Just in time for Halloween.

Jenna’s recent post about her experience with a psychic made me think of my own trip to Sister P*. When we were trying to conceive our first children, her prophecy brought me a modicum of comfort. When we were pregnant with the twins, it made me physically ill. And now, I can’t help but feel a little stifled by the notes she made me promise I would keep.

But I should probably back up to how I came to be sitting in Sister P’s cramped, lawn-ornament-filled shack…right?

A long time ago, my sister had a women’s group who got together once a month. The host chose the topic. One woman taught them how to invest money and another taught about quilting (I remember the investing money one; but the quilting one was thrown in there just to balance the sentence. Sorry, the club is part of my sister’s memories. The rest of this experience is my own).

One host brought them all to a psychic.

I have to admit that I’m not that into psychics. I’m not 100% sure I would want to know my fate. If it was good, it would obviously bring great peace along the way. Or would it? Would I ever believe the next thing on the list even if all the ones before it came true? Beyond that, if it was terrible, I would probably laugh it off in the moment, but the words would stick with me forever. This happened for a friend who was so taken with the story I’m about to tell that she drove out to see Sister P (driving, I should mention, about 14 hours one-way to the midwestern state where Sister P lives) who told her that she would struggle with money for the rest of her life and die without ever attaining the marriage or children she sought. At 36, my friend is still single, still childless, and still struggling with money. Not every prophecy is something you want to know beforehand.

My name came up during my sister’s reading. When my sister sent her then-husband to the psychic for his reading, my name came up again. My sister asked if I would want to see Sister P next time I came out to visit her. I really wasn’t sure. On one hand, I didn’t want the information, but on the other, there was a psychic who was asking about me. Overall, I was in a pretty terrible place in life during that time and it was sort of like dangling a ticket out of Hell in front of my face and then asking, “do you really want it? It may get you back to earth. It may take you somewhere far worse.” Who wouldn’t want to know if they were doomed to remain in the same cycle forever?

I went to see the psychic.

Sister P lived on a psychic compound, a metaphysical church complete with graveyard and tiny cottages reminiscent of the gingerbread houses of Oak Bluffs on Martha’s Vineyard except with less gingerbread and more faded wood. Rickety. Each cottage was one-and-a-half stories with a dilapidated porch. Sister P’s was covered with children’s toys. There were no children in sight. In fact, there were no people in sight at all. My sister took her dog with her to walk in the deserted graveyard.

I sat on the porch, shivering and wishing I had brought heavier clothes, when the door opened. Out walked a squat, greying, brown-haired woman with tight curls and glasses that gave her a look of perpetual surprise. Without speaking, she enveloped me in a hug and then simply said, “you came.”

She ushered me into the cottage, asking as she laughed to herself. “What was a nice Jewish girl like you doing at a Buddhist monastery this week?”

A few days before I left home to visit my sister, I had gone up to the Peace Pagoda in Leverett, Massachusetts, a few miles from my home. I went there probably once a week, either to sit at the pagoda and think or to speak with one of the nuns who was a friend of a friend. It’s still a place I always need to visit whenever we’re in Western Massachusetts.

I’m not usually pegged for Jewish. Latina, Middle Eastern, Italian…sure. I wear nothing that would mark me as Jewish–no religious jewelry, for instance. But I could roll with the idea that Sister P knew my heritage. My sister could have even put her up to that. But the Buddhist monastery was confusing because my sister didn’t know that I went up there at all. Only my friend Pete and the nuns knew about my visits to the Peace Pagoda.

Sister P had a lawn chair set up in the center of the room in front of a mahogany desk. She sat behind the desk and I sat down in the lawn chair. The room was packed with lawn ornaments. Hundreds and hundreds of cement lawn ornaments–on the floor, stacked on top of shelves, toppling over in piles. It was fairly dark in the room. Sister P asked me if I had brought any paper and asked me to take notes. She said she was going to go through some things in my past so I would believe her when she told me about things in my future.

And then she began.

to be continued…

*I googled her name and it came up immediately so…I’ll leave it at Sister P.

Updated at bottom:

Every bartender of invisible drinks needs a cocktailatrix* to invent martini recipes and daiquiri bases. Bond has Q and Alton Brown has W.

And I have Mr. Badger.

In honour of his wife, the infamous LJ, Mr. Badger has composed a drink for the October Lushary–to bring good luck to her and to all people when cycling. It is called the October Egg-Stravaganza.

It has Brown Honey Rum in it. How can you go wrong with Brown Honey rum?

