jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

I want shrimp cocktail. Or an avocado. That’s all that sounds good to me, and I flat-out resent that neither can be found within the confines of my apartment.

I put a pot on the oven for spaghetti. I’m not quite sure what kind of sauce I’ll do just yet, but I’m sure I’ll make it feel inadequate and small. Because no matter how good it is I’m still going to ask, “Why can’t you be more like shrimp cocktail?”

Damon and I went to an adoption seminar this week at the Jewish Community Center.

A sidebar: The JCC is a gorgeous facility on the UWS, decorated with a necklace of crash barriers to keep people from blowing it up with car bombs. In Manhattan. If Jews aren’t safe here, I don’t know where. And that made me sad.

Anyway. We went in promising each other that we would go in totally blank slates. The seminar was to cover both domestic and international, any and every country.

The facilitator started out the session saying, “I know that this seems like an obvious thing. But I want to say it anyway. I’ve worked with thousands of families as an adoption coordinator over 20 years. (beat) You will love your adopted child as much, in every way, as you do your biological child.” This kicked off my first tearful moment of the evening.

Sidebar: I am not a tearful person. My best friend actually complains that she has only seen my cry once (at the death of my beloved cat) and I’ve seen her cry about a bazillion times. So my “tearful moments” are usually small enough that no one even notices. But I will try to be painfully honest in this journal, so I will tell you that I had them. Sometimes.

Anyway, back to the blank slate.

Domestic adoption is not for us. We really were open to it going in, but we just got it confirmed that we don’t want to do that. So we’re back to China. Which is funny, because I still can’t fully articulate why, as opposed to other countries. I mean, I can give you some very good, rational reasons. But a big chunk of it is simply that when you say, “…adoption from Russia” I just don’t feel anything. And when you say “…adoption from China” I feel hugely compelled. Damon says he has the same experience.

So now we’re investigating what agency we’d like to use. And while we’re not going to go back on birth control, we’re going to just put aside all of the temperature taking and date watching and sex timing. Which is a huge, huge relief to me. I’ll keep my doctor’s appointment on the 8th, but I’m happy to be free of the tyranny of my ovaries. I would like to have a baby, clearly. But I believe what our facilitator says. And that Chinese baby will be my baby, and that will work fine for me.

All of this depends on Damon and I continuing to get along. You probably didn’t notice, but I paused in the middle of this entry to argue with Damon about why boxing is stupid and I think he’s holding a grudge.

Or it will be in October.

Today I spent the day as a “model” for our Best Jeans for Your Butt feature.

This is my very first fasion shoot, and here are a few observations…

The models were surprisingly, disconcertingly nice. There were both “real women” and models there for the shoot. As soon as I walked in one of the models — a zillion feet tall, 90 pounds, gorgeous, the works — said, “Hey! I like your skirt!” and she went on to be just that friendly. I sat at a table with three stunning models and we were all thumbing through celebrity magazines. One of the tabloids had a photo of Reese Witherspoon with a little belly on her, and theorized that she should hit the gym. All the models were united in their irritation and said a lot along the lines of “She’s so beautiful” and “They need to get off her back, she’s just fine the way she is.” I kept wondering if they were that nice in high school. I mean, they haven’t been out that long. Every single one of them was lovely, cheerful and very supportive of the non-models. The two things that make this all at least slightly more plausible are: 1. Redbook hires slightly non-traditional models in that we don’t use the pubescent blondies and 2. These are not catwalk models, who I suppose are the modeling elite and possibly more horrible.

There is no swifter route to awkward and self concious than to be placed between two professional models — shoulder to shoulder — in 4-inch heels and then be asked to leap forward, twist backward and smile. Leaping. 4-inch heels. Not my finest moment. And I can tell you for sure that it wasn’t, because we were made to do it about a hundred times. And clearly, I was the problem.

I kind of enjoyed being treated like an object. I’m so used to having to do the thinking. So I enjoyed being treated as a prop. At one point the fashion director was trying to explain to the photographer what she wanted from pictures of me. She walked up and grabbed a handful of my shirt and said, “See, she’s got this tiny little waist and then a few inches down BOOM!(smacks me full on the ass) white girl bubble butt.

I like to think I hit most of my goals. But this evening I am realizing that one is slipping through my fingers.

I tried to watch every episode of season one of Desperate Housewives today. But there are five more after the one I’m watching now, and it’s 10:15. I just don’t have the stamina. I may get one more done after this one, but that will be the maximum. Then I will pop in Harry Potter on the iPod and drift off.

So, I gave it my best, and that will have to content me.

Spotting today, and breaking out a bit.

So while I don’t have the definitive “no” yet, I know what it all means and suspect I’ll have it in a few days.

This is a particularly discouraging round, as it is literally the first time our attempt has been flawless. No illness, no mis-timing, right position every time, the lion was present… I had a superstitious belief that once we hit it just right we’d be rewarded. And of course that’s not logical, and not so.

I hate these days. I hate the few days when I know I’m not pregnant but my period hasn’t fully started and my temperature hasn’t dropped yet. As soon as I might possibly be fertile I live like I’m pregnant. And right now what I really want is a huge glass of wine or six, followed by sushi and sashimi and Ambien, Xanax and crack. But because there is still a small, small chance, that I know won’t come through, I will live like a nun for a few more days. But I will resent it.

I am tired of trying to get pregnant.

I’ll keep trying, and in a few short days (if not sooner) my good humor about it will be fully restored. But not tonight. Tonight I am tired of trying to get pregnant.