Flustered and Faithless

I’m feeling flustered. I’m trying to put together a thoughtful blog post – and failing miserably. I’ve started – and saved – several drafts on different subjects that occupy space in my mind…yet nothing seems to be coming together quite the way I’d like it too. I find myself diverging from whatever subject I started out with, and the words seem both hollow and meaningless for some reason.

I struggled greatly with the subject of this blog post. It’s something that preoccupies me a great deal but that I don’t talk about very often – partly because I feel like we live in a climate of increasing intolerance and where people become exceedingly angry, violent and mean when you don’t agree with their view of the world.

Do you ever find yourself worrying about what kind of a world you’re hoping to bring a child into?

I know that it’s a luxury to worry about this at all. I have the time to ponder these types of issues, ad nauseam, and pontificate about things that many people don’t have the time or energy to think about.

I’m a worrier. I get that from my mom. Sometimes I really think that this may have been transferred in utero, if not already embedded in my genetic material – but even if I consider those less than likely scenarios, my mother definitely instilled a deep and constant anxiety in me.

I’m not religious, and I’m comfortable with that – though I will admit that I used to pray, and I used to “talk” to God well into my teens and early 20s. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve felt disenfranchised from any notion of faith because of the way I felt it was used to discriminate against people and abuse the goodwill of others. I’m fervently pro-choice and pro gay rights. I hate the idea that someone is treated as a lesser person, a lesser individual, based on their skin color, gender or sexual orientation. I don’t know anyone, personally, who’s had an abortion – but I imagine that, for most women, it’s a harrowing decision that is not made lightly. I don’t have any gay or transgendered friends. But sometimes, when I see what’s happening across the country, I worry about the children that are coming into a world filled with so much hatred.

I made a big mistake and watched a documentary about this preacher somewhere in the Midwest whose entire family is basically spewing nothing but hate-filled vitriol. Obviously, I was already aware of that whole situation – but the documentary had a far more profound impact on me than I realized. I feel truly shaken by the idea that an entire, extended family spanning multiple generations is preaching and practicing a religion of hate – and brainwashing their innocent children into disseminating the same message.

I know I shouldn’t have watched this, really. I have an incredibly hard time dealing with that level of belligerence, of hatred – and what I find most offensive of all is when people use religion to justify that kind of intolerance. When I was growing up, being a “good Christian” related to things like honesty, forgiveness, acceptance, tolerance. It was about helping others, about striving to be a better person. Faith was private and didn’t need to be talked about because it was about living a good, honorable life – not about preaching discrimination, death and doom.

When I prayed as a child, when I talked to God as a young adult, it was with an assumption of benevolence – like a sage, white-bearded grandfather who would listen to your problems patiently and love you in spite of your flaws. I absolutely reject the concept of a vengeful god – simply because, to me, that notion is just an abuse of scripture in the hands of people who want to justify their own anger and intolerance in the quest to control others. There’s something really wrong with the world when someone hands a poster to a child that proclaims how awesome it is that people die while protecting the very freedoms they’re using to spread such venom.

All of this is running around in my mind and playing into old fears about whether or not I should even attempt to put a new life into this world. You know how, when someone has strong faith, they believe that God has a plan for them? Somewhat similarly, I sometimes wonder if there’s a deeper reason – beyond biology and medicine – why we*  haven’t been able to get pregnant.

(* we = my husband and I. I’m not so presumptuous as to assume that I can or should speak about someone else’s situation.)

Of course I know that, just as with religious belief, it’s really just evidence of the struggle to make sense of a horrible, awful situation – something you didn’t ever anticipate and over which, it seems, you have little or no control.

This isn’t the first time that I’ve wondered about my decision to pursue ARTs at some point. I have no reservations about whatever perception or opinion someone else might have to disagree with ARTs – and I know there are some who have issues with it. I know some people believe that infertility is perhaps some kind of punishment – or that ARTs are an unacceptable interference in “God’s plan”. (I won’t even get into the idiocy of the latter – because, seriously, if someone believes that the deity they pray to thinks that crack whores and pedophiles are suitable parents while good, loving people should remain childless, they can keep whatever it is they’re smoking.)

Some people have ethical objections to the whole process on the grounds of religious belief; some take issue “only” with the process of selective reduction. I do understand that selective reduction is an issue that is difficult to deal with – probably more so for someone who believes that all life is sacred and that life begins at conception etc. I’m not arguing a point about whether such a belief is right or wrong – but I think that it’s a decision that should be left to the couples in question. Personally, I’m not worried about defending my own choices to someone else at all – quite frankly, I don’t give a rat’s a$$ about whether or not someone else agrees with women who pursue IVF, get selective reductions, or even have an abortion. The way I see all these issues is the same way I see divorce and gay marriage: if you don’t like it, don’t do it. Problem solved.

