My Nether Regions Get A Lot of Action

I’m sick of being sick. Not anything like “woe is me” (although I have my moments), but I now have two conditions that involve the nether regions (if we’re including infertility), and by golly, there is nothing savory about that.

I am on progesterone supplements, or, as a woman of my standing likes to call: “vagina pills”. Classy. I insert them three times a day, one of the times in the mid-afternoon at work. Some people get coffee at 3 pm. I get down and dirty.

My latest ultrasound showed…nothing. No eggs (or, they call them follicles). Which makes me think: “Can a woman shoot blanks?”

It did show some scar tissue and small puddles of liquid from my Crohn’s. Now, instead of viewing my pelvic cavity as a desert, I tend to think swampland.

Due to my work trip, I missed a critical monitoring week, and have to start over again. This enraged me as my long cycles tend to transcend seasons, so at this rate we’ll figure what’s going on sometime near Thanksgiving.

Infertility is very easy for the guy – when did a guy ever bristle when he was told he needed to have sex? I’m sure even giving a semen sample is rather enjoyable. I hate men. They get higher salaries, more clout, and they can pee anywhere.

Oh well, I guess we get them in the end since we tend to live six years longer. Nevermind they can be lonely years in a body that doesn’t work too well. That’s what I cling to as I swagger to the bathroom with, yes, those vagina pills.

So You've Been to Canada, Eh?

I am all about the cheese (both literally and figuratively), so of course I had to vacation in Niagara Falls, the capital of cheesy romantic getaways. So, for our two year anniversary, we hopped in the Corolla and made the 7-hour journey to the Falls for a long weekend of lust and romance. And by “lust and romance” I mean goofy attractions and a heck of a lot of water. Here are the highlights of our foray into the great Canadian yonder:

NOTE: There are a lot of photos of Matt. Sorry, he's just my only live subject so I abuse the heck outta him.

I did the drive up and was hearing an odd sound for what may or may not have been three hours – I cannot confirm nor deny. Pulling over we realized Matt’s packaging tape quick-fix of a few months back was not holding up, and a part of the front bumper was loose and hitting the wheel. Oops. Luckily, I pulled over in a drugstore parking lot and headed right in to the stationary aisle and bought – you guessed it – packaging tape. Don’t worry: I splurged and bought the name brand stuff. Even said “high performance” on it so I think we’re good-to-go.

At a toll booth we spotted a tell-tale sign of any car trip: the Ghostbusters car. It was from there we knew this trip was going to be a success.

We made it to the falls! Upon seeing them for the first time, I sniffed, “They aren’t so big.” Then I told Matt I’m hungry and let’s hit up the Indian food cart down the street while doing a dorky thumbs up. That’s how I roll.

I made Matt carry our backpack because I'm lazy. Due to this, he had a perpetual hunchback as we were given ponchos at each attraction. But isn't he a doll?

Here's Matt with his nerd-idol, Nikola Tesla. Matt positively hates Marconi because he stole Tesla's thunder. If you don't understand that statement, good, you're not a nerd.

This was our favorite part of the trip: the "Hurricane Zone". We got drenched under the Bridal Veil Falls. Note: Do not wear mascara to the Hurricane Zone.

This is Matt deep in thought while on Maid of the Mist. Or, he's thinking, "I have to pee." You know, either/or, tomato/tomaato.

LEFT: This is the view from our hotel room. We're definitely more of the Motel 6 crowd (read: cheap) but we splurged and got this room over the Horseshoe Falls. It also had a jacuzzi, which Matt (no lie) watched the Flyers game out of.

RIGHT: This is Matt using the shoe polisher in the room. This is how you know you're in a fancy place. (You also know you don't belong in a fancy place when it takes five minutes to determine that, yes, that contraption is indeed a show polisher.)

This is on the shore of Lake Ontario. And no, I didn't put him up to this pose.

You know what 19th-century British military impersonators are? HOT. This is right after a musket lesson at Fort George.

Then we went to a winery. It was sort of pretentious (aren't all wineries?) so this is Matt contemplating if we should steal ripe cherries of their trees. Because we bought a bottle of wine, I said we were absolutely in the right and we stole a few handfuls for the drive.

After that we went to the botanical gardens and butterfly conservatory. Matt stood still like that for a good 10 minutes but no butterflies would land on him. Then I stood behind a hot pink hairy tree and demanded Matt take my picture.

