me. I look at him. Stalemate. I wave him on through. He looks at me, then waves me on through. We could be here all day at this point. Stubborn though I am, I decide to graciously let him have the win, and forge on.

Soon enough, I find my road – 395, aka “Tarpman” Highway. Yes, this is the road where that dumbass Lavoy Finicum got himself shot and killed during the criminal takeover of Malheur Refuge. If you read between the lines, you can probably tell that I don’t give a shit that he met his demise; if you’re (like him) yelling at law enforcement things like “shoot me! Go ahead and shoot me now, you’ll never bring me in!” and then reach for a gun, well, you’ve pretty much decided your own fate right there. So it’s a bit of Snacktivist history that I feel compelled to check out.

Plus there’s wind from the north, so coming back I should have a tailwind. Win-win!

As I’m biking along, I notice a chill in the air, which makes me think I should have worn long sleeves. Clearly it’s going to be a cool day! I then notice a strange sign: “Scenic Devine Canyon.” Canyon? No one told me there would be canyons. But really, how hard can it be – that’s a bit of up and down, right?

5 miles in

Okay, so, I might have erred there, as “canyon” in this context means you’re going just uphill for miles and miles. Well, it can’t last TOO long – it’s not like this is a mountain pass in the Alps, haha – and hey, at least it’s scenic. I seem to be in Malheur Forest territory, so it’s lovely. Trees, and as our erstwhile pal Mitt Romney would say, they’re the right height! Whee, I love eastern Oregon!

10 miles in

Still climbing.  How the hell did those FBI agents handle this? Oh right, they were in cars. Fucking MENSA members slackers.

20 miles in

Still. Climbing. Really? REALLY?

63 miles in

I think perhaps I was once not on a bike that kept climbing and climbing into the clouds, maybe. It’s all fuzzy now. That could be a lie, and I might have always been on this bike, always. Pulling over to regain my slight hold on sanity, as I ponder all the ways in which I’m an idiot, I notice a pickup truck slowing down and the driver looking over to see if I’m okay. I give him the jauntiest of waves, to indicate that I’m fine, just being the usual dumbass riding my bike in the desert on a blazing hot day. As I do.

249 miles in

Because yes, did I mention yet that it’s hot as hell, and I’m running low on water? Burns seems to fall into the typical Oregon bullshit, where it’s chilly enough in the morning that you pull on a hoodie, and 3 hours later when you go back outside, you look like a moron because it’s 98 degrees. How the hell did the FBI agents stand this? Oh yeah, they were here in winter. Fucking totally hot smarter-than-me-guys pansy-asses.

1,062 miles in

There’s a sign up ahead. Let’s see. Oh, of course, it’s telling me the altitude of the summit. This was a damn mountain after all. Argh, foiled again! I had wanted to go to the TroutLand camping ground, or whatever it’s called, but this calls to mind my fruitless gas station quest, and I decide to turn around while I can. It’ll be a straight shot back; I’ll zip on through, since now I’m really low on water.

Heading back

Hey, what’s this? “Mountain Forest Road #31.” This sounds incoherent and yet intriguing. And best of all, it’s a beautifully paved road! Sure, I have to try to not break an ankle as I cross a cattle panel, but still, how can I not check this out?

I’m zipping along on this gorgeous road, shaded by forest, smooth as butter, and no cars. Nada. Zilch. It’s not hilly, a few gentle up and downs, and seems to go on for miles and miles. It feels like being the only person on all the rides at Disneyworld.

I am suspicious.

It’s clear this is some kind of government conspiracy plot masterminded by….uhh….by the AGENDA 21 cabal, who are….uhh…….oh fuck it, I don’t have the sort of idiocy that one needs to come up with some half-assed ridiculous theory on why there are so many gorgeous smooth roads around here. Maybe Trevor the Hot Road Paving Cowboy takes an inordinate amount of pride in his work. Yeah, let’s go with that. I also soon realize – and not for the first time – what a dumbass I am, because I was running out of water a while ago, and the Water Fairy hasn’t suddenly shown up to put a clear mineral spring in my path. I am disappointed, but we soldier on, parched.

