Back in college, I lived in an apartment that we called the Poo-Poo Palace.  The name came from a friend’s apartment my freshman year.  He admitted as we walked to his place the first time that he lived in a shithole and when he opened the door for me, he said, “welcome to the poo-poohpalace.”  If his place was a shithole, then my apartment was… well… there are not words to end that sentence.

We signed the lease without having actually seen the apartment.  There is a long story to this, but what you need to know is about the actual space.  There were no flat surfaces.  You could put a marble on the floor, and it would keep moving around the room because the floor sagged and buckled strangely.  You also couldn’t stand upright in certain parts of the apartment because it was the top floor and the ceiling sloped.

The furniture was broken.  A favourite trick we had was to set up the cushions on the sofa so it looked as if you could sit down, and when a new person came over and they inevitably chose the couch, they would fall through to the floor.  Hours of laughter.  Really, the only safe place to sit was on top of the refrigerator (the kitchen chairs were a bit risky).  My grandmother used to have a picture up in her apartment of me sitting on top of the refrigerator. (Somehow she never noticed that the kitchen was entirely decorated with condom posters.)  Please remember that I lived in a state that had about 20 tornadoes per year.  This old, rickety house had an storm cellar that could only be reached from the outside a la the Wizard of Oz.

More than the unsound structure of the apartment, it’s really the other inhabitants of this building which makes talking about the poo-poo palace so amusing (for years, it was my go-to story at every party) — but that will be fodder for another post.

For the sake of this post, I want to talk about the name.  Without a name, it was this apartment that made me cry when I first walked through the door.  It was so awful.  With the nickname, it became wonderful in its awfulness.  I mean, yes, I took every opportunity possible to go over to other people’s apartments and hang out there, but I think anyone who knows me from the college years will remember the poo-poo palace fondly.  The dinner parties in the cramped, galley kitchen.  It’s proximity to Espresso Royale.  How many people fell through the sofa.

Photos from our apartment even appeared in The Onion (and yes, one time it was a picture from a sofa incident) — truly, it was a wonder to behold and I almost stayed an extra year there just for the stories.  I didn’t, because I’m not that insane, but almost.

The point, of course, is whether anyone would have wanted to spend time there; if The Onion would have wanted pictures from our apartment on the front page of the newspaper, if we hadn’t all lovingly bestowed this nickname on it.  If it had simply been Melissa’s apartment, would anyone have agreed to meet in my flat?  Or would they have insisted that we go hang out in a building that has flat surfaces and functional furniture?

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Josh recently sent me an essay on why nicknames matter.  That it creates a stronger bond within community, that it melds people to one another or to an entity at large.  Did I unconsciously do that when I named my site something kitschy like Stirrup Queens and early on referred to all infertile women as stirrup queens?

More than our community, it made me wonder if I’m unconsciously bonding the twins to me with nicknames so they never let me go.  I don’t think I’ve called them by their given names more than a handful of times.  The nicknames change from sentence to sentence — I have a large pool from which I draw for variation — but for over six years, the moniker rarely includes the names on their birth certificate.

More special than that is that the ChickieNob and I share a nickname, a practice that began while we were waiting for our pizza at a place in Northampton and we both lovingly started calling each other the same name.  She uses it interchangeably with Mommy, though she often also uses the name “Mrs. Ford” because she knows I despise it.

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When I was in middle school, the cutest boy at Hebrew school renamed me.  We were dancing together (not by his choice — we were partnered up by the teacher.  I was in Heaven.  He was probably indifferent to bored) and talking to be polite.  He said, “it’s really confusing that there are two Melissas here.  I’m going to call you Mickey.”  I didn’t particularly want to be called Mickey, but you don’t turn down a nickname by a cute boy.  It was proof — like a badge — that he had once paid attention to me; once noticed me.  When other people called me Mickey, it was like they were taking notice of that special status.