Finally, a butterfly did land on him. But it was stuffed. And in the gift shop.

This photo speaks for itself. (And, we were, without a doubt, wide awake in the Land of Dreams.)

Tim Hortons is to Canada what Dunkin' Donuts is to America. And because we like fatty donuts, we hit it up. And took a silly photo. Obviously.

On the drive home we went to the Corning Museum of Glass in New York and made our own glass-blown ornaments. By "made", I mean, "sat there and blew as instructed". Anyway, here's Matt doing his thing in the studio.

My original commentary for these photos has disappeared, and I can only blame Matt, as our ornaments came in the mail two days ago and he was angered at the pure beauty of mine.  Regardless,my ornament is the first one, and Matt's is below.  Although his may look better, trust me, it's not.  His subpar camera skills are at play, here, and I'll post true comparisons shortly.  I will triumph!!!

Here are our finished ornaments. Mine is to the right and Matt's is below. I know what you're thinking: "Matt's is prettier." But I think you're mistaken. I obviously took a better photo of his, and he took the photo of mine, so you're really assessing our photography skills. And that boy can't work my Kodak. (Note: That guy is totally thinking, "Losers." And it's a pretty acurate assessment.)

The end!

Patience Is Not My Strong Suit

I'm not really sure when the progression from playing house became full-blown adulthood. Living in our apartment Matt said being an adult is paying a mortgage, but three years ago when we acquired that monthly vestige of adulthood, he said no, no, it's definitely when you have kids. He had no answer for people who chose to rent, or chose not to have children.

But sitting in an office on Friday night, listening to a fertility doctor dictate a letter into his recorder about our case, I sat back, with my husband next to me, and thought, "So this is it; this is being an adult." At some point we crossed over: maybe it was then, or maybe it twelve months ago when we decided on having children.

I never, ever thought I'd be here. When I'd hear stories about failed IVF attempts, or women trying for years, I'd sympathize and think how lucky I was that woman trying wasn't me. But here we were, a year later, being told my ovaries were peculiarly small and Matt's situation wasn't looking too much better.

New words are entering my lexicon: progesterone supplements, FSH levels. IUI. I've been told so many times that "you'll be blessed with a child when the time is right" or "take a long weekend somewhere". These people invariably have children, and now, almost in a perverse way, I feel validated. No, it won't happen "when the time is right" or if we go away, and no, Godly intervention won't help either. Matt and I are pragmatists. We are not religious (although I've thought about praying but decided against it because if there is a God, he/she will surely realize what a selfish twit I am that I haven't prayed in 12 odd years, and all of the sudden decided only to smack my hands together for my own, baby-makin' good).

Above all, this is a medical matter. Ninety-three percent of couples our age conceive by the six month mark. Of those who don't, only 15% of those couples conceive in the next six months. Obviously, something is not right.

Our fertility visit was thorough. That really is the best way to describe it. We were there from 6:30 until 9:30 pm. Matt had his semen and urine tested, and I had an ultrasound, blood test, and an examination. We met with the doctor twice: before the tests, and after. I came with copies of my medical chart: details of when they first found the abscess deep in my gut, notes on my three months on Clomid, a write-up from my HSG. I told him about my Crohn's, about the scar tissue, about the surgery. When he said my ovaries were quite small for my age, and ruminated that perhaps scar tissue at one point had restricted their blood flow, I envisioned dried-up and hollow pea pods - a fertility wasteland.

We have many tests to do before determining next steps, and much medication to take. Writing about this now, I'm upset, but recounting it to a friend Friday night I laughed it off - of course we're sub-fertile, I mean, did I expect this to be easy?!

And sometimes I'm fine, it's all fine, and we'll make a go of it and trust ourselves to the shots, the blood tests, and all modern-day medicine has to offer. And other times I catch myself crying. A women I barely know had been struggling with having a second child for quite some time, and I saw her last week, but now with a swollen belly. It was at the gym, and my legs stopped swinging on my elliptical machine and I just watched her as she made her way to the locker room. And I felt betrayed.

I closed my eyes and told myself to just concentrate on Diane Sawyer on the television in front of me. To just watch her as she spoke about top kill, and the sheets of oil in the Gulf. I know that's a real tragedy, and not this.