The road back is indeed ALL DOWNHILL THANK YOU SWEET JESUS. I have just one thought as I’m cruising back, and that is this: I will be royally pissed off if some asshat in their car plows into me, because I have earned every damn inch of this downhill. Luckily I remain unscathed, so no one has to feel my wrath.

But speaking of cars: while there haven’t been many, there have been some, mostly pickup trucks, large trucks, and campers. Without exception, every truck has given me a wide berth on the road, basically getting into the opposite lane. The three vehicles that didn’t give me any room? Two cars and some douchebag in a gold-colored SUV, who flies past me leaving around 3 inches of space. Lest we stereotype about drivers in trucks or pickups. Oh, and those pickups? I lose track as to how many of them are TOTING HUGE TUBS OF GAS. I kid you not. Talk about conspiracies.

I finally get back to town, having sucked down my last bit of water, and find myself wondering why Burns isn’t the cycling destination it deserves to be. The roads are incredible – by far better than Wisconsin or Illinois – and there’s little traffic and gorgeous scenery. Oh sure, it’s a desolate inhospitable wasteland environment, but you’re telling me that’s not the case in Wisconsin? And okay, there’s the occasional shootout, but where isn’t there?

Tomorrow, more riding of course, heading south this time. Apparently that way there’s “more of nothing,” according to my wonderful hosts. Godspeed.

On the (desolate) road again.....

Oh sure, I know I have a lot to catch up on, from the tale of Harmilda, who now resides on the Manor estate, to of course RAGBRAI, and the myriad of lessons learned there. And those tales will be forthcoming, my dear nineteens of readers, never fear. But first, this: a TALE OF DRAMATIC STUPIDITY from which I may not emerge alive!

 See, I’ve learned that’s what all the hip bloggers do these days, to keep people on the edge of their seats. Not write about things weeks after the fact, when everyone knows that things turned out hunky-dorey rather than argle-bargle, but rather IN THE MOMENT WHEN ANYTHING CAN STILL HAPPEN.

 So. That brings us to me, right now, sitting in a gorgeous loft in Burns, Oregon, in preparation for some crazy-ass bike riding this weekend. Here I must digress and state that the fact that I even made it here should be accomplishment enough for the weekend. We all know that my true love involves riding my bike in the most middle-of-nowhere places possible. And sad to say, I have yet to find anything like that around Silverton, that’s at all like my beloved Cornlandia, with nothing but corn fields and very few cars for hours and hours. That helps explain (a bit) why this afternoon I was driving off to Burns, which purportedly is the very definition of middle-of-nowhere TumbleweedLandia, or so I’ve been told.

 This started to become evident the further east I got, as Snow-White-esque forestry gave way to scrub-brushy desert as far as the eye could see. I realized suddenly why the pilgrims or pioneers or whoever the hell forged west via cover wagon made it all the way to Silverton and The Manor; it’s because they took one look at the scrub-brushy vast swathes of land and said “Oh hells no, we’re noping out of this bullshit. Hither.” That might be an exact quote, in fact.

The pilgrims clearly faced the same problem I did as well, and let this be a lesson to all of you, my gentle readers, who dare to venture off into the Here Be Dragons parts of the country. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, ALWAYS HAVE A FULL GAS TANK. I don’t care how you make this happen – perhaps toting along a few drums of gas attached to a hitch? Something, just make it so. Because otherwise, the following will unfold: you drive through Bend, note that you have just under a half tank of gas, and even though you’re always cautious about such things, you think that’ll definitely be enough to get to the next gas station. Because even places like Missouri and Nebrahoma warn you if the next one is more than, say, 50 miles away.