I spelled it Mici, just because you have to be different in middle school and choose the weird spelling.  I didn’t find out until many years later that “mici” in Romanian means “small.”  Very fitting since I am little.  So for years, I was called Mici, especially people who knew me even tangentially from the Hebrew School world.  Though even those who called me that then never call me that now.

It’s funny how much I needed people to call me that back then, back when it was important for people to know that the most popular boy in the area (he went to an all-boys school in town and he was one of those boys that every girl at every area school knew) gave me a nickname.  It elevated me.  I mean, realistically, I can look back and say that it didn’t truly change my social status, but it felt like it did a bit.  It gave me more confidence.  I was marked by him and that made me feel special.  It was probably a throwaway moment for him, one that I would be beyond shocked if he remembered (I would doubt that he would even remember me).  But it changed the way I saw myself; the way others saw me.

I’ve had a bunch of nicknames in life that I haven’t loved… by which I mean I actively despised them.  But there is something about being marked, about being chosen, about being renamed that defines you.  That even with the nicknames I haven’t loved being called, I’m always touched to have been called them (with the exception, of course, of the mean ones.  There’s teasing, and then there is needling-to-draw blood.  It’s a fine line, but I like to be on the right side of it).  That I entered someone’s consciousness enough that they used their energy to rename me.

What are some of the nicknames you have owned?  What are some you have given others?

Our local organic market sells a t-shirt that reads: there is no such thing as Mad Tofu Disease.  And while I’ll admit that I snickered when I first saw it, it’s also obnoxious.  It’s smug.

And yet, I have to admit that one of the benefits of being a vegetarian is that I always had this peace with my food chain.  It never weighed on my conscience that an animal gave up its life so I could continue mine.  I don’t have to think about slaughterhouse conditions.  And when I was in Europe during the height of the Bovine spongiform encephalopathy (BSE) fears, I breathed easy knowing that I never had to worry about consuming tainted meat.

Which is why it was all the more upsetting when I saw the report in the CBC News that “Brain-wasting prions found in fertility hormone.”  In other words,

Certain fertility hormones could theoretically put women at risk of developing brain-wasting Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.

At this point, the information is theoretical — there have been no cases reported of a woman developing from fertility treatments Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, the human form of BSE or Mad Cow Disease.  The report is meant to be proactive — to point out possible problems before they develop into actual transmissions.

And the risk is minimal.  As the articles state: “Given that CJD rates are low to start with — roughly one in 10,000 people suffer from the disease — the risk of transmission will likely remain low, even with the new finding.”

And let’s be realistic — CJD is probably the least of my medical problems based on what I’ve injected into me.  Beyond the possibility of directly related medical complications such as Ovarian Hyperstimulation Syndrome (OHSS), there are constant studies being done to see if fertility treatments contribute to an increased risk of breast, ovarian, or uterine cancers.

Yet why did this report give me pause?  Perhaps it’s because for me it signals just how much we don’t know about the solutions we create.  And please don’t get me wrong — I am grateful for those solutions and this is probably not going to stop me from using them again — but it does get to the heart of the matter.  That nothing is without risk.  And we need to make our decisions knowing that even if we don’t know the risks concretely, they’re out there and we always need to weigh in that x-factor when we decide to treat a problem.

And beyond that, it pushed me out of my nice, can’t-touch-me bubble; that one I was floating on by being a vegetarian.  Though this isn’t the first time that has happened.  A while back, I was examining a syringe of Lovenox and saw the words “porcine intestinal mucosa.”  Whoa… did that mean what I thought it meant?  Was Lovenox made from the intestinal mucous of a pig?  Er… that would be correct.

I went through a big mental block with that one — as a kosher vegetarian, where did injecting pig mucous into me fall?  Would I do it, albeit squeamishly for the sake of maintaining a pregnancy?  Would I draw the line at pig mucous?

