Like many people, my work days are hard sometimes. I get frustrated with petty problems, I fuss about how some people misuse sick time, I bitch that my supervisor doesn't really understand where I'm coming from. Fortunately, I feel good enough about my work and career choices overall to ride out the more painful waves in the hopes that the end result is worth the struggle.

Today was actually a pretty good day. I felt purposeful in my interactions with people. There were several positive changes to be noted. Certainly, there have many, many days when I have left the office with a crappier general mood.

As I walked to the subway station to head home, I debated whether or not I should head toward the prime shopping area to go in search of the perfect chocolate brown sleeveless top. (It would be the ideal complement to my camel skirt and knee high brown boots. ) Fiscal responsibility won out and I approached the subway entrance. Normally, as I make my way down the stairs, my eyes seek out the least resistant path to the turnstiles. Today, I spotted an elderly gentleman struggling to mount each stair as he relied on two crutches and carried no less than four plastic bags. I spotted many people scurrying by (as I often do) in order to catch the next train. Had I continued on my path and scooted past this man, nobody would have blinked an eye, but somehow I couldn't let myself do that today. I walked down the steps to where he had paused to catch his breath. "Can I help you?" I asked. He shifted his hunched over posture and looked at me. "Well, you could walk with me." I had no idea where he wanted me to walk with him. "Would you like me to carry something for you?" He handed over a lightweight plastic bag and continued up to the next step. I offered my arm but he pointed out the obvious: he needed to use both of his arms for his crutches. And so I walked up the stairs with my newfound acquaintaince, keeping a step or two ahead of him, serving (at best) to keep other stairway passengers out of his path so that he could take the time he needed to reach the upper platform.

I wasn't sure if he would ask me to continue walking with him. "Okay, I'm going to get on the bus heading toward W___". He looked me in the eyes and said "Bless you. Thank you for walking with me and thank you for carrying my bag." I told him that I was happy to do that and he told me again how much he appreciated my "help" (which, honestly, I did not think I had offered much of). After sorting out concerns about each of us getting home safely, my acquaintance extended his hand to me. I shook his softly wrinkled hand and told him to take care. As I walked back down the stairs in my usual hurried fashion, I felt a catch in my throat.

I found no thrill, on hormone-y hill...

Eight weeks and counting since I have been enjoying non-fertile living thanks to my Mirena- a hormone-releasing IUD which, when used properly, can provide up to five years of safe and effective birth control (a Berlex product) [note: read last half of sentence a la commercial voice over guy]

Flashback to early March when I was complaining to my new primary care doc about my frustrations with my current birth control. Considerably squeamish about the whole topic, he referred me to the OB/GYN department at Renowned Local Hospital and suggested that I explore my options further with them. (He also suggested that I get my breast exam at said hospital, allowing himself to completely avoid any dealings with my hooha and/or ninnies.) And so, I eventually went to Renowned Local Hospital, found out about the latest and greatest in birth control, and opted to have a Mirena IUD inserted.

First impressions: OWWWW!! Let's just say that any situation involving a clamp being put on my hooha (thankfully, there have been few in my life) is one that I consider painful. The head doctor in the room also insisted on trying to make small talk with me during the process. Was this meant to be a pleasant distraction? I did not find it so. It merely pointed out the difficulty of explaining one's career choices when searing crotch pain causes you to yelp mid sentence: "Yeah, I've worked at the agency [AH!!] for about five years. The work is very [OH CHRIST!!] fulfilling [OW! SHIT!]" Happily, the pain subsided quickly once the little sucker was in place and I was on my way...to what I wasn't sure.

I had read a lot about side effects and various women's experiences with this new fangled device. Weight gain, sore ninnies, headaches, nausea, blah diddy blah. It all seemed like the standard stuff I read with any birth control. (Sad fact, in my case I always hope that this time I'll be one of the people whose breasts get bigger...) My reality is that many more of these side effects have come into play with the Mirena than with any other previous birth control. Ninnies- still quite small, but good lord have they suffered with pain on occasion (this was mostly an experience early on and has thankfully subsided ). On another pain note, my first pre-menstrual experience post-Mirena was one marked by blindingly sharp cramps and hot flashes. This experience unfortunately coincided with my sister, brother-in-law and two young nephew's visit from New York: "Don't mind Auntie, she's just in the corner of her bedroom, lying in the fetal position, sweating profusely, and cursing out god...she's gonna be fine."