 Off you go, noting that the next town is a mere 20 miles due easterly: Millikan, or some such shit. 20 miles later, you see that said town once consisted of a single building, the Millikan Market, which is now a boarded up shell. No matter, the town of Brothers is only 24 miles away. You get to Brothers, and it’s a slightly wider road, with TWO buildings. And…..both are closed. Including the gas station. Now you start to panic slightly, but lo, what’s this? Yes, the good people of Brothers have, on the former gas station, placed a helpful sign! “NO GAS HERE.” But then arrows, one pointing east, the other west. “GAS 44 MILES, GAS 20 MILES.” The way I’m going is 20 miles. Huzzah! I’m saved! 

Except I’m not. Because I get to the next wide stretch in the road, and that building is closed too. There’s a gas pump that seems like it might be functional and a building behind it that says “OPEN” – but it’s not. Hmm.

 Now, I always say, my mom didn’t raise many stupid children. The next town is 44 miles away, and while I might make another 10-20, ain’t no way in hell I’ll get to 44. Rather than running out of gas on the side of a desolate (this is the only word that truly describes Eastern Oregon) windswept road, I figure I might as well just hang out in what passes for a semblance of civilization, the “town” of Hampton or whatever it is, with my snacks and water, and call AAA from here. But then I see a sign on the door of the not-open building – a phone number. Could it be? I call, and get an answering machine. I then notice the faint scratched out number with another one written in lightly, and try THAT number. SOMEONE ANSWERS IT’S A MIRACLE! The guy sounds like I just woke him up, and says he’ll have to drive “a ways” to get to the gas station, and according to the sign gas is $4.50 a gallon, but FUCK IT I’M SAVED!

 He actually shows up about 10 minutes later, and is lovely albeit a bit taciturn. He makes some mention of “the new pumps, which is why the gas is so expensive,” and I reassure him he could be charging gold ingots and that would be okay too.

Me: I’m just glad you’re out here, for the idiot tourists and travelers like me.
Gas Guy: Well….I don’t like to call people that exactly….
Me: That’s okay, I just did it for you. Let’s be honest here.
GG: Ayup.

I get my gas, and let me tell you people, it’s a NEW DAY in town! Woo hoo! I can turn on the AC in the car! I can pass slow trucks chugging along without worrying about burning too much gas by revving up! LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL! I LOVE EASTERN OREGON!

 Uhh, so, I finally make it to Burns – though I’ll note that the town before Burns did NOT have gas either, making it something like 438 miles between gas stations (I’m not so mathy, but that sounds right). I meet Jen, of the family from whom I’m renting this incredible loft apt. for the weekend, and we chat about bike riding around here. Because if gas stations are 631 MILES APART, what hope do I have of finding water on my crazy-ass long rides?

According to Jen, slim to none. Coincidentally, when I picked up my bike this morning after its mid-season tune-up, bike guy told me he was unable to put the extra water bottle holder on my bike since my seatpost isn’t round. To recap: almost ran out of gas, will only have 2 water bottle cages on my rides in 90+ degree weather. In the desert. In the middle of nowhere. I hope these aren’t harbingers of things to come. To which I say my usual: fuck it.

 Though somehow this doesn’t exactly sound like the greatest recipe for success……

Monday, June 20, 2016

What the world.....needs now......

People seem to think that just because I’ve been slaving away for my Corporate Overlords #layinglow, this means that somehow the usual Don’t Fuck With Me rules no longer apply.


Not so, my friends, decidedly not so.

This was brought to bear last week at the rezzy, where The Kone and I continue to go every day, defying the Corporate Overlords and their requirements of “work” and an “8-hour day” or some such nonsense. As if royalty (Kone) and perfection (me) could ever thusly be contained.


We went on our usual walkie, and as is our occasional habit when we come out of the woods, I let HRH off the leash so that he can go chase the duckies down by the piers. He runs down, bravely barks and barks, they pretend to be scared, and then immediately swim back as soon as Kone looks away. Win-win for everyone. Except for this time, when Kone went trotting down one of the piers and sniffed at the stuff that some fisherman had spread all over the damn pier. Fine, whatever. While he was doing that, I noticed a surly-looking guy in a wetsuit, and had the following conversation with him:

Me: How’s the water?
Surly Guy: Frigid.
Me: What’s the temp?
SG: I don’t know, 58 maybe.