But I couldn't help it, because infertility is a club swaddled in embarrassing emotion (jealousy, contempt, pity), and I was envious she was leaving, just as I was getting my bearings.

Big Girl Running

I'm back.  And thank heavens, because studying is just awful and takes time away from really important things, like writing in this blog, or spending an hour in the card aisle at Target, or spending my Friday evenings watching Wife Swap. 

On the morning of my test I set my alarm for 5 am to get a last minute cram session in, because the evening before I obviously had to watch LOST, and then unfortunately got sucked into V (which is like that fourth glass of wine: you always regret it the next morning).  Oh, and I voted (and being in Pennsylvania, that was a very big senatorial race - I had to indulge my bleeding heart!). 

So, I was downstairs, dressed, and had breakfast by 5:30 and was crammin' away like a good (bad?) little student.  As a note, this test really tested (haha HA - get it, "tested"?!) my study habits.  Namely, because I have none.  I have gotten through school on my intelligence (cough, cough) and avoidance of hard classes (case in point, in 12th grade most people took physics, but I enrolled in AP environmental science, which was a joke, as is anything compared to physics, really).  At NYU they require two semesters of science for us non-science majors, and because I WAS NOT THINKING STRAIGHT, I took physics because "I never experienced it in high school".  This is also the girl who dodged calculus (I took no math 12th grade) and took something like AP Philosophy (another joke - I know how to pick 'em).  As a note, what the hell was Plato talking about in that damn cave?!  Anyway, although this particular physics class was aimed for non-science majors, it was a total embarrassment and by week three I was apologizing to my lab partner for how dumb I was.

In college we were also required to take four semesters of a foreign language.  Now, you can test out this requirement (or test into, say, French 2 or 3 or 4) by taking the SAT II and doing well.  As someone who took Spanish 1, 2, 3 and 4 in high school you would think, "Well, surely, this girl would at least test into Spanish 3."  Well, you are wrong.  I am foreign language impaired.  It's sad, really, and runs in my family (I believe my younger sister's choice of college hinged on the very fact they had no foreign language requirement).  I took the SAT II and tested into....wait for it......SPANISH 1!  It was a staggering set-back and embarrassment so early in my collegiate career, but, come on, totally expected.  So I thought, "At least I can do well since I'm retaking a lot of this."  ALSO WRONG.  Since I went to a university where most people had a modicum of intelligence, most of my classmates were fluent by the end of Spanish 2.  I was very bitter.

In high school I did well in Spanish only due to my skills in persuasion.  I very clearly remember approaching my Spanish 4 teacher and laying it all out: saying I was never going to speak this language, I'm essentially a dummy but I try REALLY hard, and what do you think about some extra credit?  How about a paper (in English, no less) on El Greco, I said, as the class focused on Spanish art.  Or how about some Goya?! I urged.  She eventually relented and I got my A.  (That grade inflation problem?  Attribute it to me.)

So, there I was on Wednesday morning going over labor laws and knowing, sadly, fate had caught up to me.  To play it safe, I drove to the testing center early, and parked.  I was there an hour early and studied some more, or, until I decided the pre-loaded games on my cellphone were more interesting.  I was to be at the testing center at 8:30, and got out of the car at 8:25 to enter the building.  I walked in, thinking, "Be strong!  Be confident!  You've got this!"

The problem was, I was at the wrong place.  And I had left my directions in the car.  With my cellphone.  And, apparently, my sanity.  "Do you know where 100 Elm Street is?!" I howled as I ran into each building.  The problem, I learned, I was on East Elm, and I should have been on West.  I also learned I need to get in shape as I probably ran no more than a quarter of a mile (at the very most) and has heaving as I finally found the testing center.  Dripping with sweat and coughing I finally sat down to take my test at 8:50 am.  Two things should be know here: Matt gave me the directions so I blame him (hey, I was busy watching V!).  And second, I passed.  Halle-freakin'-lujah!

 This is me running to my test.

Why, yes, it was on a beach.

And obviously that's my very in-shape bod.  

Look, no questions, ok?

Thank You!

I want to thank all contributors and members of Team Gutsy. Last week was blustery and cold, but we managed to walk in the name of intestines to the tune of $830!

