The Final Countdown

Self Portrait as Art History: Mona Lisa in Pregnancy, Yasumasa Morimura

By the end of the 10th week, the embryo officially becomes the fetus. The embryonic tail disappears. The reproductive organs mature. And I am starting to officially feel pregnant.

Soon there will be people to tell and decisions to make. Will I move? When do I tell my job? What about my big pit bull? And does this mean I take my online dating profile down?

So far, the winter, the holidays, and the pregnancy have made me want to stay close to home, eat a lot, and watch bad movies at night. Is this what the next 7 months have in store for me?

In other news, I have to find a doctor who will agree to work with a midwife, and a midwife who won't be on vacation in the middle of summer when the baby is due. And I also have to find someone to be there for me. I am thinking I will just hire a professional, someone I can really count on, rather than, you know, mom. Can I hire someone to come to the Lamaze classes, too?

The other thing is that I absolutely have to finish the film. And I only have three short weeks until I go back to teaching four junior college classes a week. And I guess 6 months or so after that until my world changes entirely. So the pressure is on, even if the motivation is a little lacking. Let's just say, I am a mite distracted these days.

Secrets

19th Century Pregnancy Doll

Last night I dreamt there was blood. I know it's because of the doctor's appointment tomorrow. It's odd, those ultrasounds. Peeking inside like that. It almost seems like cheating. I mean, for centuries, we didn't have this technology. Pregnancy was a matter of faith. And deep mystery. An alchemical process.

Eventually, when the organs start to rearrange themselves around an expanding uterus, and the cartilage begins to soften so bones can spread, and the blood once used to support brain cell activity flows south to instead encourage embryonic cell development, a complete mutation of the female body as I have known it for 41 years will occur. It's already begun.

I have heard the process continues once you have a child. That feeling of not belonging to your own body. Of, well, belonging and being for someone else entirely. How can something so common as pregnancy and childbirth, seem so wildly different from anything I have known thus far?

7 weeks

Window Water Baby Moving - Stan Brakhage

I went to the doctor's office two weeks ago, and there is indeed now a little bean growing inside of me. Though the nurse both showed me what was supposed to be a faint heart pulsing and made me listen to what was supposed to be the faint swishing of a heart beating, I did not believe her. It all looked kinda empty and sorta unimpressive to me. But, I decided to take their word for it and accepted their sincerest congratulations. Now, I have a mere 5 weeks to go before it starts getting official. I do hope the little bean can hang on.

Like many who have come before me, I did decide to buy a few books so I could at least know what not to eat/drink/pop-into-my-mouth. And courtesy of Google, it seems, pretty much everything that hasn't been parboiled for 30 minutes is up for debate. But the thing that has proven most challenging (OK giving up coffee was pretty hard) has been keeping mum. So I pee on a stick, and I see a red cross, and then what? Just sit there for 12 weeks and not tell anyone? Not gonna happen. I know things can go wrong, and the risks are high at my age, but I just have so many questions, so many anxieties, so many moments of joy, they can't all be contained solely by my poor, slobbering dog.

So hence the blog. Hence the black and white ultrasound photo on the fridge...and if people happen to ask me why I am not drinking, well, I just tell them.

So here we are in limbo. Crossing our fingers. Waiting nervously for the next doctor's visit. And beginning to wonder just how a single, working woman with no family in town, might manage.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

Photo by Tom Starkweather

In reasons pertaining to zen and the art of artificial insemination I find myself this early fall in New England, a place I have spent little to no time in. Not only that, but I have found myself jogging on the Robert Frost trail, and like most who would set foot upon this particular trail, thinking to his celebrated poem, The Road Not Taken.

Now this was a poem I was forced to memorize back in the 7th grade by a certain teacher that went by the boozy name of Mr. Hennessy. As far as poems go, this was a good one for 7th graders to tackle namely because it was short and spare, and hence, easy to follow. I can't say that it had a monumental impact on me back then, but I like to think that I understood the simple point of the matter and that perhaps, perhaps it was one more encouraging nod that I could head off and just do my own thing.

Today, I read the poem and like Frost, seem half-pleased with myself for the journey I have chosen. Maybe it's because of the crisp autumn air, or the delicious apple cider, or perhaps because this California girl gets to rub shoulders with the golden-red-yellow New England leaves that I am feeling generally all optimisic-y. Lord know, it has not always turned out the way I wanted (just read the last year, yes year! of trying to make a baby or the last five or so years of my heartache in romance), but it has been a journey entirely of my devising. And at the ripe, old age of 41, when I think about the road not taken, I have few regrets.