I snort, of course. 58? As in a barely-wetsuit-legal 58? “Sounds pretty warm to me,” I say under my breath. And YES it was under my breath – because in retrospect I wish I had guffawed and said it really loudly. Seriously though, try swimming in Lake Michigan when it’s 48 degrees, and then we’ll talk cold, wimpy man.

Then Kone went to the other pier, and in the meantime Surly Guy had gone down to the end of it. Kone had barely even gotten to the end, when Surly Guy opened his mouth.

SG: And all dogs are supposed to be on leashes. Get him away from me.


Well. Needless to say, the claws of Momma Bear are now out, because hell hath no fury like me when someone disses my happy little boy. But first, this leash bullshit.

Me: No they’re not.
SG: Yes they are.
Fisherman Dude pipes up: Yes they are.
SG: Yes they are.
Me: No they’re not. But you know what? Fine. Have me arrested. Really, go ahead! Call the police! BE MY GUEST!

Now of course I have no idea about the actual leash law here, but everyone has their dogs running around willy-nilly and it’s never a problem. As I’m yelling for Surly Asshole Guy to call the cops, I’m walking up the slope to where the cars are parked, and where there are signs for the reservoir: rules, a map, etc. I’m staring at these and reading them, next to the car of Guy Who’s There Every Day. I have no idea what his actual name is, but he’s this older guy who parks there pretty much every day and just hangs out. Super nice guy. Let’s call him Steve.

Steve: Hey, how’s it going? What’s going on?
Me: Oh, just reading the sign here, to see if it says anything about leashes.
Steve: Is that what that guy was yelling about?
Me: Yep, can you imagine? Yelling at Kone! And gee, lookie here, nothing about leashes. Imagine that.

Naturally, I turn around and take a few steps down the ramp, towards the piers where Surly Guy still is.

Me: Hey, guess what! There’s nothing at all here about leashes! So really, you can just FUCK RIGHT OFF!

My voice carried nicely, so let’s just say this might have garnered a few stares from the other people at the rezzy, fishing and such. As if I care. Steve and I start chatting again, and of course he’s totally with me on this, when Surly Guy starts walking towards the parking lot.

Me: Maybe you should take a look at the sign! Oh, if you can read, that is, if that’s not too tricky for you.
SG: Your dog was bothering me anyway.
Me: He didn’t even go near you. So hey, why don’t you go fuck yourself?

Surly Guy has nothing to say to that, and sullenly walks past us, glaring but silent. Steve and I then spend 10 minutes talking about how horrible people are, how they apparently exist just to try to bring people down, how unnecessary that is, that life’s too short, etc. After I say bye to him and walk to my car, I notice that Surly Guy is next to his car, still changing out of his wetsuit. I think to myself, hmm, maybe he heard some of our conversation, and realized that yes, he IS being a total dick for no reason. And will become a better person for it. Yes, I’m sure that’s what will happen, a total epiphany on his part. Totally.

A few days later

Right. So. I’m back at the rezzy, and see my pal Steve and start chatting with him.

Steve: Hey, I have to tell you, after you left the other day…
Me: Oh yeah, the day with the asshole guy.
Steve: Yeah. So a little bit later, a cop shows up!
Me: What??
Steve: That guy flagged him down on the road! Complained about you! The cop drove around, looking for you probably, then drove up here and started reading the sign. And I told him there was nothing there about leashes.
Me: Haha, exactly!
Steve: Then he said something about how even if that’s the case, it’s in the city ordinance. And I told him, but it’s not on the sign. At all. And if they want to enforce it, they should put it on the sign.
Me: Uhh yeah, I think I’m safe.
Steve: Pretty much.

So much for that brief shining hopeful moment for humanity. Sigh.