Even if you can’t drink because you are currently in the two week wait, you could certainly sit down at the bar for an imaginary version. The price is right–simply tell your story in exchange for an invisible drink that tastes like a melted cherry lollipop.

(Clears throat) Could everyone please raise their glass? Mr. Badger would like to toast his wife:

“To my dearest wife: Your absolute bravery in the face of this seemingly endless battle never ceases to amaze me. I have no doubt whatsoever that our marriage has been strengthened by this trial and that our children will be all the more special to us because of the great lengths that we went though to bring them into this world. So here’s to hope: hope for the future, hope for new adventures, and hope for a long and happy life together surrounded by the ones that we love.”

Okay, dry your eyes and blow your nose and line up–I’m pouring invisible drinks.

As always, it has been about a month since we met, bitched, cried, comforted, and caught up each other on our cycles and lives. Pull up a seat and I’ll pour you a drink. Let everyone know what is happening in your life. The good, the bad, the ugly. The knitting project you started to distract yourself from your upcoming beta, the fight you had with your mother-in-law, or the half hour you spent in the office bathroom crying because your coworker announced her pregnancy. My only request is that if a story catches your eye, you follow it back to the person’s blog and start reading their posts. Give some love, give some support, or laugh with someone until your drink comes out of your nose.

I have a ton of assvice in my back pocket and as a virtual bartender, I will give it to you unless you specifically tell me that this is simply a vent and you do not want to receive anything more than a hug.

So if you have been a lurker for a while, sit down and tell us about yourself. Remember to provide a link or a way for people to continue reading your story (or if you don’t have a blog–gasp!–you can always leave an email address if you’re looking for advice or support. If not, people can leave messages for that person here in the comments section too). If you’re a regular at the bar, I’ll get out your engraved martini glass while you make yourself comfortable. And anyone new, welcome. I’m glad you found this virtual bar.

For those who have no clue what I’m talking about when I say that the bar is open, click here to catch up and then jump into the conversation.

Happy Drinking.

*It wasn’t until I was watching Iron Chef this weekend, after I had already named Mr. Badger, that I learned that a cocktailatrix is formally called a mixologist. But that just sounds stupid, so cocktailatrix it is. Master of the Cocktail.

Update:

If you are not too drunk, one of our usual bar regulars needs some support:

Steinbockfrau received terrible news this week. She was participating in a shared egg program for IVF–not only to help another woman but to make IVF possible for herself–and in the stimming portion of the cycle when her cycle was abruptly canceled due to a positive Hep C test. The test is most likely a false positive since it has never come back positive before and she is in a low-risk group. But this has obviously affected her recipient who was doing this cycle with her. After much string pulling, she has been allowed to continue stims until her subsequent test results come back in case she can continue the cycle. She will know the results and the fate of this cycle tomorrow (Wednesday). Please go over and give her your support. She has removed the password-protection from her blog. Leave her a drink and a virtual hug.

My friend, Amy, is currently in between boyfriends. I asked her if I could pimp her out on my blog. She answered with a sarcastic, “um….sure.” I’m going to take that sarcastic “um…sure” to be an enthusiastic “yes, please” and go for it.

You must know people in Portland, Oregon or the surrounding area (she isn’t against a long-distance relationship if the other party is actually interested in putting forth the extra work this requires). Even if you only know one person in the upper Northwest, they must know other people who live in their area. Therefore, this was the perfect medium to make an online shidduch. A couple thousand people involving a couple thousand people to bring two people together.

So…let’s start.

First of all, Amy is pretty, smart, funny, and kind. Which is sort of bland…right? I mean, all of those words are subjective so I thought it would work better if I described her with stories and analogies. Amy is the type of person who will try anything. One morning, she told me over breakfast that she was leaving her job and bicycling through Southeast Asia. Even though she didn’t have a lot of experience on either a bicycle (at the time) or with Southeast Asia. And she did it. Where other people simply have ideas, Amy puts things in action.

I have described her as that feeling you get when you walk into your house and close your door and can finally be yourself after a long day. It is so easy to talk with her and be with her. She is honest and funny and a great listener. She is sassy and smart and she can hold her own. She is loud and brash and makes you think about bubbles shooting out of a newly-opened bottle of seltzer more than the quiet whispers of carbonation in a glass of champagne. She is going to make sure that you feel like you can be yourself too.

