Muchas Gracias

I don’t think Thanksgiving has ever meant so much to me, until this year. The only reason I’ve really liked it as a holiday in the past, is because I get time off from school or work and I'd usually book a kick-ass trip. Cabo, anyone? And then school is out a few weeks after that.  It’s more of a stepping stone for me to get to Christmas. It makes me think of Jesus’ red-headed stepbrother who hates Indians. It's been baffling me by how mushy and pleasant I’ve been this holiday season, because I currently have the least amount of possessions I’ve ever had, no money in my bank account, and I’m extremely far away from my family and friends. I almost never see my husband, and in case you haven’t noticed, American Thanksgiving is an AMERICAN holiday and we don’t live in America. Hence, no Thanksgiving break. Billy took a few hours off from studying so we could go to dinner at a local resort and then play at the beach after. I had crappy, overpriced pizza and it didn’t feel like Thanksgiving in the slightest. So why do I feel so sappy and appreciative for my life on this year in particular?

Because: no shoes, no shirt, no problems! Everything in life can be tied into a Kenny Chesney song. Everything.

I’m gonna shoot it straight with you now, I absolutely love living in Grenada. A lot of people out here have a really hard time living on this rock, and I try to commiserate with them, but I have fallen madly in love with the place. Sure, it sucks that we don’t get all the modern American amenities. But I think that’s part of the reason I love it so much. My perfect self is not into money and things—I’m into experiences and relationships. (Let’s also keep in mind that my ideal self sails around the world with her family while being a yogi master and living off the land.) But somewhere along the way, I lost those ideals and became a shopaholic. And I feel that I’m getting rid of my selfish materialistic nature little by little here on this island. And learning to live in the moment. There are freakishly hard days where I just want to punch our lovely concrete walls or amputate my limbs because they are infested with bug bites. But most days, I feel so content with who I am and where I am, it’s such a strange feeling. Especially for someone who has been whining for a baby for her whole married life. I’m actually a little bit nervous to go to the States over Christmas break because I’m worried that I’ll revert back to my old ways pretty quickly. I’m also nervous to drive on the right side of the road again. And for temperatures below 75 degrees.

I think our situation before this really set me up to be obsessed with the Grenada. We were lucky enough to live with my parents for a while and then with Billy’s parents after that. They were both amazingly generous to let us mooch off of them while we saved money on rent to save up for med school go on fun trips. By the time we moved out here, I was ecstatic just to have our own place. It doesn't matter that it’s the tiniest apartment out of all the apartments I've seen here. It’s ours! Not that living with the Strongs and Griffiths wasn’t just delightful. My parents were supposed to be empty nesters, but they sacrificed that alone time to go on a lot of double dates. Billy’s parents were also supposed to be empty nesters, but we moved in just in the nick of time to spare them the loneliness of such a fate. It was sort of wonderful to interact with all of our parents as a fellow married couple—it’s a different relationship and I’ll be forever grateful for that time we had with them. And for the money we saved on rent. But after 3 years of mooching, it was high time we grew up and learned how to fork over some rent money and live on our own. Yes, I know, it’s not even our money, it’s all loans, but hey that’s progress for us!

Also, I never bought groceries before this, because I never cooked before this. So, everyone complains about how expensive the groceries are here, but I never knew what things cost before this, so I have nothing to compare it to. Blind gratitude, dude.

Speaking of loans, we are in one of the most unique financial situations we’ll ever find ourselves in. All of our SGU friends without children get the SAME EXACT AMOUNT of money for loans. What other time in our life will we be friends with people with the same amount in their bank account as us? (This may be somewhat of a stretch since we are the least responsible with our money. But at least, we all STARTED with the same amount this term.) I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—these chicas know exactly what I’m going through because, on paper, our lives are the same! It takes out the nasty "Keeping up with the Joneses" comparisons that seems to come second nature to me.