I want to thank my mom who encouraged me to join the walk, and who also volunteered her time to make the event a success. In truth, I almost felt silly walking because I've been feeling so darn good since my surgery a little over a year ago. But I guess that's the whole point, right?!

IBD doesn't have the societal clout of other conditions, and (okay, I'm stepping on my soapbox a little) I don't think people truly understand the havoc it could wreck, or really what it is (a bad tummy ache that makes you go diarrhea versus an autoimmune disease). Okay, I guess we can't ignore the diarrhea....there, I've said it!

Thank you again for supporting the CCFA. Many people I don't even know personally donated to a member of my family, and I to them I am truly grateful. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Of every dollar raised, 83 cents goes directly to research. We walked for the Lehigh Valley, PA chapter of the CCFA, and our little group of intestinally-challenged compatriots raised $60,000!

Thank you.

And NOW, the photos:
(All photos courtesy of Daniel Burke Photography)

See that dork in the black? That's me. My sister and her boyfriend are to the right. Matt's family followed (if you see the lad with the big hair, you found him).


Someone tell that person the trail is to their left; they may be lost.


I want THAT guy on my team! I bet he can teach me a thing or two about happiness. (And rocking red sneakers.)


You know, my dog Penny was there, so I'm not sure why these mutts got a photo opp and she didn't. (I know, I know...I'm a such a rabid stage mom!)


This woman looks absolutely FIERCE AND FABULOUS despite the gail-force winds. I'm in awe!


How the heck did I miss the face-painting?!?!


Thank you again, Team Gutsy!

Blame Boredom

I don't know if there is anyone on the planet more committed to finding reasons to take a study break than me. I am truly devoted. My studying consists of 30-minute bursts followed by 60 minutes of contemplating if it's acceptable to wear yesterday's socks while eying the laundry.

My test is Wednesday, and I've come to the conclusion that it's just a test, I can take it again (in December, but nonetheless) and there are more important things to be done. Namely, posting these photos of my better half. Behold:

This was a hike we took on Easter weekend. Notice my CCFA shirt! Also notice the complete and utter sexiness of my husband. I know what you're thinking: Brad Pitt who?

At this point I told him to act like a MAN, and we got this shot. This is as good as it gets, folks.


This is Matt giving me his come hither look. This very look is responsible for our second date. Note the child's size hat.


Then we went back to my in-laws for dinner. At this point most people relaxed, but Matt took it upon himself to set-up his slackline (aka tight-rope...remember that?). Unfortunately, my camera died and I didn't get him in the act. You're welcome.

I'm not sure what kind of wife I am to be posting these tongue-in-cheek photos, but Matt is out golfing, and I'm stuck inside "studying", so I say that's about fair.

15-Minute Tuna and Penne

I knew it was going to be one of those days when I got stuck in a heavy downpour, standing in front of my workplace, digging for my entry badge in a tote bag that could fit a six-month-old. My shoes, underwear, and breakfast sandwich were all soggy when I reached my desk. “Ten more hours until I’m in my pajamas at home,” was my only thought as the computer booted. Actually, I also thought, “Is it appropriate in an office-context to walk around barefoot as your shoes dry?” (Answer: No. But “class” is overrated, so I did anyway. Also the boss wasn’t in.)

I've been eating my way through May – I blame it on the “rut” I’m in, because things can only compound so much until you reach for the Mr. Goodbar. I used to have a bit bitter (read: envious) outlook toward my husband: his life is down-right easy. (So maybe I’m still bitter.) But now I’m also relieved one of us is stable in mind and body, because someone has to cook my dinner! The other week Matt made a simple pasta salad accented with tuna and artichokes, and last week we had a fresh salad with skirt steak, lime, mangos, and more. Today I’m wearing my girdle underwear, which would be excellent, except the old things are beginning to lose their elastic and I have to keep hiking the damn things up. Of course I do this in plain view. Like I said: life is hard.

Tuna and Penne (or bowties, or spirals, or whatever your heart fancies)

Adapted (aka made yummier and much less healthier) from Cooking Light

• 1 (or, hell, 2) red bell peppers
• penne pasta (8 ounces)
• 1 bunch coarsely chopped arugula
• 1/2 cup thinly sliced shallots
  
• 4 TB red wine vinegar
• 1-2 TB capers, divided
• 2 TB olive oil
• 1 TB thyme
• 1 jar marinated artichoke hearts
• 1 (7.8) jar premium tuna packed in oil (such as Ortiz), drained and flaked*

*I am cheap. Not that cheap, but I balked at the $9.50 jar of fancy tuna. So I bought half that and used half albacore in water. Oh, the horror, I know...

