Firma de contabilitate

Sarah deschise uşa holului. Nu se putu abţine să adulmece, încercând să detecteze un eventual miros de sudoare. Dar era prea devreme. Casa nu transpira niciodată înainte de miezul nopţii. Georges îi explicase asta de nenumărate ori.
Lăsă pachetele într-un colţ al holului, la picioarele unei armuri. PenduJa arăta şase şi un sfert.
Probabil că era aproape miezul nopţii când casa deveni jilavă. Georges, nemişcat în mijlocul bibliotecii imense, simţi cum mirosul invadează firma de contabilitate treptat încăperea. Un miros greu şi uleios, care îţi făcea greaţă. Rezemat în coate de birou şi cu palmele aşezate de o parte şi de alta a unei enciclopedii groase pe care o răsfoia, Georges se prefăcu a nu observa nimic şi îşi potrivi ochelarii pe nas. Dar panica i se amplifica, făcând să-i danseze în faţa ochilor literele mici de pe pagina presărată cu pete de umezeală, împiedicându-1 să mai citească. Se strădui să-şi controleze respiraţia. Acum era trecut cu două minute de miezul nopţii. O tăcere profundă şi apăsătoare domnea în sala cu pereţii acoperiţi de cărţi. Avea senzaţia că tavanul cobora încet, aidoma unui ciocan cu aburi, ca să-1 strivească, pe el, Georges Mareuil-Mondesco, omuleţul pierdut într-un fotoliu de piele, prea mare pentru el.
Georges detesta mobilierul casei. Megalomania tatălui său dusese la umplerea celor treizeci şi trei de încăperi ale locuinţei cu un mobilier disproporţionat, care părea a fi fost fabricat pentru o armată de giganţi. Totul era prea larg, prea înalt, prea gros. Trebuia să apuci cu amândouă mâinile mânerele sertare-lor ca să le poţi trage, să-ţi soliciţi toţi muşchii ca să deschizi.

Clinica psihiatrica

Nevoie decât de 0 bluză albă şi o cămaşă de forţă. O ţinută de clinică psihiatrică.
Gândul 0 făcu să râdă înfundat şi îşi arse buzele sorbind din ceaiul prea fierbinte.
Se întinse ca atunci când îţi cauţi o poziţie confortabilă într-o cadă plină cu apă călduţă. Se tolănea în banalitatea acelui sfârşit de după-amiază liniştită. Se spâla tri ea. Căci de cealaltă parte a bulevardului, în spatele zidurilor înalte care, aidoma unor metereze imposibil de cucerit, închideau vila şi parcul, 0 aştepta ceva murdar. Uneori îi venea să oprească oamenii de pe stradă şi să-i întrebe:
-    Stiti ce se află dincolo de aceste ziduri?
Probabil că trecătorii mai întâi s-ar fi strâmbat şi apoi ar fi răspuns:
-    O cazarmă? Un institut? O clădire oficială?
Adevărul era că privind de la înălţimea unui om nu aveai
cum să ghiceşti parcul, casa mare şi domul ei ciudat, plin de găinaţul porumbeilor. Nu se putea ghici nimic şi era cu atât mai bine...
Da, oamenii ar fi zis: ,,0 cazarmă..." Iar ea ar fi răspuns:
-    N-aţi ghicit! E un templu. Şi, ca în toate templele adevă-
rate, aici se săvârşesc sacrificii.
Dar nu trebuia să se gândească la asta, altfel şi-ar fi văzut fericirea fărâmiţându-se, pierind. Trebuia să continue joaca de-a femeia frivolă - până la capăt, până seara, până în momen-tul în care va fi nevoită să se întoarcă.
Clientele 0 priveau din nou. Se distră închipuindu-şi ce gândeau despre ea: ,,E amanta cutărui publicist... E un top-mo-del... E..."
Ar fi putut să le răspundă:
-    Nici vorbă de aşa ceva. Sunt dresoare.

Sunday, the day that fun takes off

God do I hate Sundays.
I hate them with a pissy, pithy, passion.
52 of them in a year, 53 if you're unlucky.
Either way, they're all doom-laden.

Some people love them, some people pray for them, other people pray on them, and every year more and more of us work during them. (enter "Dad").

I have never been a fan of Sundays. In fact I would go as far as to say I hate Sundays almost as much as I hate Mondays. Tuesdays do very little to me, Wednesdays are a little better since Thursdays are right around the corner followed rapidly by Fridays... the *best days* ever.

But Sundays.....
Sundays are perpetual downer days where you sleep in late without a care in the world and then struggle to get to sleep that night. TV schedules are all awry and there's all together wayyyyyyyyyy too much sports on cable. My friends are mostly all recovering from hangovers and not too many are gung-ho to sample exotic Sunday-esq cuisines such as Dim-Sum.

So, I lounge. I read your blogs, I surf the net, cook some food and I lounge some more. B-O-R-I-N-G

You would think that I would pick Mondays as my least favorite day of the week since I dislike having to go to work after a nice weekend, but no. I hate Sundays more, because they are filled with the impending doom of Mondays. Sundays inevitably always ends up being long "ok-well-it’s-almost-Monday-now" waits for the weekend to end.

And now that Sopranos is done, Sundays just got a little worse.

Pre-hystero-whatever jitters

Because I am frantically nervous about Thursday's hysteroscopy - a word I can barely pronounce - I have been googling like my usual manic self trying to learn as much as possible in an attempt to educate and ease my mind going in. To be fair it seems to be a minimally invasive procedure but since I am a recovering dramatist I feel the inherent urge to get myself worked up. Most people probably wouldn't blink twice at this kind of thing, but admittedly, I’m a total confessed wimp.