I think what I’m trying to say with these random points is that I’m starting to understand why those in third world countries are the happiest people you’ll ever meet. They don’t have a lot of stuff and so they value what’s important. We had an enrichment activity at the church (guys, I now attend enrichment. WTF) where we had a “bonfire on the beach” (firewood was wet, so we gathered around flashlights at the church) and sang our favorite hymns. In case you ever want to make the whole Relief Society cry, go ahead and plan this same activity. One of the Grenadian sisters told us that her favorite hymn was “Because I Have Been Given Much”. She explained that it spoke to her because she has been given so much through the gospel of Jesus Christ and she felt so privileged with this knowledge. This sister probably had the least amount of belongings in comparison to any of us in the circle. And her favorite hymn was “Because I Have Been Given Much”. If that doesn’t define Thanksgiving, I don’t know what does. I hope I’m as cool as she is when I grow up. And let’s just pretend that I didn’t throw a tantrum the other day because all I wanted was some sour patch kids.

Thanksgiving dinner at La Luna

Post skinny-dipping :)

This Christmas is the first time in our marriage that neither of us have any responsibilities (at the same time) for a whole month. So much free time with this stud. 

St. George's baptismal font. The best kind.

Cynophobia

I’ve recently developed a fear of dogs. A sweaty palms and pits, heart palpitations, fight or flight reflexes (I’ve discovered I’m a flight kind of girl), adrenaline rushing, type of fear. I’m very used to being made fun of for my random list of terrors: birds, cats, squirrels, mice, and now dogs. Why can’t I be afraid of spiders and snakes like a normal person? The only people I know that are afraid of dogs are children who haven’t been around them enough or have had a bad experience. And even then, they all seem to grow out of it.

My nephews used to be terrified of their cousin Bruizer (an American Staffordshire Terrier), and it is quite entertaining. Jet couldn’t speak very well at the time, but he would be strolling along until he noticed Bruizer within 100 feet. And then he screeches to a halt. You could see his eyes get huge and his little brain start working triple time. You just knew that he was planning out his escape route. It was genuine fear, and I am ashamed to say that I would set him up in situations with Bruizer just to see his cute panicked reactions. Just to clarify, Bruizer would never harm a fly. I know dog owners that lead with this usually have mean dogs, but I’m not even his owner. I think Jet was in his path once when Bruizer was spastically going after a laser, and he knocked him over on accident. But it was game over from there. So, I would help Jet start to face his fears by coaching him through petting his tail and working up to his face. As soon as he saw those big teeth though (Bruizer is the most smiley dog I know), he would retreat back to his corner and scowl at his cousin.

I’ve decided I’m now getting the bad karma from taking advantage of Jet’s terror. Because, Jet is now completely over it while I’m all of a sudden shrieking in panic when a puppy wags his tail at me.

The reason behind this newfound fear is all to be blamed on Grenada. And driving a scooter in Grenada. There are hundreds of dogs here, called pothounds. The most fitting definition of a pothound I could find is “a mongrel dog”. They all look like they are flea-infested, and carrying 13 different diseases. I even saw one dog that had gross, long, saggy teats accompanied by a nice pair of droopy balls. Yes, my first hermaphrodite dog. Do yourself a favor and DO NOT GOOGLE THAT! Nightmares.

You know that feeling you get when you’re running up the stairs from your basement, convinced something is chasing you, but you can’t look back or else you’re gonna die? Try being chased by an angry mutt while driving a scooter. It’s way worse, I promise you. I’ve been classically conditioned to dread seeing dogs. I started sweating bullets when I saw a rock that looked like a dog. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t been t-boned by a dog while on a scooter with my friend Mika back in Utah. The little bastard came out of nowhere and was at a dead sprint when he rammed us like a bull. It took all of Mika’s effort not to crash us and we just kept driving. I’m not confident enough in my scooter driving skills to know that I would survive another attack like that.

I abused my husband yesterday because of it. I actually hit him. He thinks my panic is funny, I guess, so I had to teach him that it’s not a laughing matter (we have a really healthy relationship). We passed a pack of dogs and he slowed down and started whistling at them so I would get nervous. I punched him in the side as hard as I could and called him a dumbass. For the purposes of this blog, there were not any f-words placed in front of dumbass that I can recall. But if there were, they were deserved. (So, maybe I do sometimes react with fight instead of flight). Fear brings out the worst in people. Good thing I couldn’t reach his face, or he would have a black eye right now.