Thursday, November 12, 2015

Rage of angels


The worst Friday of my life, ie the day I learned that my future child died and my dreams along with him, will be written about in another blog post, my dear nineteens of readers, but suffice it to say that it was only through the support of my wonderful friends and family with their Fuck cake and alien toys for Kone that I managed to not walk in front of a truck that day. Said truck probably would have just winged me and sent me to the curb and drove on, leaving me with a broken hip or something else equally inconvenient, because that’s just how my fucking life works.

But that’s for another day. This post will instead focus on what happens when one just doesn’t give a fuck anymore. It’s really kind of glorious.


I decide to go to meet some of my Canning Posse at an estate sale, that purportedly has canning jars. Of course I’m running late thanks to the fact that coffee shoppes in Silverton open at 8AM, ie a ridiculously late hour, so by the time I get there Deirdre has snagged the jars, though I get a few of the cool blue ones. Then I’m bitter because Liesl sees the cooking pots before I do, dammit, but I manage to find some baking sheets and am walking around with them, when I turn to look at something else in the kitchen.

The pan slightly brushes against a woman, and I politely say “Oh, excuse me.” At which point she snidely says to me “It’s really tight in here, so…….,” clearly implying that I need to be more careful and apparently bumped into her on purpose.


Well. I turn around slowly and look at her with a no-nonsense incredulous look.

Me, loudly: Did I not say “excuse me”? Did you not hear me?
Lady, suddenly meek: Umm, yes…..

The room has gone completely silent. A room full of estate sale fanatics, and you could hear a pin drop, and everything is frozen in time.

Me: Wasn’t that good enough for you? Do you think I bumped into you on purpose?
Lady: Umm, no……
Me: Okay then.

I then turn around to look at a cabinet of ceramic chickens, and state to Liesl, “I can’t believe how bitchy some people can be.”

No one came near me the rest of the time I was there.

I did manage to find some cool things, but then I walk into a bedroom to see this fuckery:

Now I ask you, fellow readers, when in the entire history of time have you seen a freaking unicorn clock, completely with a baby unicorn? Perhaps never? Shall we try never for the win? I look at it in rage and point it out to Liesl, as I’m putting my things down to get my phone out. Because really, even I can't make this shit up.

Liesl: Umm, no, you….
Me: OH no, I am most DEFINITELY taking a picture of THIS fucking kick in the teeth. What the fuck? Who does this? Since when have you EVER seen a fucking UNICORN CLOCK WITH A BABY UNICORN?????

The room has suddenly emptied out. I get my picture of this effrontery and leave before I kill someone over a chipped sugar dish or something equally inane, because stay out of my way people or you will feel my wrath.

On the way home, I decide hey, since I’m in Salem, I might as well stop at the vaunted yet secret fig tree! This is on public property, that of, well, something very much like the Oregon Dept. of Animal Husbandry and Green Things. Not quite that – I don’t want to give up any secrets of figgery – but close enough.

I get to said location, and merrily start picking figs. No one is around since this is near a government building, and of course they don’t work on weekends. The tree is monstrously huge, and the figs are plentiful. When I go to my car to get another plastic bag, as I do I see someone walking from the outside of the building to the parking lot. Because I’m still nice to people until they cross me, I call out a hello to this woman in some kind of uniform, and jokingly say “I’m just picking some figs, that’s okay, right?”

Jokingly, because who the fuck would have a problem with this?

Her: What’s that?
Me: Figs, picking, me.
Her: What? Here?
Me: Umm, yes.
Her: Do you work here? Do you have permission? This is private property.


Me: It’s PUBLIC property, my taxes pay for this.
Her: You can’t just take things from here.
Me: It’s a fig tree, the figs are rotting with no one picking them.
Her: People can walk around but they can’t take things.
Me: Well. Why don’t you just go ahead and have me arrested then?

And I start walking away.

Me: I’m just going to walk around now!
Her: Ma’am! Ma’am! What do you think you’re doing?
Me: Walking around on taxpayer property! Why, and I might pick a few more figs!
Her: Ma’am! You can’t do that!

I wave my bag at her and walk back to the fig tree, and keep picking. A little later I think to myself damn, it would suck to be arrested today, I have a lot of canning to do. Plus I figure I have enough figs at that point, so I wander back to my car, where I see her talking to someone on a phone outside the building.

