hearth & home

My body is all pissy again, which is why I'm sitting at work hunched over my desk. The hunching makes me look serious and hard-working, which is good advertisement should my new boss come wandering over. The reality is that I can't actually straighten up, due to the cramps that are rapidly taking over my entire lower body. I'll have to road race home, hunkered down over my steering wheel like a short-sighted tricyclist.

See, I started on the Pill two months ago, my final attempt to get my female metabolism under control. "The reason you're irregular," said my brisk, Kaiser-assigned gynecologist, a bright young man about five years my junior, "is that you have cysts. Two centimeter cysts are perfectly normal, and not really anything to be worried about."

"SIX MONTHS!" I yelled at him, because he was the kind of young man that one can yell things at. "I DIDN'T HAVE MY PERIOD FOR SIX MONTHS!"

"If you want to be more regular, we could put you on the Pill," he suggested, heading for the door. I suspect that Kaiser has personnel standing outside the exam rooms, actually clocking how long the doctor stays with the patient.

So here I am, on the Pill.

The thing about medication, see, is that I'm not very good at it. I've never been good at it, in part due to the fact that I didn't have medical insurance for most of my natural life and therefore had no reason to take medication. For that matter, in the main, my religion frowns down on needless medicating; none of the "I'd rather die than undergo medical treatment" stuff, mind. It just . . . didn't find it appropriate for a lot of situations.

Anyway, lack of practice means that I'm fairly inconsistent about taking the Pill which, as any woman knows, has to be taken every day at around the same time.

"What happens if I forget?" I asked the pharmacist when they gave me my obligatory Medication Counselling.

"Then you take two the next day," the pharmacist said patiently.

"What if I forget the second day, too?" I asked with interest.

"You don't do anything," the pharmacist informed me, "because you won't forget the second day." She glared at me over the rim of her glasses, and I found myself meekly agreeing that no, I wouldn't forget the second day.

And, to date, I haven't. The first month I did fairly well, popping my little Pill at around the same time every day. More or less. Well, you know. Sometimes you forget and you glance at the clock and oh-my-gosh-it's-late, and you dash into the bedroom and start looking for the little foil package of pills. In the main, though, I was pretty good about it. This was only to be expected. It was a novelty.

The second month, I got bored with the whole pill taking thing. The first week, I forgot twice. My period started the first time I forgot; the next day, I woke up early and popped two pills. My period stopped. The same thing happened two days later, when I forgot again.

The following week, I forgot once. My period started. I popped two pills the next day. My period stopped.

The third week, I forgot three times. My period started. I popped two pills. My period stopped. And again. And again.

By the last incident of the third week, my period was no longer starting whenever I forgot the pill. It had, I think, started to get discouraged. "Why bother?" it was thinking sullenly to itself. "She'll just Pill us again."

So this week, when the yellow pills I normally take became the white placebo pills, absolutely nothing happened.

Sunday. No period.

Monday. No period.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I demanded the mirror. "It's your time, dammit! It's your hour! Step up and conquer!"

My femininity remained, sulking, in the ol' uterus. "This is some sort of trick, we'll show up and then, bang, chemical burn all over again."

Tuesday. No period.

On the other hand, plenty of cramps. And a headache. Suspecting their moment had at last arrived, my period made its stealthy foray into the outside world, debuting at a rave held behind my eyes, then sending Spike and the guys down to my pelvis for some Irish clog dancing.

Tuesday night.

Period.

"It's about f***ing time," I told the mirror.

The Guy sighed at me over the phone. "It must be complicated being a woman."

I promised a while ago that I would share some pictures from home with you, and so here they are; none of people yet, because much as I appreciate the emailed support I get from my few (and odd) fans, pictures of people aren't a thing that I do all that often. Being fatally unphotogenic myself, I offer other people the courtesy of assuming they'll look just as Beast from the Black Lagoon-ish.

This is the house I grew up in, a two-story house in a quiet little suburb called Mockingbird Hill. The property values aren't as high as they are elsewhere, since the neighborhood is a little too close to the freeway and a little too far from downtown. However, there's a high school just down the street, pink flamingos in a yard not too far away, and occasionally the neighbors drop by to sneak surplus garden-grown, organic zucchinis on the doormat while you're away.

This particular picture is far too large to be dumped on the laps of people without broadband connection, so I thumbnailed it for those that don't have the space. If you want to see a larger version, well, I've linked it to the picture. I should warn you that it's a little large at about 7 MB, but it's a beautiful picture of the path to my house. I've mentioned before that my mother is an avid gardener, haven't I?

I bet you'd never guess Japanese people live here.

This is my Dad. That is, this is my Dad's ancestor tablet. It's a long story about ancestor tablets and family and deceased members of family. Hell, if you really want the whole explanation, just email me and I'll tell you. It's kind of an interesting worldview, having your dead always with you, so to speak.

Say hi, Dad!

This is the rest of my family. The dead ones, that is, on the paternal side. From left to right, the tablets are for my father, the Hirata household spirits, my grandmother, and my younger sister.

...and here is my backyard, in all its greeny splendour. Depressing, isn't it? Just look at all that lawn mowing that has to be done. Is it any wonder that my sister and I both have debilitating hay fever? Remind me sometime about my mom's issues with mowing the lawn.

The thing with pictures, see: they take up space. And bandwidth. But they're good to have, just in case, you know?

Welcome to my home.

Posted by yhirata at August 7, 2002 09:31 PM