Yes, Virginia, people do cry in Barnes & Noble.

I really don't want this to become an infertility blog. There are so many great ones out there, written with sensitivity and panache by ladies and gentlemen who are really out there in the IF trenches ("Stirrup Queens" and "Maybe if You Just Relax", I'm talkin' to you), that I don't feel the need to start jabbering ad nauseum about my lady parts. Or sperm samples. Or creepy, cold specula. But there are days when something will hit me in the gut and remind me of my baby-less state, days that just goad me into penning an IF post. It's not that I WANT to be that girl who waves her arms and cyber-shouts, "read my infertility rant!". I'd really rather write about DIY or this fabulous pair of sequined Doc Martens I found on Pinterest. But seriously, read my infertility rant. Joe (although I do indeed love him dearly, I refuse to refer to him by the colloquial IF-community blog term, DH, or "dear husband" - barf) and I carpool most days to save gas money on our daily half-hour commute. This arrangement usually gives me some time to kill before work, and I'll usually spend it at Barnes & Noble - because I could drop serious amounts of cash in that Liber Libri paradise. This morning I was nosing around for books on the IVF process, because reading about how a doctor is going to aspirate ovum through my vaginal wall is just how I get my kicks these days. I went to the Pregnancy and Childbirth section and was doing that sideways-head-tilt thing at all the book spines, when an employee approached me to ask if I needed help. I verbalized my request, and she gave me a slightly (or was it just me?) perplexed look. "You'll have to go to the Health and Self-Help section." I couldn't help drawing on the oft-used but never not funny Pretty Woman shopping-joke ("I don't think we have anything here for you. Please leave.") as I trudged to the bookshelves in question. Health and Self-Help, that's me. Much like Vivian the kind-hearted hooker, I didn't belong in the Pregnancy and Childbirth section. Sigh. After selecting a book and claiming one of those big, comfy chairs that nearly always seem to be next to some jackass on his cell phone, I flipped to the last chapter - the one right before the helpful but repetitive glossary of IF terms (is "holy-effing-expensive" in there?). Because that's what I do. I have an insatiable need for success stories. After some blah, blah injectables, blah, blah, beta levels, I found the Miracle Baby Chapter. I was reading about the titular magic baby snuggling with the homemade blanket his mother knitted long, long ago - before IF was even on her mental radar - and started thinking about the pastel cotton crocheted thing I never quite finish, and then I'm drippy-teary-eyed in the stupid Barnes & Noble, of all places. So I put the book away and headed out into the glaring morning sun, and decided to maybe pick up that blanket-in-progress again, and keep plugging away at it. Because when it really comes down to it, that's all any of us can do.

They Blinded Me With Science

When I was in college, I had to take a Biology class helmed by a trollish, self-congratulatory professor who insisted that, despite my English degree, someday I would rely on my newfound knowledge of Punnett squares and charged particles when it inevitably came up at a cocktail party. Needless to say, that party never materialized (thank god), and I failed Biology.

In a study of irony, these days I find myself leaning heavily on science to build a family. Infertility has my husband punching injectable drugs into my stomach, and turned a red Solo cup from a party vessel into a urine collection container. It has constantly placed me in those dreaded stirrups, while a high-priced Reproductive Endocrinologist with a lousy bedside manner pokes and prods my unfurled lady parts for a roomful of medical students. It is an isolated, lonely place to live, where jealousy and anger fight with an uncontrollable, child-like "it's not fair!" that reverberates over and over.

Outwardly, I try to remain stoically polite to the seemingly growing numbers of blooming baby bellies and glowing mama-faces. I remind myself almost daily that my husband and I WILL have a baby - even if it has to make it's embryonic start in a Petri dish for a small fortune. :)

More Etsy Love

One of the many reasons I'm continually enchanted with Etsy . . . I'm amazed at the objects that become recycled into "I never knew I wanted it" purchases. I love this little pointe shoe cell phone case - most likely stemming from my fascination with all things ballet. If I can't wear the shoes, I wouldn't mind carrying one in my purse. :)

http://www.etsy.com/listing/43299055/ballet-calls-repurposed-toe-shoe-cell?ref=sr_gallery_1&ga_search_submit=&ga_search_query=ballet+calls&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=US&ga_search_type=handmade&ga_facet=handmade

Thanksgiving leftover mini-casseroles

I came away with an unusually large collection of Thanksgiving leftovers this year - so I decided to fabricate a new way to finish off the heaps of stuffing, turkey, potatoes and - that Turkey-Day table staple - green bean casserole.
I employed my oven-proof souffle cups for a nice layered casserole. These fluted dishes are perfect for individual pot pies or other similar recipes; I'm almost always cooking for two, so they come in handy often.
I began with a packed crust of stuffing, and then added (in equal-sized layers) turkey, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes and gravy, more turkey and a last topping of stuffing. A sprinkling of classic French's fried onions adds hearty crunch, while echoing the onion flavors found in the stuffing and green beans. Heated through in a 350-degree oven, this recipe couldn't be simpler - but every bite is a grand combination of Thanksgiving flavors.

I'm currently loving . . .

Photographi by Bobbi. This Northwestern-Wisconsin photographer is only 21, but she's already captured my heart with her retro-fab, movement-based fashion photos and stunning, clear portraits of fairytale woodsy splendor. (It doesn't hurt that she's a little blonde pixie, whose haunting mod image echoes back to Edie Sedgwick and Twiggy). Her combinations of striking beauty and hardscrabble, small-town imagery really appeal to my senses, a la tulle and feathers floating over paint-chipped windows. (Personally, I'm dying for her to take my picture. :)

(All photographs by Bobbi Solum) http://photographibybobbi.blogspot.com

Elizabeth Taylor would be envious . . .

When my Grandma Jane, who was a fabulous woman in her own right, passed away a few years ago, I found myself with some of her equally fabulous jewelry. She loved gold and precious stones, but also had a veritable collection of fun and funky costume pieces. I was thrilled to discover that some of the oversized clip-on earrings she'd always worn would make terrific cocktail rings - which seemed gleefully appropriate to me, as I remember her fondly with a Manhattan in her bejeweled hand, always sparking and social. :)

For this particular ring, I needed pliers to pry the earring clip free (which is much easier than it might look) and used a strong glue (such as E-6000) to secure the bauble to a ring blank. These blanks are adjustable, inexpensive, and found at most craft stores - mine came in a set of four, which allows for mistakes or a whole set of cocktail bling. Pick some up and flaunt that vintage jewelry like your own personal Taylor-Burton diamond. ;)

Simple, Boho-Chic DIY

I can't really take credit for the design of this multi-strand necklace; that would have to be attributed to DIY diva Erica Domesek and her blog, P.S. I Made This. While Erica used classic plastic pony beads and fabric strips, I opted for a sliced-up cotton t-shirt (long past its prime) and a pack of wooden beads from Michael's. String, tie, done - with the help of a wide-eyed needle, as my baubles were a bit difficult to maneuver into their setting. I love the mixture of classic glamour and free-spirited boho style in this necklace - it's like Holly Golightly got into her NYC yellow cab and ended up at the Monterey Pop Festival. (Not to mention the ease with which it will transition from summer into fall. I'm a sucker for versatility).