A few days after I lost my grandmother, the traveling began and it kept everything at bay for two weeks.  There wasn’t time to sit and think; if I was at home, I was moving the twins through life or preparing for a trip or cleaning up from a past one.

And I knew this would happen.  I said it would happen.  I told Josh that November 15th would roll around, the travel would be over, and it would be like removing my hand from over the wound.  You just never know if it is starting to heal or still bleeding until you peek.

Last night, I was baking cookies for our volunteer project and this is the thought that keeps returning: I can never ask a question again.  I prepared for this.  One afternoon, many years ago, my cousin and I went to visit her and asked her dozens of questions about the past.  There is a tape somewhere in the basement that I made that day.  I have the family tree recorded, my favourite recipes copied, her health history memorized.  But it feels like there are still things to know, things I forgot to ask.  And now it’s too late.

A few nights ago, the ChickieNob was holding a stuffed animal I didn’t recognize and when I asked her where it came from, I have to admit that I thought the answer would be Lindsay because it was similar to a teddy bear at her house.  “Grandma S gave it to me,” she said carefully.

And, of course, I started to cry.  I had to explain to her that I wanted to talk about Grandma S, that I was glad she brought her up.

I don’t want them to ever feel scared to bring her up with me.  I was that child–the one who never wanted to discuss people who had died because I was so worried that the adults would start crying.  And I’m still that child sometimes.  I didn’t understand that I hadn’t made them sad with my question or comment, any more than the ChickieNob made me sad by sleeping with a stuffed animal my grandmother gave her.  The sadness is there regardless–the questions merely move it from the basement to the foyer.  The damn emotions are still taking up space in your heart, regardless of where they reside in your figurative house.

By which I mean, they’re still boxes you need to shlep with you if you move.  Your emotional baggage.

It’s something those in the community healing after a loss probably know well.  That you want to talk about it, you want to remember.  Talking and crying; it’s all part of the healing process.  That it would feel wrong to suddenly stop talking about her as if she hadn’t existed.  That the tears aren’t a sign that the person should stop–hold back their words–but instead, the tears are simply a human response to the grief that stirs up like sand at the bottom of the Chesapeake after a fish passes by.  It settles again into a new smoothness.  We wouldn’t ask the fish to stop swimming.  I would never ask the ChickieNob or Wolvog to hold back their questions and commentary.  It stirs things up, but it can also be a good thing to move sand around.

I have been having wonderful luck lately with meeting other bloggers.  Last week, it was Serenity and Somewhat Ordinary.  This week, it was Baby Shmaybe, To Baby and Beyond, and Palemother.

Last weekend, I was in Detroit doing a book reading.  What?  You don’t have a copy of Navigating the Land of If?  Well, you should remedy that and get yourself one.

First I met, Baby Shmaybe, who shall not be pictured as per her request, but she is simply lovely.

Then, Palemother came up after the reading which made me emotional because I didn’t know she would be there.

And then, I met To Baby and Beyond, who came with her sister, which was all kinds of cool.  And I’m so glad that I got to give her a big hug.

I am so incredibly lucky that I get to meet bloggers that I read face-to-face.

After the reading, I sat in the lobby for a bit and signed books.  Which, you know, makes a lovely present and is the perfect answer for all those pesky holiday questions about family building.  When they ask, just hand them a copy of the book.

If you could meet any blogger in this exact moment in time, who would you want to meet.  Meaning, not the blogger you most want to meet overall, but scrolling down your mental blogroll for a moment, who would be the best person to fit your mood in this moment.  You know how at different times, you’re in the mood for different people?  So, this exact second, who would it be with the understanding that ten minutes from now, it might be a different person.

I think, in this exact moment in time, I would want to be sitting cross-legged on top of a blanket with Vee at the beach.  Maybe in the late afternoon.  With a thermos of milky tea.  And a chocolate bar.  I’ve always wanted to see Australia, and I think a talk would be good.  If Bea and Eden could join us, all the better.

So I’m pouring drinks while you think about that question and catch us up on your life.

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. 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 (or if this is your first open bar as someone who found this space through IComLeavWe), 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 back on this current post.

So have an imaginary cocktail and tell us what is up with your life.

There’s an astronaut, currently on the Atlantis, who will be missing the birth of his child.  Which, you know, sucks hardcore on a base level, but add to that the fact that the couple is infertile and were told she would never be able to maintain a pregnancy and well…I think you all understand.

As Josh pointed out, people married to astronauts are more understanding of that sort of thing, having mentally prepared themselves for the possibility of their partner going on a space flight, much in the same way that those who have a partner serving in the armed forces know that their partner may be deployed during an IVF cycle or a birth.