I have to admit that I have an ignorance-is-bliss policy with medication.  While I scour the labels of food products with a fine-tooth comb for animal by-products, I don’t give my medications the same scrutiny.  Perhaps it is because what we eat is a choice and medication often isn’t.  While there may be a completely vegan alternative, many times there isn’t something as effective or trying to find it is next to impossible.

I wish I didn’t know about the manufacturing of Lovenox (and perhaps you have deep regrets over reading this post).  If I didn’t, it wouldn’t be an issue — I’d inject it with my eyes of the prize, completely ignorant of its origins.  But now that I know it, it becomes a question of ethics, a question of need.  I may still make the same decision as I would if I didn’t know the origins, but that decision feels different.

And the same can be said for this new study on the possible risk of CJD in urine-based fertility drugs. (As if the origins of these drugs don’t give enough pause.  Hmmm… which makes me throw-up in my mouth more?  Urine or pig mucous?)  If I didn’t know about the study, I would inject without another thought.  Knowing about the study, I will still probably inject, but it’s with a heavier hand if not a heavier heart.

How does this study (or knowing the origins of your drugs) affect your decision-making with fertility treatments?

For vegetarians and vegans, where do you fall on knowingly using animal by-products in medications or surgical procedures?

Cross-posted with BlogHer.

We ordered in Chinese food this weekend.  At the end of the meal, we cracked open our fortune cookies.  Even adding “in bed” didn’t help them.  They were the two most dour statements about human rights and caring.  Which I think is saying a lot.  Even I found them annoying and my joints practically creak “Kumbaya” every time I move.

Josh asked an excellent question: when did fortune cookies cease to tell us our fortune?  When did they stop telling us that we’d meet a mysterious stranger or come into a lot of money or that I love Chinese food?  Josh asked if it was a liability issue; in this litigation-happy world, are fortune cookie makers unwilling to make predictions and risk being sued when they don’t come true?  Because you know that lawsuit is right around the corner.

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I am a super-not-a-fan of cruises.  Whatever someone who loves cruises would be, I am the opposite of that.  I have no problem with boats — I like to spend the day on the water.  But the idea of putting what amounts to a traveling hotel on the water doesn’t appeal to me.  At all.

But if there was ever a theme that proved somewhat tempting, it would be the Bruise Cruise.

First and foremost, Ian Svenonius.  We always sing the twins his advice: “One kid who tells on another kid’s a dead kid who tells on another kid’s a dead kid who tells on another kid.”  Nation of Ulysses.  I even have a Cupid Car Club tape somewhere in the basement storage room.

Secondly, “they conga like a bar mitzvah crowd, too.”  Thirdly… well, there wasn’t a thirdly.  By the time I got to the end of the article, I had already decided that once again, nothing sounded worse than a cruise.

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I am considering getting a tattoo on my leg.  What is holding me back is not the permanence of it, but my fear over the possible crappiness of the tattoo artist.  What if he messes up my drawing?  I have something very specific in mind, and then I would have that permanently on my leg.  I’d rather have no tattoo than a bad tattoo.

As Josh and I debated this out — my lack of trust in all people who are doing things either permanent or temporary to my body — a new question arose.  If it were on my leg, would it affect the tattoo if I was constantly shaving over it?  And if I didn’t shave, would the picture look as if it were suddenly sprouting a beard?

I’d just like to reassure my mother that getting this tattoo is completely hypothetical at the moment since there is that aforementioned lack of trust in anyone doing anything to my body.

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Back in high school, I made a deal with the boy I showed my underpants to at camp that if we both weren’t married by 30, we’d get married.  I assumed it would be my safety net — he would obvious never find someone before that, but I assumed I would, and then I wouldn’t have to use the deal.  But, if on the off-chance I didn’t find someone by 30, I could live with the idea of being married to him.  At least, that is what I thought (and yes, I was that insufferable).

One day during college, he called and during this casual conversation, he dropped that he had started seeing someone very seriously.  He threw it in there, as if he DIDN’T REMEMBER THE DEAL WE MADE AT ALL.  And I was beyond livid.  How dare he find a serious girlfriend when I might possibly need him in the future?