Don’t try and tell me that it’s so much worse on a mission, because Billy told me how bad it was in Mexico City. The difference is that for some reason, they love chasing scooters. They may be completely friendly dogs when you drive by in a car or jog past them. But scooters bring out their aggression, I swear. The dogs on Billy’s mission were treated like crap. They were constantly being abused and tormented. People would throw rocks at them. As a missionary, if a dog started to get too threatening, he would just bend over to pretend like he was picking up a rock and that would send the dogs running away. I think it’s the same story here. But I’m at a disadvantage on my scooter because I can’t really take my hands off the handlebars. I could try and kick at the little buggers, but I’m pretty sure I would just topple over, or they would bite off my leg. I may need to learn how to drive with one hand on the gas and the other on a machete.

So, this whole blog post is to get my readers to pray that I don’t crash my scooter and get eaten by a Grenadian pothound. And pray that I don’t murder my husband for tormenting me.

And to show that there are people crazier than I am, please watch this video. I first saw it in my Abnormal Psych class and it was that moment that sealed my fate from ever pursuing a career in Psychology because I couldn’t stop laughing. I still can’t. The funny stuff starts at 30 seconds and goes until about the 2 minute mark.

And here is a picture of my dog bite. Just kidding, this is my scooter burn and the reason I look like a gimp in most of my pictures. Do you know how hard it is to keep a burn clean when you are always going to the beach? I mean, my life is just so hard sometimes.

 Enjoy your breakfast!

National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day

I would have been 36 weeks today. Due November 15, 2014. I would have seen on Instagram that it was National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance day and my heart would break for those poor mothers. And then I would go right on prepping the baby nursery and slathering my stretch marks in coconut oil. Instead, this day is filled with mourning for what could have been. What should have been.

I was planning on posting about our fertility struggles once I was about 20 weeks along and we were in the clear. It’s so much easier to look back and talk about the hard times once they are over. But alas, we are still right in the midst of them.  I’ve felt an urgent need to share our story, because too often we are afraid to talk about it. I’ve been trying to be more brave, and one of my biggest fears is sharing my weaknesses with others—even those I’m super close to. Infertility is one of those awkward subjects that make people uncomfortable. And since I am a pro on talking about forbidden subjects, here we go:

Billy and I have been trying to start a family for a little over 3 years. After 3 rounds of IUI, 1 laparoscopic surgery, 1 IVF cycle, and 1 frozen embryo transfer, we still have not given up. I got pregnant this past year after the IVF cycle. We were thrilled. Our waiting was finally over.  I knew even before our pregnancy test, because my body had never felt like that before. I could never sleep long enough and I couldn’t even breathe without hurting my ta-tas. I took a home pregnancy test a little earlier than my scheduled blood test, so we found out when I was about 3 weeks along. Which is kind of stupid because my transfer was only 7 days before. How dumb is it that they count the 2 weeks before you are even pregnant as part of your pregnancy? It will never make sense to me.

Unfortunately, IVF isn’t as easy to hide as good ole regular sex is, so all of our close friends and family knew that the transfer was successful. I even had to tell all my co-workers because we had a big event coming up and I wasn’t allowed to lift anything over 10 pounds. So, instead of looking like a lazy worker, I decided to tell them. I was worried about miscarrying, of course, but I was also worried that the baby was a hermaphrodite and I’d have to choose what gender s/he was before they were old enough. And worried that my child would grow up to wear capes and be obsessed with dragons and I wouldn’t know how to relate to them. Although, Game of Thrones has helped me get rid of that worry, because now I am obsessed with dragons. Basically, I’m a worrier, so you can never trust my worries. Plus, the thrill of the good news outweighed any reservations I had about sharing too early. So, the word was spread throughout all of Vivint and Utah County.

