In which I eventually get around to welcoming you to ICLW.

Oh, hi. I'm back.

"Uhhh .... were you even gone?" you might be thinking.

Why, yes, I was. Or this blog was. Just temporarily, and just since yesterday, when I figured out that somebody had gotten their (virtual) hands on my post from Saturday and then posted it on his version of a "virtual magazine" designed to allow one to "leverage curation to increase [one's] visibility" and "give persistence to [one's] social media presence" – because stuff from here can totally help with that. And then if that weren't enough, this person republished my post on his blog in a way that I didn't find entirely ethical and, for a final kick, promoted his "own" blog post on Twitter.

My post from Saturday, if you didn't read it (and I reverted it back to a draft for the time being), was not about any of my typical topics such as unevolutive pregnancies or viciously recurring menstrual cycles or uncaring referral-pushing gynecologists or even bed-wetting greyhounds or living room cat litter box disasters, but rather about the customs and culture of the country in which I am living. The virtual magazine and the blog on which that post was republished concern solely that. So in-between an article analyzing a new initiative for popular election of the cabinet and one advising on enjoyable summer activities in the mountains, there was the sole post from my blog where the words "miscarriage" and "period" and "baby-dancing" were not used. (Just kidding. I have never used, and will never use, the latter. We don't baby-dance around these parts.)

You might rightly ask me what I might expect. After all, everything I write here is on the internet, to be seen by all eyes who care to see. The problem is, I expect – or rather, expected – all eyes who care to see to be those who are interested in the afore-mentioned typical topics – not in the very much ancillary others. I know "expat life in [this country]" (yes, I'm getting coy) is one of my stated blogging themes, but allow me the hypocrisy to say that this is ancillary. Because, really, it is. That's not why I'm here.

If a purpose-based blog filter were available, I'd install it. You're here because you too have a connection to those topics I usually write about? Come in, sit down, and make yourself at home. And invite me over to your place, too; I'd love to learn more about you and your own story and to support you on that journey.

Interested solely in my ancillary musings about this country and its culture? No. Please don't bother. Really, you'd have to dig through much way too much broken-hearted soul-spilling rubble if that's all you're interested in. And if that's all you're interested in, I really don't want you to see that rubble.

(Oh, and looking for guidance on how to perform devious sex acts with your foreign-born paramour? Come on ... don't even waste your time. I know it would waste your time. I looked, too.)

But of course I can't filter readers based on their purpose; that's just a pipe dream. However, knowing that somebody has been here and then taken my words and re-published them in a context that is not one in which I would like to share them feels like a violation, if not of my privacy, then at least of my sense of safety. And by that, I mean what was discussed with great insight here.

This space is incredibly valuable to me, and I don't want to lose my sense of safety in it. I don't want it to be used, or read, for purposes for which it was not meant. Which is another pipe dream – why people use or read this space is, to a very large extent, uncontrollable. By default, everybody in the whole entire world has access to it, to use and to read for whatever purposes they wish.

Although I recognize this uncontrollability, I can make some changes to help me feel safer, a feeling that I recognize may well be illusory. This space is indexed by search engines and people not infrequently find it through searches related to country name. In fact, I think this virtual magazine works by trawling for keywords – in this case, country name – and then offering relevant posts to the “publisher” to select from for inclusion. So, lesson learned. The name of this country shall be changed for blogging purposes, and I might even de-index the blog (as sorry as I’d be to lose the occasional giggle over how people find it).

As for my content appearing in the virtual magazine and the other sources, well, I asked the author to remove it all, and he did so, very quickly, for which I am most appreciative. And so I'm back.

And that's all that I can say about that. Which might well be more than enough.

***

Well, as un-interesting as all that might have been, you can be sure it was more interesting than the other topic that would have been on today's agenda, namely: why the fuck can't I just fucking get pregnant?*

Yes, yes, Tuesday's circled on my calendar as the big test date, but really, what's the point of wasting yet another stick? They may be just internet cheapies but that doesn't make them any cheaper to import. ("To import where?" one might wonder innocently. But oh ho ho, one will just have to keep wondering; I'm not dropping that country's name again!)

Ever virtuous, I turned down all offers of alcoholic beverages at Saturday night's outdoor lakefront festival even though a cold beer would have been oh-so-delightfully refreshing and then woke up Sunday morning to a plunge in temperature so steep the thermometer may well have jumped off a skyscraper. Any illusions about it being an "implantation dip" (akin in my book to implantation bleeding or just something that the internet created to mess with wanna-be pregnant women's minds) were skewered by this morning's 97.something confirmation that, indeed, my body's all out of progesterone and my heart is thus all out of hope. For this month, anyway.

Mother Nature better just stick it to me quickly and get the bleeding started, not only so we can take a deep breath and gather our strength to face another round, but also because I would like to get started – this month – with that control cycle testing suggested by the cheery fertility clinic doctor who liked my tunic the other week. And every hour matters, because the testing begins on cd3, and we're leaving for a lovely little holiday in three days.

(*Although it's only been four months since the miscarriage and that isn't very long to wait and at least you know you can get pregnant and so just shut up.)

***

Had I mentioned that I'm going on holiday? Of course I am; it's International Comment Leaving Week, after all, and you might know I don't always stick around to honor my commitment to it. But we're not leaving until Thursday, so this time I'll make sure my week's worth of comments are made and responded to beforehand.

Where are we going? I don't know ... you know why? Because my sweetheart of a husband has planned a little surprise for me and has even given me all kinds of confusing and contradictory hints so that in the end it really truly will be a real true surprise.

(He's done this before, although last time he made me guess before departure. This is how it went:

Him: It's a country in Europe, west of here. I've been to it before, but you haven't.

Me: [Listing the European countries west of here where I've never been before.]

Him: No. No. No.

Me: But there's nothing left!

Him: Yes, there is. Spain! It's Sevilla!

Me: Fantastic, but you know I've been to Barcelona, right? Last year ... with you?

Him: Oh ... oh yes. Right.)

I have my suspicions as to where it is this time, but I'll keep them to myself until I know for sure, which, if all goes according to Gilles's plan, will be when I step onto the plane. I am so thankful and so grateful for him and despite my cold-hearted reunciation of this getaway in the past (he tried to cheer me during one of my post-miscarriage angsts and wails by reminding me to just think of our lovely holiday to come, and I cried in response, "I want a baby, not a holiday!"; I know he understood but I also know he was hurt), right now, this is all I want. Right now and for the days to come, all I will want is our holiday, our time alone and away, together. I think we need it.

And that dratted thermometer is staying home.

***

So yes, ICLW. If you're here for that, welcome. I hope that you, unlike would-be readers of virtual magazines, stay a while and poke around and enjoy or, at the very least, find a connection to what you find. Here's a little introduction from two ICLWs ago, as well as last ICLW's update, if you'd like to know a bit more about me. I'm very much looking forward to learning more about you, and I wish us all a happy comment-full week!

after a post like this, I'm sure we'll all ready to hop on a plane.
borrowed ethically from source