I Am Not Extraordinary

My parents were masters of making me feel like I was the smartest most fabulous kid out there.  In hindsight, I see that I was the only fish in their pond and so of course, I would have all of these superlatives thrown at me. Plus, I was quite the over achiever and they were “modern parents”.

As I grew up and waded into larger and larger ponds, though, I began to realize that while I was still pretty darn special (special in a good way, not in a knowing wink-wink way), there were literally thousands of kids just like me.  What was worse, there were thousands of kids who were smarter, more talented and more everything than me.  That was hard to realize and even harder to accept.

These days, I am mostly comfortable with who I am and what I’ve accomplished.  I finally realized that I needed to compare myself only to the plan that I had for my life, not with the accomplishments of others. On that scale, I’m doing pretty darned well.

Some days, though, that’s hard.  Like when you hear an interview with a woman who is your age and has just won a MacArthur Genius Grant.  What have I done with my life that would warrant a $500,000 no strings attached grant?

Nada. Zilch-o. Zippity-Do-Nah.

And you know what? That’s ok.

I admit, it did burn a little, even though I desired to be a marine biologist for about 5 minutes when I was 7 (although what girl didn’t dream about being a marine biologist when they were younger? I swear, for a few years there  it was the stock answer to the question of your future career).

Mr. X and I discussed this question of extraordinary-ness on one of our recent evening walks with Rex (who added to the conversation by babbling and gurgling from behind his little red stroller curtain).  He is very wise, Mr. X.  He reminded me that the measure of my life is the love that it is in it and what I do to make me happy.   Rex raspberried at that moment, probably to reinforce this.

He’s right. As usual.  Right, right and right.  And I know that I am happy with who I am, whether or not I’m given $500,000 for being fabulous.  Maybe I should start playing the lottery, though, just in case.

Mysteries Abound

There are strange things afoot in the X Household, people.  Very strange things. 

Take for example, the Case of the Missing Library Book.  I have never lost a library book that I can recall – I may have returned some with little bite marks on their covers from a certain kitty who like to sink his fangs into paper, but I haven’t ever not returned one.  My streak may be coming to an end, as I am completely at a loss.  My last memory was finishing it in my super comfy chair in the living room and placing it on the ottoman.  It has now vanished.  Mr. X is not in the habit of touching my books so I don’t think he move it.  The cleaning ladies were here last week – maybe they moved it to a space known only to them.  I have looked everywhere I can think. Bel Canto, where are you?!

Then there is the Case of the Missing Pitcher.  It’s quite large and Mr. X has managed to hide it somewheres I can’t see.  It was in this last load in the dishwasher and Mr. X emptied the dishwasher – but now, it is nowhere to be found.  And, it’s so large, there’s not that many places he could put it.  He’s also out of town until tomorrow, so I’m out of luck until then.  Either I have a lot more hiding places in my kitchen or he is just trying to mess with my head.

There is also the Mystery of Progesterone Dosage.  Nurse to a T called this morning with the results of my endometrial biospy from the mock cycle.  This was the pretend cycle to determine how to do the for real FET cycle.  Turns out, there is a discrepancy of a day between the day of my cycle that the test results say I was at when I had the biopsy and the actual day of my cycle that I was at.  So, Dr. Uterus has ordered the slides to view for himself and then will make a determination as to how much progesterone should be used.  So, I guess the mock cycle was a good idea after all.  I hate it when he’s right – and he is just decent enough to not invoke the “I told you so”.  The good news is that we are still on for an 8/8/8 transfer.  Luckily that corresponds to the date, not the number of embryos we are putting back. 

Yet another mystery: the source of leaks in the back yard.  Areas of spongy wet grass when we haven’t had rain in a while = leak.  Damn.  Visions of backhoes and digging are already dancing in my head.

And, the last mystery for today: why Fluffy barfed up all of his dinner last night and wouldn’t come down for breakfast this morning.  That one at least has a likely answer: I put on his flea treatment Wednesday night and it’s new to them: Revolution.  He must have licked some because he managed to puke up everything in his little stomach and unlike his brother, he needs to eat all he can!  The good news is he ate some breakfast and was chirping at me when I would stop by and say hello.  We’ll see how he does for dinner (eating – not being eaten).

Any clues as to these mysteries would be greatly appreciated.

Requisitioned

Marriage (or “mawage” as I love to say – thank you Peter Cook!) requires a certain amount of compromise for it to be successful.  When the mister and I became engaged to be married, we each had essentially complete households – I in my apartment and him in his house.  So, when it finally did come time for us to join households, we had a lot of decisions to make about what stuff would stay and go.

We managed to reach compromises on just about everything – my entertainment center was sold because he already had one and it fit better in his living room.  We had bought a bed together before I moved in and so his old mattress set was sent packing (and not a day too soon – it was deplorably uncomfortable).  Our cooking utensils were joined together and instructed to get along with each other (which they do to this day).  I had no problem, however, losing my silverware since I wasn’t particularly fond of it. 

The one item that we did not see eye to eye about was my television.  I will admit that I am a TV person and I have been since I was very young. I could so win any 80s pop culture quiz. I remember MTV back when they played videos and I know where sliming came from on Nickelodeon.  As I have gotten older, I have had less and less interest in the boob tube, but it is still comforting to have the box nearby, even if now a days it stays dark for at least 21 hours a day.

So, when it came time to decide who’s set would go, because we did not need two, I pulled out all the stops to make sure that mine was the winner: mine was newer and nicer (Sony Vega flat screen) although it was heavier than a ton of rocks and extremely awkward to carry.  The only benefit his had: it was bigger.  Yes, ladies, apparently there is another arena where size matters. Mine was sold to our friends from India – who have it to this day – and love it as if it were their own. We did end up getting rid of the mister’s about a year or two years later when we got our current TV.

That brings me to this most recent of compromises.