But come on, he’s not even on the planet.

They do have an older child via adoption–a boy–and this child will be a girl.  So they are already parenting, though the arrival of every child–from the first to the 19th (if you’re the Duggars)–is important.

Still, I love how the mother puts it in perspective–“After being told for five years that we’d never have a biological child, I can’t squabble about a delivery date.”  So I just want to send out good wishes to the Bresnicks.  May it be an easy delivery for Rebecca, and a safe return home for Randy.

Directions: answer the question in the comment section.  Then leave a comment on the blog of the commenter directly before you (so it’s a chain.  #2 comments on #1, #3 comments on #2, etc.  If the commenter above you didn’t leave an address, just go one above that.  The point is to find new blogs/leave a comment–not stress).  The first person who comments gets a free ride and does not need to leave any comments.  The last person who comments gets…screwed.  My answer below the picture.

In case you can’t read it, the card states: DESCRIBE THE BEST TEACHER YOU EVER HAD.

My answer (because if I put it in the comments below, I’d mess up the chain): this was really hard because I kept juggling different choices.  Do I go with my high school physics teacher who was so great that I still remembered the formulas today?  Or my mentor from grad school?  Or my kindergarten teacher (I can tell you who isn’t on my list: my bitch nursery school teacher who didn’t let me sit next to the boy I had a crush on for the last Shabbat and instead sat me next to the boy with poison oak)?  I’m going to go with two because…hey…it’s the Ungame and anything goes.

#1: my college professor, Ron Kuka, who gave me coffee if I swung by his office in the winter before I walked up the hill, who was such an incredible writer himself that he made me fall in love with the short story, and who brought out the best in me as a student.  I can never thank him enough for all that he taught me about writing and the road he set me on.

#2: The story behind these words is too hard for me to write about, but I once had a professor–a woman–tell me that I had to get a thicker skin and essentially unlearn everything I knew about being a nice girl.  That I needed to stop being meek and grab the world by the cock and kick it in the balls for good measure.  She told me that there would always be people in the world who would try to bring me down and I had two choices, to kick them in the figurative balls or to drop out of everything and have nothing to show for my life in the end.  And while she may sound like a big bitch from this tough love talk, she inspired me to stick up for myself, to take what I rightfully earn, and to work my ass off.  And while she really wanted me to unlearn the nice girl, instead, I kept nice Melissa around and tempered her with the ability to deliver a few knee thrusts to the proverbial groin, but only when she really really needs to do so.

I was standing on the street corner, trying to juggle my cell phone, purse, and shopping bag when a stretch limousine stopped beside me at a traffic light.  The back window rolled down and I shit you not, Brad Pitt stuck his head out the window and said, “Mel.”

I know.

So I looked around as if there was someone else nearby and he laughed and said, “Hey Stirrup Queen, hop in.”

And even though my mother is going to kill me for getting in a car with a stranger, I got into Brad Pitt’s stretch limo.  My heart was pounding so quickly that I couldn’t even hear what he was saying, something about finding the site, and IVF, and recognizing me from the BlogHer video.  It was the most surreal moment I’ve had in my life.

Okay, that didn’t actually happen.

But I did end up in the back of a stretch limo this evening.

A few months ago, right before BlogHer, I was contacted by this very cool documentary maker who wanted to pick my brain about a four part television program she wanted to make for PBS examining the health issues for women from birth (really the teen years) to death (more like your 80s).  And I absolutely loved her and wanted to be part of this project so badly.  Except it was in Chicago.  And I live in DC.

A few weeks ago, she wrote and asked if I wanted her to fly me out to Chicago to be part of this series and while I wanted to very badly there were two issues: (1) I have been a class-A freak lately about traveling on my own and the thought scared the bejebus out of me and (2) I had a reading in Detroit the same weekend.  Alexandra (the producer) told me that she could film my part on Friday and I’d still be in Detroit on Saturday as planned.  So three legs of a plane ticket were purchased, bags were packed, and I flew to Chicago this morning.

Except reality was that I cried in the car as Josh drove me to the airport.  I cried going through security.  I cried when I got to the hotel for a very long time.  I left multiple phone messages of myself crying for Josh at work while he tried to draft a document.  I cried in the shower.  I cried whenever I encountered someone in the hotel who asked me how I was.  I cried.  Did you get that part that I cried a lot?  And I emailed my friend, Julie, while I cried and she tried to give me advice and I told her the only thing I had energy to do was cry and bother her.