Me, waving at her: Are they coming to arrest me? Because that would be awesome!

She just looks at me as she keeps talking, and I can tell from the look on her face that whoever is on the other end of the phone thinks she’s a loon.

Me: What’s your name? I’m going to call and report you for being rude to the public!

I drive off, figs in hand, waving at her out the window. Because fuck her.


Sunday morning dawns with….the toilet overflowing for no reason. Seriously. I pee, flush, the fucking thing overflows for no damn reason. I view this as being my George Bailey moment, where I ask for a sign, and this is what I get in return, my version of a punch to the mouth. I’m not sure if I’m more like George or Mary, the old maid closing up the library. Maybe both.

I then decide to go to whereverthehell Oregon to get glass French liter jars I see on Craigslist, even though I don’t have a particular use for them at the time, because what else the fuck all do I have going on? Nada. Well, other than canning every fruit within a 100-mile radius of Silverton. I tell Laura I’m heading out to get more jars to add to the billions I already have, and instead of getting the usual “you’re insane you know” from her, she just nods and says “Oh yeah, that’s a good idea.” She understands.

I get to said Bumblefuck location and hand over the cash to this woman, probably in her late 20s. There are 2 decent-sized boxes, and I ponder carrying them out to my car myself in one trip, down three flights of stairs.

Jar Lady: I could maybe help you with them.
Me: Oh, I think I can manage them myself.
JL: Oh sure, because you’re a hefty one aren’t you.


Nah. I contain my wrath at this sally, because the woman seems a bit…..special, or perhaps just French. Instead I think to myself, really fate? That’s the best you can do? I’m not even insulted, really, because what the fuck. That’s like hardly even trying. And I head out with my very cool jars that will soon likely hold fruity liqueurs. Because fuck it.

As I’m driving I wonder if the unicorn clock was a sign, to not give up hope, that I’m really actually pregnant, like in some Lifetime movie where everything is all magical and shiny and wonderful.

I am definitely not pregnant. BFU is dead.

Clearly my existence is more like a cautionary tale on A&E, where life is just all about how many times one can be kicked in the teeth and stomped on and crushed and pulverized into the ground, while fate laughs, merrily. Miss Tasha, you didn’t really think anything could actually work out for you for once, did you?

That day I start decorating The Manor for Halloween.

I fear the neighbors are starting to speak of me in hushed tones.

Friday, September 25, 2015


Confirmed negative.

I have no words.

I hate my life.

A long day's journey into madness

So, I was supposed to have my Frozen Embryo Transfer (FET) in August, ie the final step in BFU’s glorious carefree life of frozenness. I found a clinic in Chicago to do the 3-day ultrasound, since I was still there at the time, and all went well this time, ie no Fuckheads (aka polyps).

As fate would have it though, my ORM coordinator person Haley left me a detailed message as to what I should do upon returning to Oregon, and oddly enough, that message somehow went to some electronic voicemail box instead of my normal Voicemail app. A box that I’ve never used or accessed or called since I got my phone over 2 years ago. This mean that I had no way of getting back to that message…..and figured well, there must not have been anything critical.

Except there was, ie my need to actually come in for another US to test for ovulation before FET. Oops. This meant that my FET was pushed back to September, but this was okay, because that meant Dr. B. could do my transfer. Whee! It all seemed meant to be. I took it as a sign, clearly.

Wednesday, September 16th

BFU transfer day! I set out for ORM, and while I’m still in Silverton, I stop at the stoplight on Water St. where it intersects with C St. I’m behind one car at the light, a white Mercedes, and when it turned green, he went and then stopped abruptly. I of course thought, what the hell? A full second or two later, a car goes flying through the intersection on C street, down the freaking wrong side of the street. FLYING. Probably going around 60. I honestly have no idea how Mercedes guy even saw him coming - but if he hadn't and he and I had just gone ahead (as one innocently does at green lights), it would have looked like Armageddon on the road, and I'm pretty sure someone would have been killed. Probably me or Mercedes man. Holy. Shit.