We saw the baby’s heartbeat at 6 weeks and then again at 8 weeks.  That’s the good thing about fertility treatments—they want to check up on everything to make sure it went smoothly so you are always getting ultrasounds.  The other good thing is that I’m not even scared of going to the gynecologist anymore. I remember the first time going right before I got married, and I was a nervous wreck. Now, I’m undressed and wide open before the doc even shuts the door.  My lady parts are a free-for-all in the doctor community. Anyway, we thought we were in the clear because so many people and even our doctor had told us that once you see the heartbeat, your chances of miscarrying go way, way down. I had my last appointment with the fertility center at 9 weeks, and then they referred me to a regular OB. A regular OB with regular people who were actually pregnant! Just like me! I told Billy not to worry about coming with me that day, because he had a test coming up and we had just seen the ultrasound the week before. Plus, I’d bring him back pictures. I remember pulling in to the parking lot and feeling all nostalgic, because this is the last time I’d be here for a few more years. Oh, but nostalgia’s a bitch. As soon as they found the baby, I knew. I had been so excited to see that funny little fluttering of a heartbeat. How cute that its heart had to beat so fast like it was running sprints! I saw the familiar little shape and it was gut-wrenchingly still. I didn’t dare breathe. I watched my doctor’s face for a reaction and felt my heart sink at the pursed lips and furrowed brow. She said, “I’m not seeing a heartbeat”. Welp, I’m not either, Doc, but PLEASE, PLEASE find it! I started praying my eyeballs out. Through the sound of my heart breaking, I could tell she was really upset. I’ve never wanted to teleport to my bed so badly as I did in that moment. How am I supposed to drive home? How am I supposed to tell Billy? How am I supposed to be happy ever again? Please, oh please don’t talk to me about doing another IVF cycle right now. 30 seconds ago, my biggest worry was whether I should drive through McDonald’s on the way home. Thankfully, she explained that I had a few options for what to do now: I could wait to let my body miscarry on its own; I could take some pills that would trigger the miscarriage for me; or I could have a D&C. I decided to wait and let my body miscarry naturally.

That waiting ended up taking too long. I was still having all the symptoms—fatigue, nausea, headaches. But there wasn’t even one single positive aspect to my sickness. Nope, I was still sick and my body was trying to grow a baby that wasn’t alive anymore.  After a week of waiting for my body to get with the program, I couldn’t handle it emotionally anymore. And so I decided to take the pills. On the plus side, it was over within 5 hours. But those 5 hours were the most painful, traumatizing hours I had ever lived through. Physically and emotionally.

During the whole ordeal, from start to finish, telling Billy was the absolute hardest part. Why couldn’t he have been with me? Why did I have to say the words out loud? How do you tell the man you love that your body had let you both down yet again?

We were lucky enough to be able to send a tissue sample in to a lab. The lab found that our baby had a chromosomal abnormality called triploidy—meaning that two sperm got into the egg. This condition is not compatible with life, so it was reassuring to my logical brain to find that there was a reason my son or daughter hadn’t made it.

I’m not writing this so that we can be pitied or so that people are more sensitive to our situation. Being the proud woman that I am, I HATE being the subject of sympathy and that was one of the things holding me back from even posting this. I like to think that I can do things on my own and I’m too selfish to want to try and reassure everyone that I’m doing okay.

I’m writing this because as I have started being more open about our fertility struggles, I have had so many people reach out to me saying they are going through similar issues. People that I never would have guessed. Because we all lie about it—“Oh, not till I graduate from college”; “Once we have enough saved up”; or “After we travel the world”. It’s easier to pretend that we don’t want it, than to admit out loud that we want it more than we’ve ever wanted anything. My recent candor has made some people feel awkward (and I’ll admit, it started as my bitter intention when acquaintances will ask me, “So, when are you two having kids?” Never, ever, ever ask this question.) But, then it morphed into something that I’m not ashamed of. I hate that my personal problems are now public knowledge, but they are a part of who I am. And in order to raise awareness, I felt that I needed to share our story.