Because it was all about meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

They broke up after a year or so.  I dated people.  He dated people.  I married Josh.  He married his wife.  We’re still in touch.  We never mention the deal.  I don’t even know if he remembers it at this point considering it has been sixteen years since we last discussed it.  It would be sort of awkward to bring it up right now.

I was on the phone with a friend, talking about the underpants story and how I’m obviously still scarred from that, and I mused that making that deal was really insane.  I had no concept in high school what marriage was actually like.  That it isn’t just an extension of dating.  That it’s hardcore, melding two lives.  It takes work.  And you need to be over-the-moon in love with the person in order to make that work not feel like work.

I lucked out that I never needed to put that deal to the test.  I mean, I really lucked out.  In a world of almost 6 billion people, it feels like miracle for any two people to come together much less ones that are so well-suited to one another.  I know how lucky I am every single day and I don’t take it for granted.  I have enough friends in difficult marriages to know what the otherwise looks like and my heart goes out to them.

Did you ever make a deal like that with a friend?  Did you use it?

One day, before Josh and I got engaged, we were at his aunt’s house and I turned to him and said, “do you want to go to Paris?”  I’m not sure if it’s still around today, but I used to be able to get very cheap flights via a predecessor to STA.  Like I went to Dublin for a little over $100 cheap.  I had never been to Paris, and I was just feeling romantic.  I didn’t really expect him to agree or for my boss to give me the week off, but a few days later, I found myself on an airplane, going to Paris, with this boy I really really loved.

And it fucking rocked.  Not planning it made it that much better.

I’m not usually a very impulsive person, at least not when it comes to spending money.  I mean, I’ll impulsively take the wrong turn to see where the road goes, but it has been a long time since I’ve plunked down cash without thinking it through deeply.  I’m the sort who only goes to Starbucks when I’ve planned to go to Starbucks.  I won’t even spend $4 without thinking it through even though I know there is somewhat of a high that comes from the occasional frivolous purchase.

I commented to Josh last weekend that some of the Broadway theaters were raising money for Japan relief efforts by auctioning off tickets, though they were for a day of the week that we couldn’t possibly get to New York.  He asked if I wanted him to buy me theater tickets to see “American Idiot” before it closed.  Just because.  I said yes, but before we could hash out the idea, think it through ad nauseam, he walked downstairs, secured babysitting, and purchased two tickets.  Done.

I have to admit, my first thought was nausea at the idea that we just plunked down that money on theater tickets and we hadn’t debated it to death.  And then I got really excited over the idea of having a few hours of adult time to see a play.  It has been about six years since I’ve been to a Broadway show.

After he handed me the printed out tickets and assuaged my oh-my-G-d-what-have-we-done fears, he pointed out that it had been over ten years since we’ve done something like that.  Since we turned to each other and said, “what the hell, want to go to Paris just because we’re in love?”  And suddenly, those tickets seemed like the most romantic gesture in the world.

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The Weekly What If: What if you were given $300 and told you have three minutes to spend it (to decide what you want; not 3 minutes to haul yourself to the store).  You can’t donate it, you do-gooder.  What would you buy?

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I am performing? presenting? reading? existing? in a Girls Night Out event in Washington, D.C. on April 7th at 7:3o pm for Life from Scratch.  There will be cocktails.  There will be backstories.  There will be shmoozing and networking and simply chilling with equally cool Washingtonians like yourself.  Putting this out there in case anyone would like to come along.

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I normally don’t subject you to the Wolvog’s music simply because there is so much of it and he runs heavily towards gamelan, but I really loved this guitar piece he wrote this week.  I like how it keeps moving from chaos to order.  Oh, and this one is brief as opposed to the disc he handed me recently that ran 50+ minutes.  It was a very painful car ride.