And so, with the Occupy fill-in-the-blank springing up all over the place and with a recent birthday under my belt and with the shortening days and with the here-I-go-again-trying-to-have-a-kid thing, I decide on this day, not unlike all others, to be hopeful. And maybe I can one day look back and think that that has made all the diference.

Things I know 2.0

Things Fall Apart by Robin Schwartz

1. Redwood trees are drop dead gorgeous.
2. The combination of sweat and a cool breeze can drive me to ruin.
3. A bird feeder bound and resurrected by duct tape will still adequately feeds birds.
4. Yard work, like laundry, helps when feeling all blues-y.
5. Music can make it worse.
6. One can perpetually feel stuck at the crossroads.
7. There are few chances for do-overs in adult life.
8. Searching for clarity can keep one waiting.
9. Summer is over.
10. I miss you.

Mḕ kheíron béltiston*

GrandMa’ SuperHero by Sacha Goldberger

Well, the good news is, um, it's summer-y. The bad news is that there is no embryo willing to develop inside of me. Rounds 3 and 4 have proved as unsuccessful as the first, and though I have had the pleasure to lie on my back repeatedly throughout the last couple of months, that has mostly meant with my legs in stirrups.

Last attempt we upped our game. This meant a new drug, a more expensive drug, that I get to administer myself. Daily. Via a shot in my gut. Who knew I would have a second career as a phlebotomist? My boyfriend couldn't even watch. But that wasn't the worst part. Besides not getting knocked up–my darling little pair of ovaries decided to do very little despite all the designer drugs coaxing them–I suffered 3 breakups, 4 melt-downs, and at least 1 full-on, snot-dripping tantrum in the Trader Joe's parking lot.

Needless to say, we are taking a month off from it all. In the mean time, I am looking into assisted reproductive science as they like to call it, in other, more affordable countries i.e. those on the verge of collapse. And yes, Greece, is at the very top of that list.

* Translation from Greek: The least bad choice is the best.

Round Two

Painting by Wayne Thiebaud

Going into the doctor’s office this time around, we were much better armed for the job. Now everyone – ok maybe not everyone, but certainly anyone who has looked into the matter – knows that having an orgasm when trying to get pregnant is supposed to increase your chances of, well, getting pregnant. That’s like pregnancy 101. I have also heard, now that I have become a fertility expert, that laughing – and we’re talking gut-busting guffaws – after an IVF procedure can increase your success rate by like, 50%. At least so claims an Israeli study whereby women who are visited by medical clowns – yes, you heard me right – medical clowns, are that much more likely to get pregnant.

Well, trying to do both of these things at the same time in a sterile doctor’s office can be challenging to say the least. I leave the rest to your imagination. But, oh, add to your image a speculum, stirrups, and a tiny vial of sperm that I am supposed to keep warm in my hands. Suffice it to say that if someone were to ask me to write an R-rated situation comedy about female infertility, I swear I would be the woman for the job.

Like many things in life we are opting for the cheapest form of fertility treatment, i.e., the least likely to work. Ah, Western medicine. Almost within our grasps. Stay tuned for round three –which at this point is rather statistically likely – wherein the writer, and her partner, get to experience the joys of PMS for 14 days straight.

30 Days

Laundromat at Night by Lori Nix

Another month, another period. Sigh. And I hate feeling like those women in the movies, so stricken with grief and their own barrenness, they can do nothing but sob and mope around and be utterly devoid of any other possible purpose. But here I am feeling exactly that same way. OK, a little bit busier than those women, it seems, but still. It's humiliating, people!

So, yeah. 28 days later takes on a whole new meaning these days when I find myself peeing on a whole lot of sticks, shyly buying prenatal vitamins at the market, and popping god-knows-what-they-do-to-me hormones month after month. It's hard, ladies and gentlemen, not to feel disappointed and angry and well, just a little bit stupid, after all that fuss. The other impossibly irritating thing is that way too many of my friends, family, doctors, nurses, and co-workers (?!) know all about my trials and tribulations. So like, I gotta break the news to them every time, and it's like I'm letting them down. The good news, is that eventually, they'll have to get sick of asking.

And here is the tricky thing (or so my therapist tells me) about expectations. You need to have, you know, hope for the future. Otherwise our miserable lot in life just wouldn't be worth a damn thing. But it hurts more, to want more. I guess, one is supposed to try and strike a balance. I think this is what they call managing your expectations. Sorta like hoping to not get picked last rather than hoping to be the one they all argue over.

And maybe that is something I have never been good at. I suppose I am the only one who can make it better or make it worse.