At 3:30, I went downstairs and met up with a nice woman who was going to the same filming and we shared a car service.  She told me her name was Ariel and we chatted about kids and the PBS series and such and I finally thought to ask her last name and she said Gore.  I was in a freakin’ car service with Ariel Gore.  As in, the woman whose book is on my “read soon” list.  I would have peed myself, but I had used up all of my body fluids on tears earlier in the day.

Just me, hanging out with Ariel Gore.  Not crying.  With a lot of makeup on my face.

So I got to PBS and met others in the conference rooms where we were hanging out.  Kathleen Puls Andrade was there and Dina Bair.  And a fertility doctor and an oncofertility specialist and psychiatrist and lots of cool people.  Then I was brought downstairs to makeup where the makeup artist covered up the fact that I had been crying all afternoon and put more makeup on my face than has ever been on it before.  She was like a magician.

As I waited around to tape my segment, I snapped pictures.  Then they asked me to stop snapping pictures unless I could turn the sound off my camera.  And I couldn’t.  So I stopped snapping pictures.

Dina, Me, and Kathleen

The conference room door

Paula Zahn, standing on the set, talking to the audience

More of Paula before they asked me to put the camera away because it was noisy

Random cameraman

So it’s my turn to go onstage and I go up with a fertility doctor from Northwestern.  And Paula Zahn (oh yeah, I forgot to mention that the whole series is being hosted by Paula Zahn formally from CNN) asks fabulous questions and we answer them.  She wants to know about the emotional side of infertility and I TELL HER ABOUT OUR BLOGROLL AND ALL OF YOU AND IT’S GOING TO BE ON THE AIR, OUR BLOGROLL IS GOING TO BE ON THE AIR (that’s a hint to please not cut that part).

After my interview was done, I moved into the audience for the next segment on balancing work and home.  And I stayed until 8ish.  Afterward, people were going for drinks, but I hadn’t eaten because I was too busy crying in the afternoon and I also wanted to call Josh and talk to him so I said I was going back to the hotel.  Before I left, I took some pictures with Paula and the producer, Alexandra, who was the whole reason I wanted to be involved in this project in the first place because she is amazingly brilliant.

Oh look, Paula got herself a brand-new olive-skinned child.  Oh wait…no…that’s me.  I’m 35 years old and she can rest her cheek on the top of my head.

Just me and Paula.  Paula Zahn is so warm and clever and funny and immediately puts you at ease.

The incredibly brilliant Alexandra

After I said goodbye, I went outside to meet the car service and the driver, Tosin, told me that we had to drive back in an enormous white stretch limo because of a mix-up with the other car.  So instead of a normal sedan, I got into a stretch limo with full bar–the kind with the wrap around seat that people have sex on in the movies.  And I totally cracked up because honestly, my life is about sitting on the floor outside ballet class and baking brownies and playing Legos.  But here I was, miles from home, in downtown Chicago in a white stretch limo wearing (and my mother will kill me for this one) my grey LL Bean pull over fleece jacket over my nice clothes because I didn’t have the strength to shlep my black dress coat with me to Chicago.

I took out the camera to take a few pictures for the Wolvog.  I couldn’t believe I was in a limo and he wasn’t there with me to enjoy it.  Tosin calls back, “was that a flash?  Are you taking pictures, Melissa Ford?”

And I explained that I wasn’t going to be embarrassed about it.  I was taking pictures.  I wanted the Wolvog to see it and to prove that I had been in a stretch limo that night.  Because literally, I’m 35 years old and I’ve never been in one.  I had an opportunity once at a funeral, but I turned it down because I didn’t want my first time to be tied to something sad.  And I didn’t want one for our wedding, didn’t want one for prom.  But I couldn’t stop laughing that I was in Chicago, coming back to the hotel from a television filming, in a stretch limousine.  This just wasn’t my life.  But what a great story for popping my limousine cherry.

Tosin told me to hand him the camera and he pulled over by the hotel.  And he took these:

Check out the stocked bar…

I went looking for some food and finally gave up because all of the nearby restaurants were closed.  Tosin must have gone into the hotel and set this up, but when I stepped into the lobby, the men at the desk all whistled and called out, “That’s Melissa Ford!  I can’t believe it’s Melissa Ford.”

A nice ending to a very surreal night.

Tomorrow, I fly to Detroit, to my best friend and a reading.  I was going to say no to this opportunity in Chicago because I was so terrified to travel.  I didn’t want to be alone so far away from home.  And I’m glad that I did this, regardless of how hard it was emotionally to come here.  Because it really was a very cool day.  Though I’m glad my real life is ballet classes, brownie-baking, and Legos because my face could not handle makeup like that all the time.

When I have more information about air-dates and video clips, I’ll put them up.