I know couples who can get pregnant from sneezing, and when they hear our story they feel guilty. And that’s not the point. I don’t want their babies. I want my own. I’m genuinely happy for those who can conceive on their own. Lord knows I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. And while I love the support of having friends reach out to me and tell me they are experiencing something similar and they feel my pain, my heart breaks that there are so many of us. So, instead of only sharing once our happy ending comes, I’m sharing while we’re going through it because I know there are men and women out there that need to hear an honest story. And maybe sharing will help them through it—I know it has helped me—but sometimes keeping it to yourself is what you need.  And I apologize to anyone that I have made to feel uncomfortable with my candor and detail about this journey of ours. It’s part of my life, so I am getting more comfortable being brazen, although I know it’s not always the case for those who haven’t experienced it.

And if you are now thinking back on all of our conversations and wondering if you ever said something insensitive or offensive, please don’t! I have extremely thick skin. Sometimes, I try to get offended about things, and then I forget about them the next day. It’s too much work for me. But, please realize that many others (that you may not realize) are going through the same hell as we are, and they may not have thick skin. So, watch what you say. Which is probably a good life motto in general. A lot of “conversation topics” are none of our damn business.

Miscarrying our baby was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. But out of it, I gained such an appreciation in the Lord’s timing. The Lord doesn’t want me to have a child right now. I have so much more faith in His plan for me. It still sucks and I still have nights where I cry myself to sleep. But, looking back, I probably wouldn’t have finished my undergrad if we had gotten pregnant when we first started trying. I wouldn’t have been able to be promoted to my last job at Vivint and met all the amazing friends that have changed my life for the better.  We wouldn’t have had all the one-on-one time that we’ve been able to enjoy these past 3 years. And while I like to think that I’ll still travel all over once we have kids, I know that we wouldn’t have had nearly as many trips these past few years if we had gotten pregnant. Obviously, I would trade all of it in a heartbeat. But I trust that the Lord knows what He is doing. He knows what we need better than we do. Hopefully, by making us try so hard, we will be better parents than we might have been.

My love goes out to all of those with any amount of experience in this category. It’s a shitty ordeal, and no one deserves to go through it. I’m always here for anyone that needs someone to vent to or who has any questions. I’m not much of a let’s-talk-about-my-feelings girl—I’m more of the publicly-announce-it-on-your-blog-so-that-you-don’t-see-the-look-of-pity-in-their-eyes type. But I consider myself a pretty good listener. And I’ve had a taste of your pain. So, let’s be friends.

No blog post is complete without pictures.

Just a couple of kids

After my laparoscopic surgery. Sometimes I'm so photogenic.

All the drugs that go into making a baby.

Post egg-retrieval. Ouchie.

First time getting sick in a year, and it happened on the day of my embryo transfer. Brought a barf-bucket to the appointment. Real classy.

Bet you didn't know this is how you really make a baby...

The two transferred embryos. Such cute little guys!

Your eggo is prego.

Our little bundle of cells

Baby in that belly!

Yes, that's my bum bum. But look at the size of that needle! And I had to inject DAILY for the Frozen Embryo Transfer.

Feel Goods

Are you sick of me whining that I live on an island and that I get to see my husband every 3^rd Tuesday? Or are you sick of me bragging that I live on an island and my husband is the hardest worker I know and oh, so sexy? I am too, so this is completely off topic.

I’ve been into horoscopes lately. Not like I’m obsessed or anything, but do you ever find yourself thinking, “Why in the hell does this person act the way they do?”.  Or, you see a couple and wonder, “How does their relationship even work?” and “Thank goodness that BYU exists, so that these two weirdos could find each other”. Well, I do—quite often actually (psych major in the house). And then, because I can’t feel good about actually spying on them, and because I’m an above average stalker, I research Facebook for their birthday and start reading their horoscopes. I realize I will now be blocked from people’s information on Facebook. Hide yo kids, hide yo wife. But let me tell you, these readings are probably extremely accurate since they’re on the Internet. And since it’s scientifically based on freethinking people and planets and stars. Those are just stellar combinations (get it?). But it’s actually pretty entertaining. I started out looking at mine and Billy’s readings and I liked what it said about us, so naturally I’m hooked. We are both Aquarius, in case you were wondering…yes, really, just like all of the coolest people you know! I then looked at my sign related to my ex-boyfriend’s signs and it kind of nailed down exactly what happened in all of my failed relationships. They were the ones in big, red, bold letters—worst relationship matches EVER!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a very logically minded person, and I realize that most of what is out there is crap. Although, after doing numerous empirical studies, I've come to the conclusion that my mother is, in fact, psychic (I'll post about this another time). But it’s kind of really fun to do some soul searching and hear these phrases about how your personality is supposed to be and think “yes, I’m kind of like that” or “no, I’m not like that at all” or “I wish I was more like that”. It’s not anything to base your life around or make important decisions on, but it does provide some introspection, which we could all use, every once in a while. And it fills up my rainy days quite nicely. I know. I really need to get a hobby.