She loves to be outdoors and she reminds me of those strong trees that weather through every storm, only becoming more beautiful, endearing, and precious with age. She is most comfortable in a space where she can be near mountains and the ocean and rivers. She is the kind of person who can move through the outdoors as easily and comfortably as she navigates the indoors. And I think it speaks to her ability to adapt and bend. She makes the most out of every situation.

The fine details: 33 years old, Jewish, one brother, great parents (love them), family is in New York, originally from Madison, Wisconsin.

If you would like to set up your friend with my friend, email me at thetowncriers@gmail.com and I will forward all messages on to her. If you don’t know anyone in Portland but still want to help, please cut-and-paste the message above into an email and forward it out to friends and family who may know of someone in the Portland area who would be a good fit. And encourage them to keep forwarding it until we have made a shidduch for my Amy. In doing so, you can rest easy that you are closer to getting into Heaven since you are apparently granted automatic admission if you make three shidduchs while on earth. After you’re dead, I mean. You won’t keel over by helping my Amy.

So please help me pimp my bride. Oh, and you can leave her a message here too in the comments section.

This also my open call for all future pimpage. I’ve always wanted to be a matchmaker, so send anyone along who is looking to be set-up through an extremely pushy, extremely dedicated Jewish woman. Siblings, friends, yourself–no worries.

My dad is writing a book. As he finishes pages, he sends them my way and I get to read the story as it unfolds. How cool is that? The story is incredible–erudite science fiction in the vein of a Jasper Fforde. History meets time travel (with rules in place that are incontrovertible). Jazz meets Georgetown. I have a date with the book this weekend–just me and the pages and a white chocolate mocha. I am looking forward to relaxing and reading it more than I can express.

Time travel made me think of superpowers which brings me to my question of the week: if you were a superhero, what would your power be and how would it work?

At first, I thought I would be Fertigirlie, an infertile crusader placing babies in the bellies of all wanting women.

I would fly into fertility clinics, zapping embryo-laden catheters with my superpowers and plumping uterine lining with my x-ray gaze. REs would chuckle as they held up their hands as a sign of defeat. “You don’t need me anymore, Mrs. Smith,” they would say, motioning to their staff to retreat from the patient so I could do my work. “Fertiegirl is here.”

But then I started considering the larger possibilities and finally settled on Communagirl. Because there are families that want to come together via adoption and others that want to come together through step-parenting or co-parenting or other formations. And the power I would really like to have is to bring families together by any means they desire. To speed up adoption paperwork or make fertility treatments a promise rather than a chance. To match donors with a system that protects all parties’ hearts and to ensure safe pregnancies that come to term.

And others do not necessarily need help with conception, but could use a magic salve that could bridge differences within family. Antidotes that could salvage damaged friendships. A magic shield that surrounds the person as they enter into an uncomfortable family situation, protecting them from nicked feelings and leaving them with the desire to return to family after the visit.

Communagirl.

Oh–and if I can’t do that, I would like to be able to fly. Or at least become invisible.

Your turn: what is your power and how would you use it?

Now, the blogs:

Geohde at Mission: Impossible Infertile has a very cool post up right now about cross-pollination. Not of the insect and bird variety, but bloggers pollinating other blogs. Participants will be literally be exchanging and publishing each other’s posts, with readers trying to guess the original author. No need for links or clicks in order to be exposed to a new blog–it will be directly on your regularly-read list. Wait–don’t take my description of it–go over to Mission: Impossible and read it for yourself. And then join up because it seems just the thing we need to combat the lull that comes after the sugar high of Halloween.

Jenna at Epiblog has a heart-wrench, spine-tingling post this week on the anniversary of her son’s death chronicling a visit to a psychic. It is hard to get the words of a psychic out of your head once the predictions are stated. I have only been to a psychic once and the reading both thrilled me and frightened me simultaneously (perhaps that needs to be its own blog post and how my reading related to infertility as well). There is that scene in Big Fish when the boys are looking into the witch’s eye (am I remembering this correctly?) to see their future. And I wonder which would be better–to know and prepare yourself or to let it unfold with hope still in your corner (however fleeting)? Regardless, this is a must-read post.

Kir at Kir’s Corner has a post about her mother now that she is becoming a mother. Her mother lately has been full of advice, and that advice is spilling into conversations with Mr. Kir too, prompting Kir to ask her, “Mom, you raised me, got a BA, an MA and had an extraordinary career, while having three kids, I watched you do, you made me a strong, capable woman, so why don’t you believe that what you instilled in me would come in handy now?” I imagine it is quite difficult to watch your baby girl (or your baby boy) turn into a mother herself and realize your job is done. Well, except it’s not done. I think there is an ache when you think your job is complete. But I imagine it is more of a transformation where you need to learn a new set of skills but there is a lot of carry-over from the old job. You may miss the old position, but the new one is pretty exciting too. I know it speaks volumes about my anxiety level but I cry every time I hear Ben Folds sing “Gracie” for his daughter: ” One day you’re gonna want to go / I hope we taught you everything you need to know.” And sometimes Moms just have to shout those last bits of advice, review the major points they hope they made, before they turn from mother to grandmother.