But really, who can let go of the wanting? And why would we?

Things I am discovering at 40

Diane Arbus, Castle in Disneyland

That my cervix is off-center, that my uterus is tilted, and that it is really not recommended to give your boyfriend a blowjob when he is providing a sperm sample.

That women directors in Hollywood–for fear of being too old– will go to such extremes as telling their kids that they are up to five years younger than they actually are.

That constant rejection from (fill in the blank: grants, job applications, publications) does a decent job of preparing one for a wide array of life's disappointments.

That not having any religion makes certain ethical and moral debates difficult to articulate, especially when travelling next to a fundamentalist on a long plane ride.

That it might be ok if all my students want to make are films about shooting each other and throwing dead bodies in trunks....as long as they get it out of their systems now.

That it is nearly impossible to keep any hair-free zone in the house with two dogs.

That you should never go through insurance companies with a minor accident.

That making a baby can be a lot harder than it looks.

Things that bored me as a kid

Frog Halloween in Harlem by Amy Stein

Star Trek episodes

Tom and Jerry cartoons

Having to draw on a yellow legal note pad

Having to color with a tri-colored bic pen

Saltines

Saltines with peanut butter

Waiting for the bus

Waiting to get picked up after school by my dad

Waiting in the unemployment line with my dad

Walking up the hill where I lived

Piano lessons

Prayer

Riding in the back seat of the car

Cause there ain't no cure...

Droplets of water bead on the head of this blue dragonfly as it slumbers on a leaf

It finally feels like summer. I am getting used to not teaching, grading nor lecturing which all feels quite nice. The dog and I have done some serious bonding, as have I and the lake. There's a blush in my cheeks, a bounce in my step and a giddiness to the past few coupla weeks.

Meaning...it can't last. The long days are, from here on out only going to get shorter. The end of my vacation will eventually approach. And that feeling of encroaching doom that has always lurked around summer vacation's corners will rear it's ugly head. We all know the inevitables.

But for the time being I get to travel to the east coast. I get to try and make a movie. I get to go out and stomp around in my skirt and cowboy boots and sample the mens a little bit. It's precious the time, especially when we have it. And for now I get to ask myself: what is it that I want to do with this day? This hour? This moment? In figuring out how to spend the hard-earned currency of my precious time off, I invite wandering, getting lost, and staring out the window. And with each new day I look forward to the empty expanse stretching out ahead of me.

The Pin-Striped Suit

Photo by Robert Longo

So the ex has taken off for the summer. The truck we shared is now sold. The apartment long gone. You could say the connections, for all intents and purposes, have been severed.

Except.

The suit. I am now storing my ex's suit. In my closet. Oh, and his pea coat. Along with a lamp and a bike that is not only missing the front brakes, but apparently, for which the back brakes need fixing, too. And so, my friends, we keep the links active.

I dunno. Call me faithful. More loyal than a dog. And of course, the fact of the matter is that once you care for someone, those feelings don't just go away. Unless, I guess, you can replace them with anger. Which I cannot. Not for any great length of time anyway. For the ex I will always have a soft spot. And he, I imagine, will occasionally be asking for something from me. For which I will most likely be obliging if I can.

So, the suit. The pin-striped suit now hanging in the back of my closet. The suit I actually purchased for him in exchange for his attendance at the wedding of a couple that we did not know very well. The suit in which he looked quite nice.

Yes, folks, nearly literally a skeleton in my closet.

But I'd rather be storing a suit for a man I once loved–for whom I can still look at and tear up, not for the feelings I now have, but for the shock that those feelings have now passed–than never to have known the man.

In Spite of Ourselves

Cindy Sherman, Untitled Film Still #48

Well, it was one of those days. The kind with a lotta highs and a few lows, too. I blame the weather. Delicious. Which meant salty skin and puppy paws in the sand. And brunch outdoors. And some good ol'country on the radio. And the roommate is outta town! And stale, skunky Corona from the fridge! And the kind of nights that should never end!

Lord help us. It was the kind of day a lot of thinking got done. Some listening, too. And observations, oh, the observations! Like the pup is afraid of the incoming tide. Or that going to a beach alone can actually be better than with company. And that that duet with John Prine and Iris DeMent is best sung loud, with the windows rolled down, and the speed gauge well over 70.

Let's get lost this summer. You and me. Let's sleep with the dog and get sand in the bed. Let's forget to floss and remember to curse. Let's jump into the lake and get sunburned all over. Maybe we run out of gas. Maybe we get a flat tire. And maybe we fight all day. But maybe, just maybe, we make up our own song along the way.