Fast forward to now (8 weeks post insertion) and you will find me struggling with the acne of my teenage years, some extra bloat around the belly region, periodic heat waves (yes, it's been a hot summer, so it's hard to tell what's what sometimes), and continuous bleeding. My sources tell me that this is all completely normal and that in one to two months time, I am going to LOVE LOVE LOVE this birth control and shout its virtues from the rooftops. So, I try to stay strong, have a sense of humor and look toward a brighter future. Stay tuned for future developments and pray with me that Midol can stay at least one step ahead of what Mirena has in store for my womb.

So, which is worse: being a single lady about town or a mock single lady about town? (For my purposes, I am defining "mock single lady" as a married lady who is sans husband for a social function.) Without intending to be part of any social psychology experiment, I found myself wrestling with the aforementioned question this evening.

My husband is out of town for a few days and I felt it important to re-connect with my love of all things Boston as well as my independent spirit. I decided to attend a Hurricane Katrina fundraiser being held at a swankier-than-thou hotspot which had the potential of attracting the snooty sorts that I often find loathesome in addition to do-gooders that enjoy a decently made cocktail. "Not terribly uncomfortable", I thought, when I entered the room. I had a complimentary martini in hand and was able to take in the wonder of the bar area with it's well-placed blue lights.

I found myself alone no longer when a another single-appearing man decided to chat it up a bit. Somewhat over-focused on his business accomplishments and oddly approval-seeking (e.g. "I have to turn my cell phone off at these events, because otherwise I'm getting called CONSTANTLY..."), he struck me as someone with whom I could exchange a few pleasantries at best, but clearly did not want to get stuck with for the remainder of the evening. When my desire to move away from my curly-haired conversation partner grew stronger, I realized the limitations of my newly appointed role: I couldn't charm my way out of this the way I used to when I was single. First off, I had no female pals to pull me away. Secondly(and this was a new discovery for me, since I have only been married for two months), single men seem to have very little desire to rescue a woman from a conversation with a creepy man when they spot a wedding ring on her finger! I felt desperate! I had nowhere to turn!

After a few panic-y glances around the room, I spotted an older man with a sweet smile and a shrinking hairline (side note: I am aware of how vain and ridiculous I sound...I only add in these descriptive words so the reader can fully understand my frame of mnd). As he passed by a few times, we exchanged smiles and I realized that when I was single, I only wanted to talk to guys that I found attractive; as a mock single, I only wanted to talk to nice looking people that didn't seem like they would hit on me.

So, curly haired man moved away to grab another bite to eat and I felt free to move about the room as a mock single with no attachments to anyone there. Shortly after, Sweet Smile Shrinking Hairline man came up to me to inquire about my perceptions about the event thus far. I swear, I felt completely at ease, until my new conversation partner informed me that he wouldn't be entering the raffle drawing for a 7 night cruise unless he could guarantee that I would accompany him. "I'm married", I informed him. "Oh!" he responded, clearly shocked by my statement (really, from now on, I should wear something that symbolizes being married...a piece of jewelry perhaps, maybe a ring or something. I wonder if I wore it on my left hand and it were shiny and gold that people might notice it...) Well, anyhow, I thought my marriage declaration would shoo Mr. Seemingly Nice Sweet Smile Shrinking Hairline away, but it seemed to pull on a deviant thread...

The questions: "So where's your husband", "are you a trustworthy wife", "were you a beautiful bride", "is this your first marriage" were clearly not steered toward conversational information gathering. It was a creepy new world with with I was thankfully unfamiliar. When my conversation partner stepped away to get another drink I took my opportunity to end my time at the fundraiser, step out into the fresh air, and call my husband on the way to the subway. "Sweetie", I said, " I miss you and I have some funny stories to tell..." I was thankful for an exit opportunity and reminded that it is never easy to be a single lady about town.

Chicks with big knockers.

Sorry. That was shameless. Just wanted to drum up an audience.

And so she blogs...

I'm not so hip to these new fangled communication methods. I am an ipod-less, PDA-less, digital camera-less soul who cowers in the face of instant messages and text messages alike. One of the only people you'll see around a work committee conference table pulling out a sad little dog-eared daily planner and felt tip pen to mark off that week's meetings along side chicken scratchy notes: "get info on jazz dance class!", "talk to doctor about IUD", and "find perfect color for new hair highlights!".

Despite my reservations, I felt ready to face the world of blogging. Tired of maintaining my composure during the work week and needing a place to spout my opinions (from the mundane to the outrageous), I found myself here. Can I sit back, belch, scratch myself and share my thoughts on our slick-haired Mormon governor? Oh good. (More on that topic later, but may I just point out that I did a Google search a few weeks ago when I was feeling particulary low and frustrated: Mitt Romney asshole. It was heartening to see hundreds of sites come up)

So, yeah, no chicks with big knockers here. Just this chick with little knockers and a big need to laugh, cry and drone on about whatever she wants.