And Finally…

Found on The Daily Dish:

Wanna Cry More?

Tears of Joy

I’m crying them. It’s all hit me, and I’m just sitting here reading internet stories and crying like a baby. But apparently I’m not alone:

YES WE DID!!!!!!!!!!!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!

We can finally get a decent night’s sleep. God bless America. I have nearly never been so happy.

For Myself…

I am off to make those very phone calls she mentioned. My HCG numbers yesterday weren’t great, and although the doctor said everything could “still be fine,” I have been crying hysterically for, oh, the last 12 hours or so. There is nothing we can do but wait, as, at this point, nothing will tell us more but an ultrasound, which we’ll do on Friday. In my head, though, it’s over. So I may as well go make Obama phone calls. Otherwise it’s get in bed, pull the covers up, and feel extraordinarily sorry for myself. That’s not what I want to remember my part being on this historic day. Barack’s Grandma died; he’s still showing up.

So it’s off to The Echo, where the final day of phone banking is taking place.

Volunteering in Nevada

My friend Mary just sent this e-mail from Nevada, where she has gone to do Get Out The Vote. Awesome.

What a great day. Bus to Las Vegas. Here I am at the training for election day in Nevada. It is a VERY organized campaign. We hang VOTE reminders on doorknobs at 6am and continue canvasing throughout the day based on the poll watchers’ information. At 9, 12, and 3, the polls release the very names of those who have voted. The “poll watchers” call these names into a central Obama computer that in return spits out the names and numbers of Democrats who have not voted yet. They forward the phone numbers of the laggers to people like you who are working the phone banks so that you can call them and remind them to vote. They also call us in Nevada and tell us the addresses to visit in person. Amazing.

She attached the following picture of the Obama volunteers receiving their training. Which, of course, brought tears to my eyes:

Crazy Protester Interrupts Palin Interview Video

Probably my last Palin video post. God willing.

more about “Crazy Protester Interrupts Palin Inte…“, posted with vodpod

Gratias Ago Tibi

I want to take a second to thank, (in English — my Latin only stretches so far), the people who are responding to my blog with comments and advice. Many are strangers to me, some are friends, but it is always touching to receive feedback, and to know that you are being, well, heard. I am especially grateful for the pregnancy stuff; it makes me feel supported, and the fact that I am not the only person to have few symptoms at this point in my “term” — something someone just wrote to tell me this week — is a soothing mantra I have been repeating to myself many times each day.

So thanks, and keep it coming. Even if I don’t respond at the time, I am getting the message.

My Kind of Lawn Sign

Picture taken today by a friend of a friend living in Atwater, CA:

Sick For Lack of Sickness

I am back to being beside myself, after several days of relative calm. And I mean calm — I didn’t even take a pregnancy test Wednesday or Thursday night! No need. I felt certain, confident, and, well, symptom-y. Not morning sick or anything, but tired, thirsty, and, most especially, moody. I think my most comforting moment came yesterday morning when I was glancing through a “Best Friends” Magazine (published by the animal sanctuary in Utah) and became instantly hysterical over a page featuring needing-to-be-adopted rabbits. When I looked up at Mike, tears streaming down my face, and said, through sobs, “Can’t we bring a bunny home…plea-hee-hee-ease?” there was a part of me, observing from the side, who whispered to herself “um, can you say hormones?”

But this morning I have lost all my confidence. I took another test last night. Still positive, and I must say the strip turned pink faster. Nevertheless. I am convinced that there is something wrong. This is for two reasons. First, because I have told way too many people that I’m pregnant, thereby putting into play the “You-will-be-punished-by-God-for-your-arrogance” clause, which ensures that people who talk before the first trimester are destined to lose their babies. My second reason for being filled with despair is, oddly, a co-worker.

It turns out that a girl I work with got pregnant, in her case naturally, a week before I did. When I called in bursting with the good news about my test results, then, the general response was “That’s great! Did you hear about Heather?” Of course I was happy for her, but also, selfishly, found the whole situation to be somewhat vexing. This was supposed to be my moment. Now not only did I have to share it, but with someone who was pregnant, as she hastened to remind me when I saw her, a week longer than me.

But that’s not the problem. The problem is that this extra week gives her the ability (and right, it seems) to treat me as a “co-conspirator,” of sorts — “ooh, don’t you feel tired? Ooh, don’t you have headaches?” Which would be fine if we were friends, but we’re not. As if that’s not bad enough, she also offers me all sorts of old-timer advice about how I “will be feeling.” And that feeling is, in a word, sick. Heather is nauseated, pale, and and miserable. And likes to complain about it quite vociferously. She walks around the store moaning, wrapped in a pink shawl, looking like a wan but slightly self-satisfied Russian peasant. I, of course, feel nothing of the sort. I am not sick at all. My stomach feels fine. Ergo, I have decided, I am not pregnant, or if I am, it’s not “the right way.”

It’s not making for good relations between me and Heather. When, yesterday, she came up to me in the diamond island and said, her voice weak and broken, ” do you know where in the mall I can get ginger candy?” I almost snapped back, “No, because I’m not sick! And I know you are! Stop rubbing it in, babushka girl!

Of course I restrained myself, and simply told her that I was not a fan.

But this is going to be a long nine months! Although, maybe it won’t, because maybe I’ll get my test results back on Monday and it’ll turn out that my poor cells haven’t divided the way they were supposed to. Then it’ll be a long nine months, indeed, of me watching Heather get increasingly sick, and fat, and happy while I mourn my loss and brace myself for renewed attempts.

Not to mention the press release we’ll have to send out to inform the 12,000 people we’ve told that the pregnancy, sorry, didn’t take.

Oh, I’m a wreck. I can’t even do morning sickness right. Monday can’t come soon enough.