If at First You Don't Succeed....

Sosa. McGuire. Bonds. You know who I'm talking about? It occurred to me as I was reading about these guys, that there is something that isn't told to us about any of them, and that is how many times they struck out this year. They only talk about the hits. I'll bet the strikeouts were at least double the hits. I know the figures on Babe Ruth's lifetime career. He hit 714 home runs, but he struck out 1,330 times. There is a message in there somewhere and that is that success in life is not the absence of failure. As someone once said, "If at first you don't succeed, you're running about average."
In my humble opinion, success is really one failure after another, through which we learn and become better. It really is. The only real failure in life is not to try. There was one baseball pitcher who was asked what was the most difficult thing about pitching? He said, "Letting go of the first ball, because up to then, you have a no-hitter." Remember the first time you tried to swim? You swam, just like that, right? I didn't. I went down like a piece of lead. I bet you can't remember the first time you tried to walk, but I bet I know what happened. You fell down. And that is life. Life is risking, failing, again, and then again, in order to reach real success. Especially in light of recent events, I pray that I don't ever forget that and always keep trying.

Friends in Low Places

Q:What do you get when you play a country song backwards?
A: Your house back, your job back, and your dog back.
Sometimes I feel like my life could be a country song. For example, this past weekend was a tune of race cars, rednecks, and really sweet mullets. Alas, we all know that a good country song wouldn't be complete without a good cry at the end and today proved to be the last verse. Move over Patsy Cline, I am singing out loud!
Verse One-My Dad and his fiance Debra were in town this holiday weekend and they took us to my first official NASCAR race on Sunday. As an enthusiastic mullet hunter (see below), this was a dream come true and failed to disappoint. They were everywhere!

But the winner of the coveted "Redneck of the Race" award was a woman who cruised BAREFOOT through the stadium AFTER the race. I didn't have the stomach to take a picture, so you will have to use your imagination. I'll set the scene for you. If you haven't been lucky enough to experience a race first hand, most of you have at least seen a landfill. Both contain huge amounts of trash and not nearly enough receptacles to hold it all. Mix together: 12 hours of beating sun, 2.5 million ounces of beer, 13 tons of nacho cheese, and 42,000 gallons of ass sweat. This mixture is the slop that coats the concrete floor of the stadium along your exit route. Now deeply inhale a scent that reeks of dirty diapers filled with Indian food (funniest line in Anchor Man) and feel the slime dripping from the concrete pillars above. Ask your self....would you take off your shoes? I didn't think so.
Verse Two- I had my blood work done to determine my progesterone levels on day 21. As you might know, I never got a positive reading on the home ovulation test. It was for good reason, my progesterone level was a dismal 1.29. The doctor was looking for a 3 to indicate ovulation and 10 would be the norm for day 21 levels. It's official, I am not ovulating. I tried to prepare myself for this result, but it is still a very damaging blow. I held out for a positive outcome until the very end. I talked with Nurse Christa (NC) about the results and the next step is a consultation with Dr. Wrenn (DW) to discuss what our course of action will be. We can't get into see her until June 28th, so it will be yet another long month of waiting. After chatting with NC, I can speculate that she (DW) will order a series of blood tests to determine if I have PCOS (Polycystic Ovary Syndrome). It can present itself with numerous symptoms and is the likely culprit at this stage. At this point in time, this is all hearsay and we really need to find out what the doctor has to say. In the meantime, I will wait for day 35 , have another blood pregnancy test, and start the provera to jump off another cycle. Hopefully this next appointment will mesh well with timing of the speculated blood work. One funny thing that NC said to me was "Oh good ,you are not ovulating!" Good? Huh? "We can fix that." she said. I really want my house back, my job back, and my dog back. Can you fix that? Rock on Patsy, rock on.

Anal Anyone?