In all seriousness, introspection could do the whole wide world or world wide web some good. I think that we too often feel we are always right and the qualities that we possess are the most important ones to have. It gets worse with social media, because there are all sorts of articles out there about the best way to parent, the best ways to have sex, the best ways to think, and the best ways to drink a pumpkin spice latte. But if we take a step back and look at our actions and see them in relation to the person we want to be, I feel that it gives us a better perspective than simply “liking” everything that we agree with. If it were me writing all the articles, I would say “The best way to drink a pumpkin spice latte is to throw it down the drain because pumpkin is disgusting unless it’s in a pie with a whole carton of cool whip”. What I’m trying to get at is that we are all different and we are all trying our hardest to do the right thing. But maybe YOUR right thing isn’t the same as someone else’s right thing. So, let’s all try to understand issues from other points of view and stop with the bashing and trolling and overanalyzing and assumptions. Because frankly, I’m exhausted by all the negative posts and opinionated rants. And yes I realize that this is an opinionated rant, so sue me.

http://unearthedcomics.com/comics/love-me/

PS: I wrote this post before LDS General Conference, when I was feeling really down about all the negative vibes coming from my computer. But then, today I’m like on top of the world, and wondering why I ever got so upset with humankind. So, either General Conference is the bee’s knees and can change your whole perspective on life, or I’m bi-polar.

So, incase you missed General Conference, here are some things to cheer you up:

The Honorable Thomas B. Griffith (aka my dad) was made into a bobble head.

Suck it, Utah-in-the-fall.

I'm sure you have already seen this video, but I watch it 4 times a day.

Tried to make potatoes with greek yogurt the other night.The one on the left is plain greek yogurt (which is great in potatoes), the one on the right is vanilla greek yogurt (which is not so great in potatoes). Lesson learned--quit trying to be healthy and just add sour cream. And my friends are liars because they said the potatoes weren't that bad.

Have I mentioned we own a scooter in the middle of rainy season?

Have a great week!

Ode to Bilbo

Today is a pretty fancy day in my life. 7 years ago today, Billy got home from his 2-year LDS mission serving in Mexico City. 4 years ago today, Billy asked me to marry him in Ghirardelli Square in San Francisco and I said "yeah". So, October 1^st is one of those forever-good ones. No matter how bad my menstrual cramps are kicking my trash. (Sorry I said menstrual in my ode to you, babe). And no matter how long Billy has to stay on campus tonight. And there’s no way it could be ruined by a torrential downpour starting as soon as I hang my sheets up to dry on the clothesline. 

Because I’m so grateful for that punk. I’m grateful that I didn’t know him when he came home from his mission (from what they tell me, he was pretty awkward with his chipped teeth and sermons about not watching TV on Sunday). I’m grateful that I met him at a time in our lives when we both needed to turn things around. I’m grateful that he challenges me to become better by not putting up with my crap. I’m grateful that we both love Tosh.0.  I’m grateful that he works so hard at school to do something that he loves. I’m grateful that he wants to travel the world with me. I’m even grateful when he shoots my trip ideas down because we don’t have the money.  I’m grateful that he laughs at me when I'm taking myself too seriously. I’m grateful that we love the same sports (even if I can’t quite get on board with watching EVERY SINGLE NFL and NBA game. But at least he’s over his “not watching TV on Sunday” phase). I'm grateful that in spite of my dilapidated fallopian tubes, we have been able to have so much time together--just the two of us. Life is just so much fun with this guy.

***If I show up dead in the next month, it's because he murdered me for posting this***