What I do worry about is how I will deal with these issues when we have children – regardless of how they come to be in our lives. Even if we end up adopting, these fears and worries remain the same for me. I would have absolutely no problem loving a child – biological or not – even if he/she turned out to be gay. It’s not a problem for me because I don’t find the concept offensive and, unlike some, I don’t think it’s a choice, I don’t think it’s a sin or an abomination and that someone deserves to die because they’re a square peg that doesn’t fit in a round hole someone decided is the only acceptable option. I think that when you love a child, you want them to be happy – and telling them that what they feel deep inside of them makes them a bad person? Not ok.

I struggle, deeply, with the fear of how to help a child grow up to love and respect others and himself/herself – even if the child is different or others around him/her are different. My worst fear would be a child who either ends up hurting himself/herself because of bullying or themselves become a bully. I worry about adopting a child who was exposed to years of abuse and neglect, to bigotry etc. I worry about how to help a child who struggles with his/her own identify because they were never really loved to begin with – because how can you love yourself or love someone else when, from the moment you were born, you were treated with disdain, hate or indifference?

A few years ago – back when I still had some semblance of a social life – I took a picture of a friend’s daughter with another little girl she was friends with. One of the girls was black with bushy curly hair; the other one was white as snow with light blond hair. The contrast between them was like yin and yang. In the picture, they’re hugging each other fiercely and both grinning from ear to ear. It reminded me of something I read not too long ago about how racism isn’t something children are born with, it’s a learned behavior – just as prejudice and hatred are.

I went to a fairly big school (in terms of student body), yet there were probably less than half a dozen black kids. Even so, it never occurred to me to think that a black person – or any person of color – would be of lesser “value” than I was. It never crossed my mind that I should choose my friends based on something so arbitrary – yet the majority of my friends have always been white as rice. It was never a conscious decision at all – but, in looking back, I realize that most people do gravitate towards those who are most like themselves. I don’t know whether or not that’s a bad thing, or if it’s a normal, natural thing. I remember having an Asian friend in college – and, when I hung out with her and her other friends (who were all Asian) a few times, I felt really out of place; almost like an intruder. In hindsight, I wonder whether we recognize in others not just our external similarities but also our shared cultural heritage and upbringing.

So I can’t help but wonder whether thinking something is enough – or whether, even with these issues, actions speak louder than words. Would it be enough for me to teach our children that we’re all equal – irrespective of gender, race, ethnicity, cultural background, sexual orientation? And how do you teach a child not just to love themselves and others – but also to cope with the rejection from others who were raised in an environment of hatred, abuse or neglect? In this climate of extreme polarization, how do you teach your child about acceptance and tolerance without speaking out, openly, on the issues yourself? Is it enough for me to have an opinion but not to do anything about things that I find morally objectionable – and how do you find a middle ground between standing up for your beliefs and still agreeing to disagree with those whose opinions, beliefs and lifestyles you find completely unacceptable?

I know it probably seems ridiculous to worry about these issues at this stage. I’m nowhere near becoming a mother by any means – medical or otherwise. I know that the best case scenario would be that I somehow manage to get pregnant this year – but that’s definitely a long shot.

I’m sorry that this post is pretty much all over the map and that it’s touching on some very sensitive, controversial and personal subjects. I’m wondering whether I’m the only one who thinks and worries about these issues. Do you think about things like that – and, if so, what do you do to calm your mind? Do you worry about the world we live in – and how that will affect your future children?

Sometimes I miss my “conversations” with God. I miss praying with my grandmother. I miss the belief that there is more good than bad in this world – and the faith that most of us are trying to be good most of the time. I want to have faith in something that is greater than myself; I want to, once again, have faith in others. But I could never ascribe to any belief system that preaches and/or condones intolerance.


(NB: I’m not trying to offend your beliefs, so please don’t be shy about sharing your thoughts, feelings and opinions – even if you don’t agree with me.)



The Myth of the Suddenly Fertile

First, I want to take a moment to voice my deepest gratitude to the loving, caring, supportive, understanding and encouraging comments so many of you left for me in response to yesterday’s post. I was truly touched by your words, and I appreciate the time you take not just to read but to write about your own feelings in relation to something I’ve written. It means more to me than I can really express – especially in the complete absence of any form of support system in our lives here. Were it not for YOU, I would probably not even want to get out of bed at this point…

Last night, I had a complete and total meltdown.

At times like these, I really understand why people drink or take drugs. I know it’s not something that’s perhaps pc to say or write, and obviously I’m not advocating any such destructive means to deal with adversity. All I’m saying is that I can understand a powerful urge to procure oblivion.

