In a parallel universe...

...I think I'd like to be an agony aunt.

I know that's a completely out there statement and you're probably shaking your head going 'huh?', but it's true.

And I also know that it's more of a British term than a North American one, but it's the best that I can come up with right now. So for those of you who don't know what I mean, allow me to explain.

An agony aunt is the person you write an anonymous letter to asking for advice. You see them in Cosmo and online and in the papers...all over the mainstream media. You read them with glee, happy that whatever's happening to said anonymous person isn't actually happening to you. And you wonder who actually writes these things.

You see, I like to believe that I'm pretty darned good at giving advice.

That's right, I said it.

No evidence other than anecdotal to prove my point, but I like to think that a) I'm a very good listener and b) I have a knack for sussing things out and coming up with potential solutions. Ones that could actually work. Improve a situation. Make you feel better.

And as I'm sure you can surmise, I enjoy writing, the clever turn of a phrase, so I wonder if agony aunt isn't actually the perfect career path not taken for little ole me.

Hmmmm....

I wonder where I'd even start researching openings for this kind of job. I can see my sarcastic self writing a letter to the editor that goes something along the lines of:

Dear Editor,

I've got a good job and a great husband and a nice house and a few kitties but despite all that, something's missing. More than anything, I crave an outlet, an opportunity to help those with seemingly inane queries make it through the day. Are you looking for me? Are you the answer to my mid-career crisis? Please help me figure out how to make my agony aunt dreams come true.

Signed,
(wannabe) Auntie Diva

Unfortunately, I don't think it would fly.

Snap.

It's funny, most of us are actually quite shite at taking our own advice. So when something comes up in my life that requires deep pondering, I often phrase the issue as a letter to a Dear Cosmo type folk for the answering.

Upon second thought, Dear Cosmo is a little out of my age bracket lately. Long gone are the days of my-roommate-macks-on-her-boyfriend-while-I'm-in-the-room-and-they-think-I'm-sleeping,-whatever-shall-I-do? laments. My personal blend of agonies have matured as I have.

Lucky me.

But seriously, sometimes phrasing whatever's got my brain a stewin' in a silly, advice seeking form really does help to put things into perspective.

Now if only I could find a way to translate my little hobby into something that paid the household bills.

THAT would be some super useful advice.

And that's your daily dash. How's your diva doin'?

It just ain't fair

Us infertiles of the world are often known to lament that life is not fair. It's not fair that we can't get pregnant when any garden variety crack whore seems to have more than mastered the process. It's not fair that some of our husbands will never be given the gift of fatherhood. It's not fair that our maybe-never-to-be-born children will never know the loving parents that eagerly await their coming into being.

And tonight, I've just faced another example of how it's just not fair that I'm not a fucking mom yet.

Thanks to the relocation of Sludge and DeeDee, Hubs now gets to spend much more time with his daughter. In fact, he sees her every second weekend, every Wednesday night, and every Sunday morning. Talk about your improvements!

This then allows him to take a more active role in her schooling and helping with her homework, something she so sorely needs. As is evidenced by her entire approach to homework, but that's a whole other story.

Tonight she was preparing her line for the play they're doing in French class. Tomorrow. So she jots it down on paper, says it out loud, and I know she has it wrong.

So we go through her line and I ask her if she knows what it means. Not a clue. So I break it down for her, word by word, and gradually she comes to understand it.

Then we start at the beginning of the play since she's never really read it and has no idea what the entire thing is about. She doesn't know what the most common words mean. It's just never stuck. Fortunately, the entire piece is all about repetition, so eventually she comes to recognize words more and more for what they are and that boosts her confidence. But I'm amazed at just how little she knows of what it is she'll be presenting tomorrow.

Once we've dissected every part of the play, we go over her line again. I help her with pronunciation. I break the hard sentence down into five pieces so she can remember them. I give her little devices to help her remember both the sentence and the pronunciation. And when she's got it down pat, I send her off to bed.

And that's when the unfairness of it all hit me yet again. This is one of the reasons I so desperately want a child of my own - to help teach them, to see that sparkle of delight and satisfaction in their eyes when they realize they've gotten something right. That they're learning. To be a part of that process just seems magical even now, and I'm one step removed.

I picture our child sitting at the table, Hubs and I helping with the homework. Fleshing out what they're learning in school with additional information and cool facts. Like we do now with DeeDee.

That's close, but it's not the real deal. As much as I love feeling as though I am having a positive influence on that girl's life, I'm not her mother. She has a mother, one I never can (nor do I want to) replace. So yet again, I feel cheated.

Nothing about infertility is fair. Nothing about glimpsing the potential of what would likely be if you WEREN'T infertile is fair. And it all really pisses me off.

Je suis desolee.

Then again, maybe there's no such thing as fair after all. Lots of people have things that they can claim aren't fair in their lives too.

Pfft. Reminds me of a great line I heard on wb...fair (fare) is something you pay to get on a bus.

Ain't that the truth!

So now it's off to bed where I'll try to slough off my anger at the unfairness of it all. 'Cause tomorrow is indeed another day, and I've got to make sure DeeDee still remembers her line in the morning.

And that's your daily dash. How's your diva doin'?

Oh me aching heed

Headaches.

I get them. A lot. Especially these days, when insane weather systems move through hour after hour. Never know what the next few minutes are going to bring. One minute the sun is shining, all is right with the world, my head knows no pain, the next, kablamo! The clouds roll in, the air changes, and my poor brain feels like it's going to explode.

Today was a particularly bad day. Woke up with a pounding between my ears. Never a good way to start the day. I finally broke down and took something for it around 11 am.

I was shocked and chagrined to note that I had failed to replace my trusty Advil Migraine supply in my purse. I'd used the last one at dinner last night to put that headache down, but never did restock. Silly diva.

I was pleasantly surprised to find a sample of Asprin's Expresspack or whatever they're called in my desk drawer. Ah, the benefits of trundling through Union station every day - you're inundated with samples of new and novel products.

So yeah, this Expresspack stuff is the size of a sweetener package that you rip open and dump a pile of granules in your mouth. Interesting concept. Even more interesting is that some genius bonehead decided to make the danged stuff cola flavoured.

Blech.

Cola flavoured or not, it did take the edge off for a bit. But sure enough, a few hours later the pesky pressure returned and I was right back where I started from.

Taking the train home was a boatload of fun. All that din and chatting and silly loud people really did a number on my already beaten brain.

Finally made it home and very first thing I did was reach for the aforementioned trusty Advil migraine. Did the trick about half an hour later, and I was able to function a bit more normally. Had coffee and a chat with a friend, got out of the house - all good things.

And here we are, just four and a bit hours later, and the freaking headache's back AGAIN! Is there no rest for poor me? I can't, in good conscience, pop another pain reliever. I think at this point the only respite for me is bed.

So now I bid you a fond farewell and ask that you all say a private word or two to Mother Nature to keep the danged flux to a minimum. It sure would be swell to have a prolonged period of static barometric pressure just to get some freakin relief, ya know? That's all I'm askin'!

Hope everyone else is faring well in this crazy pre-summer weather!

And that's your daily dash. How's your diva doin'?