For the record, I have been offended today. Not in a bigoted, racist, sexist, fire a shock jock kind of way, but I am still left feeling a little miffed. It has come to my attention that I am perceived as anal retentive at work. This revelation is not shocking to me, considering the fact that I fully admit to being particular about a lot of different things. Especially work things. I like order. I dig schedules. I get maximum satisfaction out of office supplies. And nothing pleases me more than crossing things off my list. (Except maybe making the lists themselves).
Let's face fact. There are several factors that have contributed to my "condition". Numbers one and two would be my parents. I couldn't escape them growing up and I have morphed into a melted version of them. Believe me when I say this should be taken as a compliment. They are both organized, neat, and tidy. They are great examples of how an orderly life should run and I still look up to them. My Mom always knows the right thing to do. More importantly, she actually lives that way. Sadly, this has become a rarity these days. (Lucky for you, I am on a different soapbox today) Number three is my inner voice. It tells me to take pride in the details and that everything should match. It cares about things like grammatical errors, DVDS that face the same direction, folding socks, and hospital corners when making the bed. Yes, I still make the bed. I continue to do so even though I am well aware of the fact that I am going to get right back in it the next night. Number four is my job itself. It forces me to be organized and on top of things. Without my particularity, I wouldn't be employed. I get paid to look out for the little things. In my book, paychecks equal shelter and food, so I am all about paying attention to detail.
I hate that being perceived as particular carries such a negative connotation. It implies that I am rigid, inflexible, or even cold. It screams that I can't go with the flow or let loose. To a certain extent, I believe this to be true of myself. I can safely say that I won't ever bungee jump, dart out in traffic, or leave dishes in my sink. However, I am willing to compromise, try new things, and take risks. You know what they say, behind every great adventure is a great plan. Besides, the word anal is just so......yucky.

One Cranky Cub Fan

It's Tuesday and I am still crabby. I started typing this yesterday when the crankiness took over and it hasn't stopped yet. I am tired. I am overworked and under appreciated. I need to kvetch. Now visualize me stomping my foot and using my whiny voice while reading this entry. That's better. Both professionally and personally I am frustrated and feeling on edge.
Work-I need an assistant. Just for today, I want someone I can boss around to make myself feel better. Wouldn't that be fun? Having someone fetch my coffee and make xeroxes for me would be delightful. On the other hand, I would have to start drinking coffee which then parleys into wasting money at Starbucks and stained teeth. Neither of which I can afford. Not to mention having to make small talk with an assistant who would probably glare at me all day because I would rule the workplace with an iron fist. After all, the whole point of this fantasy is that I get to be bossy without the consequences. Granted, work really isn't as bad as I make it seem, it's just silly nonsense and will eventually sort itself out. I complain about being too busy, but the alternative is much worse. I'll take a couple frazzled days over twiddling my thumbs any time. It's instant job security and that feels good. In baseball terms, I am in a slump and can't seem to shake it. Where's Lou Piniella when I need him? Someone needs to straighten out my attitude because I can't seem to do it alone.
Home-It is day five of the home ovulation kit without a positive reading and my anxiety level has started to build. Today is day fourteen of my cycle, which is the "World Series" in terms of fertility. It's the seventh inning stretch. I have two mornings left at bat and no one on base. No positive result, no "go home" signal from the third base coach. Every morning my chest feels like it could explode in anticipation and the little voice in the back of my head keeps telling me not to get my hopes up. I feel so close to getting answers, yet miles away from where I want to be. As each day passes, the sinking feeling in my stomach grows. I realize that I am probably going to have to face this problem head on and deal with it. However, wrapping my heart around it is going to be more difficult then I ever imagined. It is becoming harder for me to smile and think positive thoughts. There is an emptiness that consumes me. How can I love something so much already? This idea, dream, or person doesn't even exist and yet I am pining for it. Maybe I have always pined for it and now it is just out of my reach. It feels like a crushing weight on my heart. I feel especially bad for Jason. I know I am taking out my frustration on him and he doesn't deserve it. He is trying to be supportive in the best way he knows how. I can see how much it hurts him when I am sad and it becomes a vicious cycle. I am sad, he is sad because I am sad, I am sad because he is sad because I am sad, and so forth. You get the picture. My heart breaks when I see the look on his face because he doesn't know how to comfort me. My whole life I have prayed for him and now I fear that I am pushing him away because I can't say these things out loud to him. I don't want to do that, I can't do that. The only thing I can do is finish out the testing kit and see the doctor on Tuesday. One step at a time. If there is one thing the Cubs have taught me, it is that there is always hope. It just wasn't our year, but there is always next year. I still have hope and I am not giving up on Team Beale that easily.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