When I relay this story to others, they point out that Mercedes guy was probably my guardian angel, and this makes sense to me. Fate is trying to protect me from being splattered across a road, so I’m obviously going to give birth to Jesus or something. Clearly.

Transfer goes well. BFU defrosted successfully! This seems like a great harbinger of success. Well, basically because if he hadn’t defrosted, it would have been game over pretty much right away. I think they just put him in the microwave on the “defrost” setting, and that seemed to work. Or at least that was how I understood it. The embryologist came in to report on this, and she told me that BFU looked “scrappy” and “feisty.” Okay, I might have said that, but I’m sure that’s what she was thinking.

That night

I’m supposed to be on bed rest today. Fine, I can handle one day without canning. Wait, what….bed rest tomorrow too? What fresh hell is this??

Thursday, September 17th

How does one define “rest” anyway? Isn’t it just a state of mind? Does one actually have to be prone to be resting? I say not. Rumor has it that one can actually go for a walk, so I take Kone for his morning walkie, but not to the rezzy. The guilt will haunt me for life.

My friend who had her FET yesterday as well is obviously on the same schedule as me, so we check in frequently. We’ve both decided that we’re not going to test at home (POAS) before we go in for our blood test (beta). Pshaw, what’s the point of possibly getting upset about it all? No thanks.

Later today I look longingly at all the stuff I have to can, but I stay strong. Oh yeah, and I can only have ONE cup of coffee a day, and need to wear warm socks. According to some feng shui shit, warm feet = warm uterus. Warm socks it is. One meager coffee. No booze. No lifting stuff. Sigh. It’s going to be a long week. It’s one thing being intentionally lazy, but enforced laziness is maddening.

Friday September 18th

Today I go to Oktoberfest with Peg since I’m allowed to walk around, and am as virtuous as one can be at such a thing. No bier. Okay okay, I normally don’t drink beer anyway, but still.

Saturday, September 19th

Today is fig-picking day. Not as in “you fig-picking son of a bitch!”, but as in actual picking of figs. But it’s not like I climb a ladder or anything ; I just pick the ones close-ish to the ground. Not that near the river or anything. Nope.

That afternoon

I have some cheap-o POAS tests that I bought at the dollar store at one point, for god only knows what reason. Of course it makes perfect sense to try one, in the afternoon. Of course it’s negative. My stupidity has no bounds.

Sunday, September 20th

I test again, this time in the morning. Negative. But it’s ridiculously early; most people don’t even start testing until 6dp5dt (6 days post 5 day transfer, in IVF lingo), and this is only day 4. Pfft.

That evening, I feel a sharp pain in my lower back/side. A symptom?

No, you dumbass, it's not. That's because you were scrunched on the couch because of Kone. Duh.

Monday, September 21st

More negative. No biggie. I go with
Most Excellent Neighbor Laura to our local Hi-School Pharmacy, and as we walk in, I whack her arm with excitement.

"Hey, nausea! I feel nauseated!"

Laura backs away from me slowly. "Umm, yeah, it's the horrible candle smell they always have in here, it makes everyone sick."

Sigh. I do get a headrush as I'm looking at canning supplies, so clearly that's a symptom. Clearly.

Tuesday, September 22nd

Tonight I go out with some friends for TFT, aka Tiki Fucking Tuesday, at the Creekside Grill. I virtuously have a Shirley Temple, which is actually pretty good, though I look longingly at the slushy tropical drinks the girls are having.  It’ll be worth it though. Of course this has to work, why wouldn’t it?

I'm really tired these days. That has to be a symptom, right? I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that Kone is really restless at night, so I'm getting on average 4 hours of sleep. Nothing at all.

Wednesday, September 23rd

How the FUCK can the test be negative? At this point it should be showing something, some faint semblance of a line. Nope, nada. To keep my mind occupied, I go apple picking, but am careful to not lift anything too heavy.