She thinks all my jokes are corny
Convict movies make her horny
She likes ketchup on her scrambled eggs
Swears like a sailor when shaves her legs
She takes a lickin'
And keeps on tickin'
I'm never gonna let her go.

He's got more balls than a big brass monkey
He's a wacked out werido and a lovebug junkie
Sly as a fox and crazy as a loon
Payday comes and he's howlin' at the moon
He's my baby I don't mean maybe
Never gonna let him go.

You can't take it with you

The Naked Ladies Alphabet by Anthon Beeke

So I finally have some time on my hands...precious time for the professorial artist to finally get in some much need studio practice as they say in the halls of academia, but guess what? Well, one can only imagine the lengths to which I can actively do other things rather than attend to my art. Pet my dog. Water the plants. Google other people's websites and poke around over here on the blog. DISCIPLINE FOLKS! Oh, if only it were something I could purchase at the local vegan earth-friendly coffee shop in which I now write this. Or hell even Starbucks. I would buy that shit! Ladies and gentleman!

But instead, the weather is all nice-ish. The dog is too damn cute. The lake around which I live needs a good walking. And me? I guess I just need a little break.

Blank

Painting by Paul Mullins

I am sure you have been all sitting on the edge of your seats wondering how was Casey's move? and what's her new pad look like? or maybe I was so worried for Casey, I couldn't stop thinking about her! The good news is that I got 100% of my security deposit from the old place and in the process found out more about the building than I had the entire time I lived there. The bad news is that I used a washer in the new place that apparently wasn't hooked up...to a drain nor any kind of pipe-like device. Yes, you can imagine. This when the entire contents of my life were sitting in boxes not more than six feet away. And to add insult to injury, after mopping up that entire mess with the moving blankets–which natch then I had to wash those, too–I couldn't get the damn washer to open. And so I spent the first night–without any sheets nor any towels.

But as far as moves go, yes it was relatively painless. And the new place is relatively sweet. The dog seems to have settled in nicely, even if the all the neighbors have reminded me about a zillion times about the importance of keeping my dog on leash at all times. And the neighborhood is about as ghetto fabulous as it gets, tumbleweaves and all.

So here we are. Back to square one in a way. Filling in the blanks. And charting our way to tomorrows.

Junk in Your Trunk

Still Life with Banana, Purse and Change © Justine Reyes

The magnets on the fridge have come down, the blond wig–long awaiting that special occasion that never seemed to arrive–has been sent home with a pal, and the last little coffee mug has been carefully housed in bubble wrap. The walls now bare, the floors darn near close to naked, and the couch looking for a home still sits alone and unwanted by the users of Craigslist. And me? Well, I am trying not to let the echo freak me the hell out.

The simple mathematical equation is that shit just gets done if you begin chipping away at it. And the truth of the matter is, the more boxes that get packed, the easier it becomes to just give it all away. Thank the gods of Out of the Closet and the Salvation Army for their undiscriminating taste. NOTHING FEELS BETTER THAN UNLOADING AN ENTIRE CAR in front of one of those charitable establishments. There is an upside to moving after all and that is the process of clearing out. Because let's face it, who in their right mind would be able to let go of this much hard-earned JUNK, if it didn't mean lifting it all not once but twice?

I move in a few days, ladies and gentleman, and though the story is not an uncommon one, it is the only one today that I have to tell. Oh, there are other things...the exciting world of determining 150 students' grades in 3 days. The ensuing graduation I get to attend in cap and gown. And the large check I will soon be cutting to my new landlord.

The Things She Carried (and Can't Seem to Get Rid of)

Marcel Duchamp's Fountain

1. The industrial mop bucket. This was a real Craigslist coup when originally found, but has, let's face it, rarely been seen in action. The industrial mop bucket comes in rubber-ducky-yellow, and sports a fashionable wringer to boot. This would make any janitor's day! But I can't seem to find any takers.
2. My giant TV. I no longer really want this and it has the extra added bonus as being heavy as hell. But I will give it to you for free, my friends, and even help you to the car. Were I to need another TV in the future, I hope it could be one of those lighter, flatter models. Until then, ye old You Tubes will have to suffice.
3. Wooden bookshelves not from Ikea. For some reason when I put it like that, this seems to scare people away instead of pique their interest. Not from Ikea was meant to imply made by hand, with genuine wood, and no assembly needed, but no one yet has been able to read between those lines.
4. Free bbq. Ok that one went pretty quickly. Turns out it is the season for free bbqs.
5. Charcoal gray couch. This is a couch with great bone structure not unlike some of our favoured actors (George Clooney comes to mind), but has succombed to the weight of my dog who has become quite taken with the right side of this couch. That being said, I think it is only the cushion that needs a bit of a cosmetic lift. Ladies and gentleman, this was once a very chic in that mid-century kind of way piece of furniture. And for 20 bucks, and some TLC, you could revive it's now faded career.