Preheat broiler. Cut bell pepper in half lengthwise, discard seeds and membranes (ha, ha). Place pepper halves, skin sides up, on a foil-lined baking sheet; flatten with hand. Broil 15 minutes or until blackened. Place in a ziplock bag and seal. Let it stand 15 minutes. Then peel and chop.

Bring water to boil and cook pasta accordingly with some salt. Drain and rinse with cold water.

Now combine the bell peppers, pasta, a dash salt, and the remainder of the ingredients in a large bowl and toss well. Wasn't that easy?!

A box, a shovel, and an enthused nerd

I am fickle about a lot of things: cats, capers, coconut, and clowns to cover just the C’s. On any given day, I could love or hate them. There is always one thing, however, I find forever amusing and endearing in an “Aw, shucks, here we go again/now THIS is why I love this boy” sort of way: Matt’s endless, and seemingly boundless, list of new hobbies. That, and his amazing head of ridiculous hair, is what drew me in, and his kindness and nerd-tastic ways are why I married him (thus my “Nerds Make Better Lovers” hoodie I sport).

He is an ebullient explorer of our world, whereas I’m a hardened cynic. “Shut UP!” I’ll screech at full tilt as he practices his Mongolian throat singing, and he’ll happily bounce into the next room and practice for the next half hour until he’s ready to regale Penny and I with a concert. Our expression is half bemusement and half nervousness that someone walking by will hear.

I play the role of cheerleader tempered with a dose of the rational: “Fine, you can juggle those pins in the house but no, you’re NOT getting juggling knives, no matter how ‘dull’ you purport they are,” and “You want to build a giant MAME cabinet?! Fine, do what you want – but keep that thing out of my living room!”

At any given time, Matt has four to five ideas swimming around in his head, and I have no idea which one will emerge victorious. A few years ago we visited an aviation museum where Matt, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, learned there are “Build-Your-Own-Helicopter” (as in full-size, person on board) kits. He mentioned it would be the perfect hobby for retirement. As a person who is scared to board a 757, I’m am still bracing for that one.

So I was delighted (DELIGHTED!) when last year he started showing interest in gardening – square foot gardening, to be exact (I love food, and anything involving food I take instant delight in). Square Foot Gardening is a method coined by Mel Bartholomew, whom I think Matt has a very ardent man-crush on (see the post a year back when I detailed his man-crush on David Brooks, which still has me scratching my head). Matt owns two of Mel's books and abides by Mel's teachings by building - to spec - two 4'x4' boxes that are roped off in 1' squares. In each square my husband plants a different vegetable (those truly worthy vegetables get a few squares).

Now, gardening is a huge step up in terms of usefulness compared to most of his hobbies (think unicycling, tight-rope walking, and his lucid dreaming quest, and yes, he partakes in all three). I was positively euphoric when he started buying seeds, and only slightly less enthusiastic when he spent more time with his seeds upstairs than with me or the dog. You see, the boy had to grow his veggies from seeds and nurse the seedlings. He did this in our spare bedroom upstairs and spent the latter part of the winter monitoring them nightly. He'd emerge, sullen, an hour later muttering things like, "I'm worried about my broccoli." (And yes, its comments like this that sort of make me swoon.)

But then things got ugly. He plucked those big, wooden boxes down on our large - and very open - side yard that faces the street and several of our neighbors' homes. I'm a big proponent of saying I don't care what people think, but of course I secretly do. When we first moved into the house I approached one of our neighbors who was gardening. They have a stunning yard fit for Home & Garden and HGTV. The first, and only, thing she said to me, with her nose upright and her lips pursed, was "That's quite a yard you have to take care of," and turned back to her weeding. The comment was thick with condescension but because I am a sophisticated lady (cough) I waited until I was a few yards away to whisper "bitch". That's just how I roll.

Three years later I still haven't spoken to that neighbor, although, along with several neighbors, we did have the privilege of receiving a note in our mailbox asking us to keep the noise down and not mow our grass because she was having a party one Sunday. If I was the person I WISH I was I would have certainly turned on the mower for a quick minute or two just to freak her out a little. Instead I told Matt not to mow on Saturday.