I also go on a fig quest with my fellow figilantes, Liesl and Joseph. Okay, at one point I may have gotten on a ladder and been precariously balanced while reaching for a particularly glorious fig.

Liesl: Tasha! What are you doing?? The unicorn! Think of the unicorn!

Sigh. I get off the ladder and let Joseph do the honors. 

Most Excellent Friend Sarah Z. pops by today with a card and chocolate and a gift, because she's just that awesome and gets the whole "showing up" part. And she too understands the shit mood I'm in, and how devastating and soul-crushing this is.

Thursday, September 24th


NOW I’m pissed off. A negative fucking test? My friend tells me that she got a line yesterday, as well as this morning. My FRER (an early response test) is, on the other hand, so blindlingly white that it’s mocking me. Seriously, the control line is getting starkly dark, and the rest is the definition of stark white. Wtf.


I go to take Kone for his morning walkie, and he decides to yank my arm out of its socket and practically take me down. “Kone!” I yell. “I am NOT IN THE MOOD!” I then feel bad, of course. I am a bad momma. Clearly this is why I’m not pregnant. I start bawling while I’m talking to Laura, and I’m supremely annoyed by her friend, who I’ve met before, and who always looks at me silently with a weird moonlike smile on her face, as if I’m the strangest person she’s ever met. Yeah, lady, well maybe I have a personality, unlike some people. Geez.

Laura a bit later texts me to see if I want a coffee from the stand near us.

Me: Yes! ALL THE COFFEE! Make sure it’s highly caffeinated! The biggest size they have! Because fuck it!

When she brings me my coffee, I look at her with tears in my eyes and tell her I’m going to go get jars, because jars make me happy. Normally Laura would tell me that I’m insane for getting even MORE jars, but today she just looks at me and agrees that yes, this is a good idea. She understands.


I drive to Mulino to pick up some canning jars that I scored on Craigslist. This is unusual for me, because I always miss out on any good deals. In this case, it’s obvious that fate has decided hey, you don’t get a baby, joke’s on you, but we’ll throw you a bone and give you some canning jars. Clearly that’s what’s happening here. Clearly.


I test again using a cheapo test. Again, blindingly white. Rage. I head out to do some errands, and the world is feeling my wrath.

“Why the hell doesn’t anyone in Oregon know how to fucking drive???”
Really, is it necessary for everyone to drive so far below the speed limit? I kid you not. 40 in a 55. 30 in a 50. 50 in a 55. 15 in a 25 or 10 in a 20, because those aren’t already slow enough. I hate people. I’m not asking you to speed or anything, just drive the fucking speed limit.


I go to deliver some apples and insist on toting heavy boxes. Because fuck it. Fuck you, universe, for the nice kick in the teeth. It’s worse this way, to get this far and get my hopes up, and then, nothing. Story of my fucking life.


I stop at the grocery store to get some ginger ale for the fucking cocktail I’m making tonight. And to get Kone a steak, since clearly I won’t be needing to save any money for raising a child. When I get to the checkout, the woman in front of me is writing a CHECK. A freaking check! Who the hell writes checks anymore, unless you’re at Costco and don’t use an American Express card? Seriously, who? WHO DOES THAT??

I realize I’ve become like George Bailey in IAWL, when he realizes that old dumbass wino Uncle Billy has carelessly lost all of George’s hard-earned cash. “Stop it, stop it, can’t you all just STOP IT???”


I’m plotting to burn down or bomb any and all POAS manufacturing facilities. This will be my new mission in life. Those things are evil. I have one left, and I am going to symbolically destroy it. Because fuck that.

Why? Why does nothing ever work for me? Why is life so fucking unfair? Why do shitty crackheads or assholes pump out babies with no problem? Why has fate fucked with me like this?

I can’t stop bawling.

Fuck my life.

Friday, beta day

I am going in wearing flip-flops. I will stop on the way in, and get the biggest fucking coffee Starbucks has to offer. A quintenta or something. If I could put Kahlua in it and not have to drink and drive, I would.