This June we will celebrate our two year mortgage anniversary. For the most part being a homeowner has been relatively uneventful. We put in a few new kitchen appliances, cut down some bushes, ripped up the carpet, planted some flowers, did a recon mission for our neighbors, and got a nice tax break. Your basic suburban experience.
Insert flashback titled "Two Years Earlier"
Dick and Jane Smith (clearly not their real names) live directly across the street from us. On moving day, we immediately noticed the abundance of vehicles and shelters parked in their driveways. Cars also lined the front of their home, as well as littered the front lawn. Maybe they are moving in on the same day? Are they Catholic with seven teenagers? Or God forbid...Foreign? Our prayers were answered when we later discovered that they are just your garden variety rednecks with good intentions. Whew, what a relief! Jason and Dick frequently chit-chat about lawn care (their talks include the pros & cons of keeping large motorized equipment off newly planted grass seed) and truck maintenance. Jane and I exchange pleasantries when we meet at the mailbox or when she almost takes off my bumper while backing out of her driveway. Life is good in suburbia.
Insert flashback titled " About Six Weeks Ago"
Jason comes inside from working on some laborious outdoor home maintenance project which I undoubtedly assigned to him and informs me that the Smiths have "done been vandalized". Without shrieking in panic (which would be my usual response) I calmly ask what happened. This is the convoluted story that follows. Dick tells Jason that a woman (no physical description) has smashed all the windows in several of their cars, slashed tires, broken headlights, and attempted to force her way into their dwelling. They were present at the time of the attacks and she fled the scene before law enforcement officials had a chance to arrive. "Well, do they know her?" I ask. Yes, she is a former friend and she is pissed at them. Uh-huh. That would have been my next logical thought. Most folks I call friends do not going around destroying my personal property. Maybe it's just me. "Why is she so angry with them?" I question. His response was "Don't know, he didn't offer, I didn't want to pry". You didn't want to pry. What? I am sorry, but you didn't want to pry? Hello, are you missing your nosy neighbor bone? This my loyal readers is what they call the hook of the story. You know...the meat of episode...the why behind the what....aka the interesting part. Without it, I have nothing. One important detail that Dick did offer up was that she drove a gold four door Pontiac and they would appreciate it if we would keep an eye out for her. Sure, I will get right on that. They don't call me Colombo of the hood for nothing.
Insert flashback titled "Yesterday Afternoon 5:30 PM"
I open my mailbox expecting the usual pile of bills. To my surprise, I find a cryptic handwritten note from...you guessed it...Jane Smith. The highlights include phrases such as "be on the lookout for a large woman with wild dark hair", "try to take her picture, but don't let her see you do it because she is a nut" and "call the police or me at the Waffle House". Immediately my eyes start darting around as if I am under surveillance. The theme song from Mission Impossible begins blasting in my ear drums. With cat-like reflexes, I sprint to the carport and crouch down behind my car so I can re-read the note while under cover. I read it again to make sure I haven't missed any pertinent information and then slowly slink inside. Once indoors I call Jason in a stage whisper and rattle off the details of the manuscript. I proceed to tell him that it is our duty as concerned citizens to set up a video camera to catch this crazy loon and maybe we need to think about installing a floodlight at the end of the driveway. And what is is his neighborly response? I think maybe we should let the Smiths and the police sort this out. Please let it go and let's not get involved. He's probably right about this one, but I am still not convinced that she isn't hiding somewhere amongst the strewn cars on the lawn. Look out large women with wild dark hair gold Pontiac drivers, I have a cell phone and know how to use it. In the immortal words of Sting "Every move you make every breath you take I'll be watching you."