Boxes

Joseph Cornell: Box with Bird's Nest and Oak Galls

And so the joyous task of packing up all my shit, sifting through the detritus of yet another failed relationship, and cramming a 2200 square foot loft's worth of furniture into a 2 bedroom shared apartment begins. And what will keep Casey sane, besides referring to herself in the third person, a healthy dose of self-deprecating wit, and that nice little bottle of pinot?? The simple fact that sometimes, a step in any direction is better than no step at all.

Today I gave away 2 of my favorite aluminum porch chairs for the simple fact that I will no longer be having a porch; I found a home for the bin of composting earthworms because, let's face it, that relationship was not the chummiest; and I boxed and sealed the very last of his stuff, conveniently stashed out of sight under the stairs for the last fours months. And though I have no idea who will actually help me lift the furniture, nor exactly how many bookshelves will have to be let go on the street corner, I am, little by little, coming to terms with the fact that I am actually leaving this space. This space in which I have spread my wings and made my own and loved so dearly much during a time when things have been so very hard. And, bit by bit, with each new box stacked on top of the next, I am becoming okay with that.

So onward brave little soldier. There comes a time for all of us when we have each in our own way–as one of my favorite writers limns–come through slaughter.

An unsolicted letter to the hetero men folks of ________Dating Site

Photo/Sculpture by Heidi Johansen

Dear Hetero Menfolks,

I have a confession to make. I have not updated my profile in over five years. After the recent breakup with my last boyfriend, I simply turned my profile back on. In fact, I had no idea I still had a profile and I will confess again that I haven't even bothered to read what I last wrote. But I can safely imagine that who I was then, and the tone I was hoping to project, is now quite different from the woman I have become. Chalk it up to most likely not being ready to take dating seriously again, and I think you can cut me some slack.

But that's not what this letter is about. This letter is to politely inform you, the hetero men folk of my age bracket, how you are coming off to me en masse when I breeze through your profiles.

First of all, why is it okay for you to be upwards of 40 and yet, be seeking a woman of no more than 35 years of age? You know what, it's humiliating enough to to sift through this site, open oneself up to consideration, and possible rejection, without having to add insult to injury by making me constantly feel like shit. It's fine for one or two of you to seek woman 5-15 years your junior, but all of you? Really?

Second of all. Take better pictures of yourself! No blurry photos, no photos so teeny nor obscure they require a forensics team to decipher, no photos with other people clearly cropped out, no photos that were you at an obviously much younger age. Be honest with yourself, and most of all, be honest with me. Take the time to take a picture of yourself that celebrates who you are in as flattering a light as possible.

Third of all, run your profile by a friend. Everyone loved the sex scene in Secretary. But stand out you don't. We all need oxygen. We all think humor is the bestest, and athleticism is preferred to, oh, couch potato-ness, but as they say in Screenwriting 101: show, don't tell. I think we will get it. I know us hetero women, in bulk, have our cosas. We want a man taller than us. We all have read Eat, Pray, Love and are proud to announce it. But I have to say the women folk seem to be working a little harder here at crafting something with a little more, uh, attention to detail.

I guess what I am just saying to each of us is, read what the other men/women you are in league with are writing, compare and contrast, put a little elbow grease into it, and, at the bare minimum, run it by a friend. Let's make this a teachable moment.

Sincerely,
Not-so-ready-to-be-here-again Casey

Heavy Objects

Coyotes by Kathryn Spence

It looks like I will be moving soon. I am not entirely sure where...or how, but I know that it just doesn't make much sense to for me to be here anymore. So goodbye to my wonderful home with the hand-painted birds on the walls and the wide open spaciousness and the tall, tall bookshelves and the concrete floors and oh, the sunny skylights. It will all be let go. And without getting too dramatic here, it all must.

As a devout and tireless nester, it doesn't take long for every space I move into to quickly become my home. Virginia Wolf's most well-known anthem, is one that I have always held true and dear. And I know the process is painful: the auditioning of new potential nests; the packing and sorting of what was once important, to what is relevant now; the sheer hard labour of lifting heavy objects. But oh the joy of shedding skin! And such the exquisite pleasure of settling in.