Mandarin, Yoga & Acupuncture OH MY!

I’ve been taking Mandarin at the local Chinese school. In fact, last nights class was the first class of this quarter or whatever it is the kids call it now.

I’ve taken Mandarin classes before, in fact I took one at the local college but got really discouraged because it was a class of you know, college kids, who were all Chinese who were taking the class for an easy A and spent all their time trying to cheat off my paper. That’s right, I said it. Cheat off the white girls paper. The only non-Chinese in the class and they want to copy off me? I’m sorry, but am I the only one that sees the irony here? I’m still the only white person in the class, and the teacher seems to like seeing me squirm so she called on me a lot last night.

I’m still looking for a good yoga class. If anyone has any suggestions on what type or method of yoga would be good, I’d appreciate the feedback!

I went to acupuncture today, got pinned, adjusted and by adjusted I mean cracked, had some kind of electrodes hooked up to my left bun and right leg that is supposed to help relax the spasms. And a lecture about not eating enough. Thank god for him though, I’d look like the hunchback of Orange County without him.

Something happens to me after acupuncture, everything feels all loose and fuzzy, my eyes get heavy and I wind up with an overwhelming desire to take a nap. Only I don’t sleep well during the daytime. The problem isn’t falling asleep, it’s that I wake up with my cheek covered in drool, not sure where I am or what my name is. Then I can never sleep at night. Sometimes I cry during the sessions, for reasons not always clear to me. Which also leaves me feeling a little vulnerable and raw after.

My cycle is now so messed up from the freak show of last cycle, and the Provera I have no idea what cycle day I am on, or what I should be listening to for the Circle and Bloom Meditations. I have 5 more days of Provera, probably another 5 or 6 days before shark week starts again, and who knows if after such a short cycle there will be follicles. Just one, normal, not scary cycle where I have a few follicles that become eggs in the proper timeline is it really so much to ask for?  The crazy of the last few months has been wearing on me. Other than giving my ovaries a stern talking to, I’m not really sure what else I can do. Plus since when did they ever listen to me any way.

My mother was in the hospital last week, diagnosed with congestive heart failure. It’s what my father passed away from so I know that while she may not pass tomorrow or the next day, the clock is ticking and its time to resolve whatever issues I/we have with each other. There are also some spots on her liver and kidneys that the Dr.’s say she requires chemo for but she has refused treatment. We are planning a trip to see her in the next few weeks.

A lot changes in a week. I know I need to refocus, and deal with one thing at a time, but right now I’m not even sure where to begin. Except I promised Dr Paul, I’d begin with dinner. So I will start there. I am nothing if not a person of my word.



I’m 2 months into blogging to receive a gift like this from Daryl Who I adore? Seriously? STFU! Shes amazing! I however am.. not.

I’ve not had much to write about lately unless you are interested in my persistent desire to learn Chinese. Mandarin this time. Or me looking for a yoga class. Or me finishing what is now the “meditation room”  upstairs meant for a baby that doesn’t exist.

To fill you in on the rest of my life, I produce video games. In fact I probably produce a video game that some of your husbands play. It’s an MMORPG. If you don’t know what that means, don’t ask. It has nothing to do with your fertility or your ability to bear or raise a child. I do however have a team of socially awkward 25 year olds that regularly come to me like I’m their den mother, asking how to get a girlfriend.

The conversation tends to be like this “Can I close your door?”  Sure.  “I am 24, 25, 26 and Id like a girlfriend.” Ok. Why is it you think I can help you with that? “Well you married a nerd so how does it work?” Note, serious stinkeye..It works like this, you take the foil off your windows, you hose yourself off once in a while, you wear something other than the t-shirt I’ve seen you in the last 5 days and you cut that shit you call a haircut. Tats or big earring gauges are lame because when you are 30 you will regret them. You are smart, you make a good living, other than that I don’t see a problem. Girls like smart guys. “Seriously? It’s that easy?”  Dude, get out of my office. I have actual work to do.

As a side project I am also in the middle of a documentary about my great uncles who established the first permanent movie studio in Hollywood. My roots in California run about as deep as anyone’s can which is about 3 generations unless you are Native American. Which I am not. Irish, Scottish, Pale blue..yes.

I’m also in progress of setting up a Q&A with the RE that treats me. Because in the end, Id really like him to know how intelligent some of the women who go to him are and I’d love for them  to get their questions answered logically in a way that makes sense to them. I also want to record it as a podcast, so it can be sent to others in the same situation.

Please feel free to email if you’d like to join the Q&A session, no topics are off-limits but space will be limited.


I live in an old house. It was built in 1933. The style is called California Monterrey. A style created by an Architect from the East Coast who modified a style of homes he loves, a more colonial style, to incorporate the adobe that was so plentiful in Southern California.

It’s not perfect but this is what it looks like from the front elevation. The wrought iron is horrible. From a true architects/artisan point of view.

My husband is an architect. A rather well published and talented one. Who has built a lot of houses for famous people. A lot of sports figures, and some actors and Hollywood types. He has his own firm. He’s a very successful man. He collects historic architecture books, often owned by famous architects. Its his passion. His first love, the single thing he relates to more in this world than anything. Except his daughter. Who I’ve written about before and who is extraordinary in her own right.

Which sometimes leaves me wondering why it is he loves me.

Because I am of average intelligence, average looks, average everything. Why would an extraordinary person love me? I am not special, I don’t come from a good family or an ivy league education.

In a way, we are two peas in a pod because we don’t have the family bonds that so many take for granted. We have each other. And that’s it.

Through this journey he doesn’t have a lot of words to encourage me because he doesn’t really know how. But he gardens, plants things in the back yard that he thinks will make me see that he loves me. Azaleas, Camellias, a Japanese Cherry tree. Things that go with the Japanese Maples, the stephanotis, the hydrangeas and the gardenias. Even though growing them is hard because the heat of the southern California summer make it difficult. But he endeavors through it.

In Southern California it’s unusual to find a house of this age, or a lot that hasn’t been subdivided somehow. Lots of people have more land than we do, lots of people live in bigger houses and lots of people have bigger yards. And bigger wiener dogs. I adopted him because my stepdaughter loved his long back and short legs and his sad face. She didn’t realize it was all an act, because Ive never seen that face again and he’s never sorry for anything he does wrong, he just shows me his butt.

The avocado tree is over 100 years old. It fruits over 1000 pounds a year. Ask my RE, I’ve brought at least 150 pounds of avocados to his office over 2 visits, because I am not above shamelessly bribing the women that work there to remember and to be nice to me.

From these things a journey is made. It’s who I am, where I live, how I think. It’s what I believe, and hopefully it’s where the baby I wish so much for, will live with us. There is a room ready for him or her, a room  that I painted last summer, whose floors I re-finished, and whose windows you can’t see because the tree blocks it, shading it, during the hottest part of August in a house with no air conditioning.

It’s an old house, with a lot of things I’d still like to change, and where with patience and tenacity we are changing them. Updating them. Restoring them. It’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a home. And it’s where those who I love most live.