Simon Says

Spring is a special time of year. The air grows warm, the blooms begin their shy emergence, and everything seems to buzz. Part of that buzz is being created by American Idol. We all know that the coming of spring signifies that we must be down to our final three American Idol contestants. In last weeks episode, my personal sentimental favorite Lakisha Jones, was sent packing. Sad but true. She was one of those American Idol feel good stories. Coming from nothing, her only chance of getting a break was to appear on public television. Good for her, we applaud you. But in the end, I am left with a beat-boxer Blake (who has actually grown on me although his recent beats have been weak), the odds-on betting favorite Jordin, and Melinda Doolittle. Let's break this down.
First of all Melinda. I think it's weird that Phylicia Rashad and Mini Me had a child. I thought they were both married. What I want to know is, what does Ahmad have to say about this?

+ =

Tell me you don't see it? I double dog dare you. In any case, Melinda is a shoo-in for the final. Part of me wants to see Blake pull the upset and sneak in to face Jordin for crown. Why? Not because I really have anything have anything against Melinda, but because then we would really see if this lil-ol-me routine is for real. I can just see Melinda getting the news that she was voted off, then tearing off her shirt like the Incredible Hulk, and stomping around in a sports bra shouting "Oh no you did NOT!". That could be fun.
But other than that possibility, this final three is going to be drama-free. Jordin is going to win and it's not going to be close. The only real question to be resolved is whether or not Jordin is really attractive. At first she looked very unpolished & young, but it is a wonder what stylists, trainers, wardrobe people, nutritionists, and posture coaches can do for a contestant. Look what happened to Katharine McPhee. Oh, how I could benefit from having the voice of a canary (I so need a stylist). But it's too early to ponder such matters, as I continue to mourn the passing of Lakisha. So long Lakisha. If you ever get cast in a Broadway play, I'll seriously consider attending, for a good solid two or three minutes. This is my promise.

Out-Laws Rule

I love my out-laws.
Let me back up, I need to give props where props are due. My dear friend Gillies (we have taken the locker room approach and call each other by our last names) is the one who coined the term "out-laws" when referring to her Scottish in-laws. It is really a term of endearment and means no disrespect. On the street, you earn your nickname and then get jumped in. It is pretty rare that I get to use a gang reference anymore and I no longer require you to take any punches to roll with me. Nowadays folks can earn a nickname worth blogging about simply by being themselves. Thence the Beale Clan became my "out-laws" and I became a big fat copycat.
There are so many reasons why the Beale Family have won my heart. First and foremost for raising a son who miraculously took me for a wife. No small feat accomplished there. Secondly for having a great sense of humor and being able to laugh at themselves. Humor is a huge part of my own family dynamic and it is how I choose to deal with many aspects of my life. I am not sure I could handle having stuffy in-laws where I felt I had to pretend to be someone I am not. The Beales let it all hang out. Our Mothers Day dinner last night was no exception. I was feeling a little low and missing my Ma on this special day. It is always hard for me to be away from my family on holidays and I was trying not to let it get me down. We had decided to have dinner at our new favorite spot, PF Changs, to celebrate Mom Beale. The atmosphere is relaxed, service is super, and the food is excellent. We are all able to order different entrees and then share them. I have found sharing food generally promotes good conversation. These are three statements that our waiter could have easily and most likely overheard during the course of our meal:
1. I saw Clay Aiken on top of a horse today.
2. Sir, you can't just have your wiener hanging out here
3. The ground moved and I went tumbling ass over teakettle with a fire extinguisher in my hands
When I woke up this morning my sides actually hurt from laughing. Maybe I did get "jumped into" the family after all.