Lastly, a sad but true post from Wordgirl at Blood Signs. She laments that it is just a numbers game. Her thoughts flow: “The magical thinking: Oh, but there was the spotting 9dpiui — and maybe my hCG’s just low…it’s happened before — I’ve read it. Fucking google. Sad and unable to write much else — or frankly do much else other than crawl under the covers. I try to tell myself that my happiness and my being are not defined by the ability to have a biological child. I keep trying to tell myself. Where’s my equanimity — the wonderful settled glow yesterday that I felt so sure — that this would all be okay — that we will have a child?” It’s beautiful writing that rings very true.

Have a wonderful weekend. Wait, before you click away, which superpower do you wish you could master and how/when would you use it? Okay, now you can have a wonderful weekend.

We were walking out of the bookstore and I spotted a stack of Deceptively Delicious cookbooks on one of the front tables. I showed the cover to the Wolvog and ChickieNob and then told them pointblank, “I’m going to cook something from this next week and trick you. You’re going to eat it and then I’m going to scream, ‘it was full of spinach’.” And they laughed. They laughed and laughed and I laughed and laughed.

And then I went home and plotted.

I have to admit, when I first saw this cookbook, I didn’t get it. I started skimming through the recipes, noting that there were a bunch of purees at the start of the book. Make your own baby food, I thought. But then I started noticing that all the recipes were a little…off. For instance, my brownies have butter, cocoa, and sugar in them. Jessica Seinfield laces hers with carrot and spinach puree.

The woman is an evil genius.

Every recipe in the book is healthy. It’s food kids love–quesadillas, spaghetti and meatballs, pizza–but all made with fruits and vegetables tucked into the ingredients list like covert spies in a dangerous land.

The Wolvog has been described by some as a “picky eater.” I, myself, call him love-wrapped-in-skin-who-happens-to-not-enjoy-anything-other-
than-eight-things. But to each their own. His eight foods? Vegetarian bacon, grilled chicken, cream of broccoli soup, peanut butter and jelly, pancakes, pizza, whole wheat Wheat Thins, and yogurt. Sometimes a food is rotated off the list. For instance, pizza was an acceptable dinner option for a while and then went out of vogue and has since come back in style along with banana clips and stirrup pants. Veeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeery rarely is a food added.

I started with the pancakes figuring that (1) he will eat pancakes and (2) sweet potatoes are one of his most dreaded foods. When the ChickieNob (who eats pretty much anything) is chomping down on sweet potatoes, he rolls around dramatically in his high chair, moaning while keeping his hands over his mouth. I once tried a different “pancake-like” egg recipe from Kids Cook 1-2-3, which is a very cool cookbook where every recipe requires only three ingredients. I renamed them “cloud pancakes” since the Wolvog does not eat eggs. He said they were delicious so I ran with the idea of introducing everything in the form of pancakes.

He was a little suspicious at first–the colour is a bit off from normal pancakes–and watched me bustle about the kitchen in an attempt to hide my guilty face. But then he started eating them absentmindedly, chatting on about cell phones and iPods while he emptied his plate.

“Do you like those pancakes?” I asked him, motioning towards his plate.

“They’re sweet!” he said, dipping another piece in his maple syrup.

It took every ounce of my being not to start shrieking: “they’re full of sweet potatoes” as if I were announcing that soylent green is people.

I’m really proud of the Wolvog. I am not quite as proud of myself. I could not bring myself to try the sweet potato pancakes (I also couldn’t bring myself to try the cloud pancakes). I don’t have a problem eating vegetables–after all, I am a vegetarian–but I couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea of knowing that there were root vegetables in the pancakes. It’s my own hang-up. I can eat the sweet potato and I can eat the pancake. But together?

Do you think the Wolvog inherited this from me?

The New York Times recently had an article about how picky eaters inherit this tendency from their parents. I may have given him a gag reflex that begins simply with the smell of an undesired food; but Jessica Seinfeld has given me the secret medicine to combat picky-eater-itis: Deceptively Delicious.