So here I sit, ferociously googling when low and behold I come across this not-at-all-comforting and mildly odd image of what looks like Charlie Chaplin, peering up some poor woman's cooch in 1898 through a hollow and obviously illuminated dildo, his nose dangerously close to some demure Victorian woman's plumbing - a place no man should be allowed without at least offering her a minimum of 4 vodka tonics. At least we know the humiliation dates back right girls!

Thankfully however, I live in 2007 and instead of some mustached dude staring into me from half an inch away I'll get a full-on HD screen with a 5 mega pixel full color camera and surround sound (too far?) view of what's going on in there. I friggin' love technology.

I do have to say though that from all my research the part I'm looking forward to the most is all the farting (queefing) I anticipate given that I will be blown up beyond capacity with gas in order for "Charlie" to get a good look-see at my what-nots and what-have-yous up inside there. I've always wanted to have a valid excuse to just lie around eliminating odorous gases all day, and I guess Thursday/Friday will be that day.

Another blog advises that I purchase myself a sippy cup for the day after since sitting up to drink whilst in recovering might not be very comfortable.

So here's a nice visual for you...

I'll pretty much be spending my recovery in total regression laying around farting all over myself and sipping on my sippy cup.

Oddly, I'm looking forward to it.

That'll be $10 thanks

NOTICE: To those of you who are easily turned off by learning too much about people you vaguely know from the Internet, perhaps you would prefer to navigate to another URL and enjoy the news, gossip or pornography of your liking.

Being a woman infertile woman means that I will, from time to time spend many degrading hours, legs spread-eagled while Dr. So-and-So, and Dr. This-and-That poke, prod, ooh and ahh at the workings and malfunctions of my busted bits.

Today was one of those days ----- multiplied by 10.

My sono-hys started out rather routinely with my sonographer "Dj" measuring my ovaries, uterus and all that muck, swearing that she actually understands what's what and wasn't just making a good guess as to which is a fallopian tube and which is an endometrium. To me it all looks like a gray cloudy floaty mess and sometimes I think they're just imagining what they say they're seeing. Oh right, that's until they predict my baby is going to die and it actually happens... riggggggght, maybe they do know what they're talking about.

After Dj was done she called in the Doctor who's name slips me but who was quite nice and very concerned with keeping me involved in the whole process and not treating me like just another snatch. That was nice of her.

So here's how the whole sono-hys thing works......

After all the measurements were taken they clamped me open with a speculum and with what looked like iodine, proceeded to reach up inside of me to wipe my cervix clean. Odd, I didn't realize it was dirty but I guess it's possible since there have been a lot of people digging around up in there recently and who knows what some nasty little bugger could have left behind.

Once all sparkly clean, my Doc inserted a catheter and started squirting saline solution up inside of me whilst Dj stuck in her slutty-cam and began looking around for malfunctions, misformations and so have you. To be honest the most painful part (if you can call it that) was the insertion of the fluid which felt like someone was pinching my uterus. Maybe someone was... the Doc was giving me some eyes so maybe that was just her way of coyly saying what's up. I guess everyone's got to have an original method of letting you know they care.

After a few minutes of wrinkled foreheads and crossed up brows my Doc finally announced that she wasn't quite sure if what she was seeing was actually there or whether she was imagining it. She needed a second opinion to which I agreed and in came Doc #2. When he couldn't come to any conclusive inference either he invited in Doc #3, Doc #4, and Doc #5, at which point I started charging admission. The way I figure it is that if that many Docs are gonna get off on my exposed parts then I might as well churn a profit. Fuck knows I'll be paying the bills for all this testing for months to come.

So there I lay, legs EVERYWHERE with 5 doctors, 2 residents and Dj, all staring at me with huge question marks floating in a mismatched puzzle above their heads.

Finally they concluded that I should put my pants back on and come back in a month to re-do the same tests.
"WHAT THE FUCK".....I thought, "I just WAITED A MONTH for this test and now these bastards are sending me home with no results".
This was just not acceptable.

But since every shred of decency in my body had already left the building, I quietly walked out of the hospital, head down, crampy and trying my best to hold back the flood gates since crying whilst walking through midtown at 5:30pm is just not kosher. Someone was bound to hastle me and let's just say I was not in a hastling mood. Finally I found a Mc Donalds, tucked myself into the bathroom and broke down, crying out of pure frustration at the fact that no one seemed able to give me a viable answer. Added to this, no one told me that the injected fluid would suddenly start gushing out of me, a mix of iodine, blood and saline solution, all at once without notice. So there I stood in the disgusting Mc D's restroom with streams of water dripping down my face and a concoction of 3 staining my favorite, lucky jeans. Quite a sight.

When, like a God-sent angel, my phone started ringing and it was my regular, fabulous OBGYN calling to let me know that she had also looked at my tests and disagreed with the Doctors at the hospital. There might be a tiny septum (growth of skin) on my uterus, but even if there is, it's so tiny she wouldn't do anything about it. So she has now referred me to a fertility specialist Dr Sign, who will start his onslaught of tests on us both since my thrombophilia results are also in and negative. Her thoughts are that I'm probably just a low progesterone producer and that I should be put on a supplement before trying again. That said, she's still just an OB and doesn't want to make that call on her own. So next steps, Dr. Sign... my first, real male cooch doctor.

Physically exhausted and soaked, I headed over to Bloomingdales to pick up some new pants and of course for a little retail therapy. There's nothing a girl could use more after a discouraging day than new clothes, shoes and makeup.

Don't ya think?