Let the Viewers Decide

The current division of thought in the Beale household revolves around the statement and I quote "We watch way too many &^%-$%$ television shows up in here!" I place the blame squarely on Jason. My defense is as follows: Exhibit A-I fully admit that I watch too much television and the majority of it is not quality programming. In fact, with the exception of the medical knowledge I glean from Greys Anatomy, all of it is fluff. It does nothing to stimulate my brain synapses. Exhibit B-The real culprit is our DVR (Digital Video Recorder). Without this handy little piece of technology there would be no &%*^# programs recorded for me to watch. Exhibit C-Jason was one who insisted we have this feature installed. At my apartment, I didn't have a DVR. If memory serves, a disagreement occurred because of the fact that I did not want to get a DVR. I knew it was going to be too easy to get hooked on. There is too much temptation to just record the shows that you normally would pass over due to the time constraints of your daily life. I would love to watch Real World XXXIII Albuquerque, but only if I can record the whole season and then watch it in the time it takes to do a couple loads of laundry. It's like a drug, an electromagnetic version of cocaine if you will. I can't get enough. I am compelled to see every episode of Project Runway and America's Next Top Model. It's quick, easy, and satisfies my cravings every time.
Just for kicks, let's review what is currently on our scheduled recorder on any given day. We have 44 scheduled programs. Count 'em again, I said 44. This does include several programs that have been canceled and many of them are not running concurrently. But even half that number scares me. I certainly don't spend 22 hours a week reading, praying, crafting, volunteering, talking to friends, or growing my cerebral cortex. And what about my proposal to Jason that once we start a family, the television goes. Will I have the guts to go through with it? Can I break the addiction? Make sure to set your DVR..........

Mr. Wilkin Goes To Washington

In the midst of all my menstrual madness, I neglected to blog about our latest and greatest family news. My brother Ross and his oh-so-adorable girlfriend Amber are going to be moving to Washington D.C. He will be there in July and Amber will follow after finishing nursing school in December at Imperial Valley College. Yippee! He called me earlier this week to tell me all about it. After a couple years in the California desert, I know this will be a tremendous change for them, but they are super excited. Of course we are totally thrilled because this puts them within driving distance. Not to mention that we have tons of family in the DC area, including Kristi (Jason's sister) and my favorite Caster cousins. We are so proud of him and all that he has accomplished so far in life. It just goes to show what patience, perseverance, passion and drive he has. He has really found his calling within the government and it has rewarded him. Before his head explodes, I better stop bragging. After all, I put in a lot of hard work into earning that mean-older-sister reputation and I don't want to lose it now.
The funny part about this whole thing is my Dad's reaction to his son's job responsibilities. Of course my Dad is always amusing to us, but when it comes to Ross, he is especially sensitive. One of our favorite family jokes is that my Dad still needs to cut the umbilical cord. Rest assured my Dad loves me and the feeling is mutual, but somehow their bond is different. Sometime after learning about the impending move and new job situation, I talked to my Dad. Here is a snippet of the conversation:

Me: Great news about the job......so excited.....Do we know what his new job title is?
Dad: No and don't ask him to talk about it
Me: Why? Is it a secret? (Ears perked, you know I LOVE a good juicy family secret)
Dad: He could tell you but then he would have to kill you
Me: Seriously?
Dad: Seriously. I don't even tell people that I have a son.
(Well no, I made that up, but that would have been HILARIOUS)
Dad: Seriously. I don't answer any questions about what he does. I just refer them to Homeland Security.
Me: Um...ok...I won't talk about it anymore.
Dad: Alright, I am glad we are on the same page and we never had this conversation.

So instead of talking about it, I am putting it on the web for the whole world to see. My reputation remains intact. I'll see about giving him a noogie when he gets here.