Back to the gardening boxes: I was okay with them (a bit clench-fisted, but okay), until Matt decided a few things: first, we needed to erect a fence around the boxes so the deer wouldn't eat the garden. Fine. Now, secondly (notice how he's strategically doing this in small steps) he said the beans need a trellis and built something akin to a soccer net on the boxes. It is white and stark and looks like a poor man's sports equipment. I was not thrilled. In fact, I ordered him to take them down.

Unfortunately, he's putting them back up this weekend.

But he's just so damn cute and earnest about this gardening thing, I can't say no. So, back off, neighbor - we're doing some square foot gardening here.

(Photos of his foray into gardening to come.)

Fun with Falafel

Do you know what I love? Falafel. I have very fond memories of buying $2 falafel sandwiches on McDougal street in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village during college. Two things: first, they’re delicious little fried chickpea darlings, and two, they’re cheap. I’m a simple girl with simple needs, and cheap food is really all it takes.

I was working from home during a February snowstorm, and while normal people fix themselves a bowl of soup or a sandwich during their lunch break, I was smacking my lips to the sound of fryin’ falafel. I saw a simple recipe in Bon Appetit and was foaming at the bit to give it a go. (Oh, have I mentioned? With truffles and meringue in my eyes, I went a little crazy on Amazon a few months back and subscribed to no less than four foodie periodicals. Yes – gastrointestinal oye.)

Matt and I slapped these babies in a pita with tahini dressing, greens and tomatoes for lunch, and for dinner had them atop a salad. He recently asked when “I” was going to make them again. All he got was a raised eyebrow.

Falafel

(from Bon Appetit magazine)

• 1 15-ounce can garbanzo beans (chickpeas), drained
• 1/4 cup chopped onion
• 3 tablespoons all purpose flour plus more for dredging
• 2 1/2 teaspoons salt-free garlic pepper spice blend
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 2 tablespoons (packed) chopped
• fresh Italian parsley
• Vegetable oil (for frying)
• Purchased hummus

• Puree canned garbanzo beans, chopped onion, 3 tablespoons all purpose flour, garlic pepper spice blend, ground cumin, baking powder, and salt in processor until coarse puree forms. Add chopped Italian parsley; process just to blend. Generously sprinkle plate with all purpose flour. Roll level tablespoonfuls garbanzo bean mixture into balls; transfer balls to plate. Roll falafel in flour to coat generously; flatten balls slightly.
• Pour enough vegetable oil into heavy large skillet to reach depth of 1/2 inch. Heat oil to 375°F. Working in 2 batches, fry falafel patties until deep brown, turning once, about 3 minutes. Transfer falafel patties to paper towels to drain. Serve falafel with hummus.

This is called an assembly line.

I'm sort of in love with the Trader Joe's flour bag. And that my food processor is overflowing (I never just make a single recipe - never!)

Crunchy munchy.

iJerks and Cilantro

The New York Times just ran a story about the coterie of anti-cilantroites (my coinage). I look particular offense to this article because I covet cilantro and I’m aghast at those who don’t. I don’t understand these people. Matt has often said, “You’re pretty close-minded for someone who touts such open-minded, liberal views.” This is true. There are no opinions in my orbit: only what is or isn’t. For example, I often very flippantly say Mac users are smug. I say I’m repulsed by iPods and Mac Books and Steve Jobs (and really, wasn’t it Steve Wosniak who really developed with first Mac?!). A normal person would recognize the culturally enormity of their brand and their pioneering technology. A normal person may not own an Apple product, or may even be irked by the self-congratulatory tone of their products and clientele, but they wouldn’t hate them. I do. On NPR a few years back I heard the term for Apple users was “iJerks” and to this day I spit that out when someone waxes poetic about the iPad (which makes me think of a high-tech maxi-pad, really).


I was giving my rampant hatred a lot of thought recently. I think when someone says they “hate” things, they should sit down sit and think about that a bit – carrying all that hatred around just isn’t healthy.

I gave it a lot of thought (picture a thoughtful montage set to some dreamy music), but I realized I was right to hate what I do. There is just no excuse for SUVs, luxury brands, olives, and the modern-day Republican Party. 

Whew – I’ve said my peace.  (Please don't hate me.)