[audio:https://www.stirrup-queens.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/Song_converted.mp3]

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And now, the blogs…

IFSerenityNow has a post about using other people’s children as a barometer for the ones she doesn’t have.  She explains, “And every time I see my friend’s kids, the counting begins.  Seeing them is a constant reminder of how long we have been trying.  The journey that never stops.”  It’s a brief post, a sad post, but one that resonated with me.

Singular Desire has a really interesting post about a donor dilemma.  Namely, after never using the same donor twice, she wonders if she should return to the one who ultimately gave her a positive.  And beyond that, she muses on what her behaviour means; what hidden thoughts it reveals.  An interesting post.

Here We Go Again has a post about the in-betweenness of a mid-term loss.  While it’s technically classified as a miscarriage, she has had a miscarriage and this feels different, yet it also is distinct from a stillbirth.  Our language simply lacks in this department; we feel very unique things, yet our words lump all experiences together.  She writes so achingly: “There is something so, so different for a baby that I labored for, delivered, held, kissed, named, and called a funeral home for.  I’m in an in-between place, stuck between two definitions.”

Lastly, I loved this reminder about reaching out from Creating Motherhood.  She writes, “It’s the days after a tragedy that can be the hardest to deal with. The immediate rush of love and support sort of fades away and you are left standing on an island with a giant suitcase full of emotions and feel like there is no one there to help you unload them.”  She has a fantastic idea.

The roundup to the Roundup: I’m spontaneous every 10 years or so.  Answer the Weekly What If.  I’m doing an event in D.C. for Life from Scratch.  The Wolvog rocks out.  And lots of great posts to read.

I would probably classify myself as an “initial optimist.”  During the first few hours, days, even weeks of a wait (completely dependent upon the expected wait time.  If I expect to hear something by the end of the day, I’m optimistic for a few hours.  If I don’t expect to hear something for months, I’m optimistic for a few weeks), I am extremely positive.  I’m daydreaming about the goal, I’m fully expecting to hear good news, I believe all the facts I have on-hand.

Maybe even the most hardcore optimists go through moments of doubt, but I call myself specifically an “initial optimist” because I am also a “secondary pessimist.”  I literally do a 180, lose all sense of hope, and immediately go into a place mentally where things won’t work out, where I won’t hear good news, where I will be disappointed or devastated.  Even when my worst fears aren’t realized, it does nothing to change the cycle during the next wait or even to process the wait that just happened differently.

For me, these two phases go hand-in-hand: initial optimism/secondary pessimism.

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I am usually waiting on a whole host of items at the same time.  Some of them are long-range goals that don’t have a set delivery date, such as family building.  Other items are less emotional in nature such as freelance work that I’m waiting to hear about by a certain date or an answer to a question that you’d expect to receive within a time frame.

There is no rhyme or reason to whether the waiting bothers me.  I can be extremely busy and simultaneously anxious about the wait.  And I can be extremely busy and not paying attention to the wait.  And of course, all other options are equally true.  Compartmentalizing seems wholly out of my control — I can’t stop myself from being anxious some days and more than I can make myself anxious when I’m not feeling particularly worried about something.

I’m not sure why we think emotions can be controlled towards one direction (not being anxious) if we know they can’t be controlled towards the other (making ourselves anxious when we’re not worried).  I mean, if I can’t force myself to be anxious, then why do people believe that we can just deep breathe and make ourselves calm?

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You know there are all those what ifs where you talk about the things you’d do to get one more hour, one more day, one more week of life?  We obviously cherish life because people are willing to do some pretty insane things in order to gain even a few more minutes of time with people they love.

And what do we do with that time?  We wish it away.  We wish time would hurry up and bring us whatever we’re waiting for.  We wish time would speed by so we can have the answer and be out of limbo.

Perhaps it would be more helpful if we could defrag life like a hard drive, eliminating out all the waits and shoving moments together in order to clear up space for more productive things.

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What are you waiting for specifically right now?