The Curse

Hip Hip Hooray! The curse is finally here. Happy get your period day to all! I think I speak for a lot of women when I say that I never thought those words would come out of my mouth. Who would have thought I (we) would be so excited about something so yucky? Jason was so funny when he caught me dancing around in the teensy bathroom (We do have the worlds smallest bathroom, check the Guinness book if you don't believe me) , he yelled "I think I smell a blog coming on!" Funny he should mention it, because I was having such a bad day yesterday that I already had written a mental entry. Now all of that seems a little sweeter to write about.
What does this mean for the Beales? Well, it means that now we count down until day 21 when I have a blood test to determine my hormone levels and check egg production. The first pit stop along the way is a home ovulation kit. The hope is that it will detect a positive hormone signaling ovulation around day 10-14. I am really trying not to get ahead of myself and just focus on getting a positive test result. I can't bring myself to research any more about infertility because I don't have any concrete facts yet. My mind wanders into some really dark places when I cruise the Internet. I have decided that I need to be ignorant. Hold it. Another statement I never thought would come out of my mouth. Logically I know I need to be informed, but emotionally I need to take whatever happens in stride. Worrying about what may or may not happen is slowly driving me crazy. Like my girls told me last night, I need to release control of this beast and realize that He has a plan for us. Easier said then done, but I will do my best. In this moment, I just feel a great relief because we are finally on the road to getting some answers.
You might be wondering why I had such a crappy day yesterday. In retrospect, I guess I could blame PMS! But seriously, some of the peeps I work with are off their rockers. Sparing you all the long boring details, my company has hired a new president. Hopefully he starts June 1st as we have been without one since late November. This change has made a lot of people nervous and jumpy. Jumpy translates to edgy, edgy goes to mean, and then mean turns into yelling at nice people. You follow? Yesterday not just one but two of these nervous Nellies screamed at me. Those of you who know me, will tell you that I am not good with confrontation, so this made for a very unpleasant work day. But I am over it. Today I sent one person an email on the subject and the other I plan to ignore until I feel like he has suffered enough. Either way, I am not going to let it get me down. It just saddens me to see how badly we treat each other in the work place since I see more of them then my own family. If I believed in karma, let's just say that these folks are coming back as cockroaches....big fat squishy ones.

P is for Pottery

Thursday was my last day of pottery class at the Cultural Arts Center. My teacher (I use the term loosely) Jim is a former English teacher and a wine connoisseur. When I say wine connoisseur, I mean that each class he went out for wine and came back tipsy. This makes pottery for the novice oh-so-much-fun! A lot more for fun him than the rest of us. At first I thought it was a little odd that no on seemed to mind the fact that we all paid tuition to a guy who was only present for half the lesson and whose "arthritis" acted up every time someone needed some direction on a project. Not to mention if any one of us had reported to our employers looped, we would have been canned on the spot. I have since discovered that it doesn't matter to "potter heads" what type of actual instruction you have. It is all about the zen experience of creating art and letting yourself feel the clay. On the other hand, I need lots of specific detailed instruction and just ended up learning through trial and error. The only thing I could count on from Jim was a contact high from his breath. Don't misunderstand, I ended up really enjoying class and found that I could embrace the art of the wheel.
I do want to share my thoughts on the piece pictured below. I worked pretty hard on making a couple of canisters I thought I could use or even give as gifts. I had finally mastered centering on the wheel, the glazing process, and all the other pottery mumbo-

jumbo that went along with it. I arrived at the kiln room to see my canister sittin' pretty. Sweet! I reached to pick it up and was shocked to discover that the lid was fused to the body. I shake it few times to double check. Yep, still stuck. The kiln room lady (at least I imagine her to be a lady) left the lid on the jar and proceeded to fire it. Stupid kiln room lady. Now I am holding a totally nonfunctional canister. Nothing goes in and nothing comes out. I can't use it and I certainly can't give it away. All I can do is play tricks on unsuspecting people who want cookies from me. Would you like a cookie? What's the matter? Can't get the lid off? Ha ha...the joke is on you!

Here is a peek at a few of my creations. Not good enough to open my own road-side stand, but it will satisfy my creative urges for a while. I think my next class will be jewelry making. Although I heard that welding while intoxicated could be hazardous, so I hope Jim sticks to pottery.