It started out with the usual thoughts – the feeling that any reality of my dreams seems so far out of reach that I can’t help but feel increasingly convinced that it’s just not going to happen. Then I turn right around and worry about all this negativity becoming a “self-fulfilled prophecy” – meaning that all this constant strain on my heart, on my soul, on my nerves, is impacting my mental and physical well-being in such a way that I will, in effect, make myself completely incapable of conceiving. Ever.

Can you say worst nightmare?

As I’ve mentioned repeatedly, I’m not sleeping well. I haven’t slept well in a long, long time. Most nights, I need some kind of sleep aid if I want to have a chance of getting some shut-eye before 1am. If I forego the OTC assistance, I pretty much have two options. Behind Door #1 is lying awake in the darkness as my thoughts spin out of control and I imagine myself barren for life, the house quiet until I eventually die in the rubble of the crushed dreams that never came to be. Behind Door #2 is basically distracting myself by all means necessary – browsing the internet, reading, crosswords, etc – until I literally can’t keep my eyes open anymore. I’m sure it’s not difficult to see how neither option is especially appealing, and so I usually end up with an average of 4-5 hours of actual sleep – none of which is restful, quality sleep. I wake up feeling groggy, achy, and grumpy, which in turn makes my attempts to ween myself off caffeine pretty much something worth snickering at since I could literally be a poster girl for “I haven’t had my coffee yet – don’t make me kill you”.

Anyway. I thought I’d tired myself enough when I turned off the light last night. Boy, was I wrong. Within the space of 30 seconds, I had hot tears running down my face. I gave myself a mental pep talk, trying to soothe myself to sleep. I told myself that I’m just exhausted from chronic, long-term sleep deprivation; that it’s just because of my period; that I just need to think happy thoughts. Mmmm, yeah – that didn’t really work. Not 2 minutes after I had turned off the light, I was sobbing so violently, so heavily, that I was almost hyperventilating. Even to my own ears, I sounded like I was choking or struggling for air – yet I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

The image that comes to mind when I think about it is an episode of NCIS (original, not spin-offs). Somewhere in season 9 or 10, there’s an episode where Ziva’s father is killed. As she comes into the room to find him slumped over, Cote de Pablo’s acting reached such heights for me that I think this may have been one of the most realistic scenes of any tv show, ever. As her face scrunches up in pain and she cries out “Abba!” (which I assume is Hebrew for dad or father), I felt such profound, deep emotional pain – connected, of course, to my own personal losses – that I cried the first time I saw the episode. Her emotions seem so raw and so real that every single time I see this episode – or even just that particular scene – I immediately have tears welling up in my eyes.

I’m sure that most of you know exactly what I mean – you know, the agonizing, heartbroken sobs that feel different from other times where you tear up or have a little “snif snif” moment; that gut-wrenching pain that shoots through every synapse of your brain, engages every single nerve ending in your body…and you feel like you’re completely engulfed in such abject despair that you just can’t seem to stop yourself.

I’ve had this happen a handful of times – it’s always frightening, always feels like my life spirit is being choked right out of me. And yet, there’s a certain catharsis that comes with it. In the moment, I feel nothing but despair and like I can’t breathe, can’t hope, can’t feel anything but raw pain. But afterwards, when I finally come down from the peaks of “doom and gloom”, I try to calm myself down. Sometimes I talk to myself, out loud. I know – sounds insane – but it helps.

When I woke up this morning, I felt like crap. I was barely ambulatory as I crawled out of bed, every part of my body hurting. My jaw felt like it had been wired shut. My head throbbed. All the usual accoutrements of The Curse have been working overtime to make me feel miserable most of the day. My best friend became the hot water bottle that I snuggled up with to watch an old chick flick called Mistaken Identity – about these two women whose babies got mixed up at the hospital after delivery. (Sidebar: I’ve already told my husband several times that when this blessed event finally decides to grace our lives, he’d better be stuck like white on rice on whoever takes our baby or babies anywhere in the hospital once the first breath has been taken. God help anyone who would ever separate me and my-hopefully-still-in-the-realm-of-possibilities offspring.)

I know – clearly I’m a masochist to watch this type of movie in my state of mind. But the reason I even bring it up is because there’s this underlying notion of what, one assumes, is one woman’s IF issues that are basically not really mentioned as such. Considering that the movie is from the early 90s, I guess it’s not so surprising. You know what’s even less surprising? The fact that, in the course of the movie, the woman just so happens to get pregnant. Que miracolo! This seems to be a very pervasive notion in Hollywood: a perpetuation of what I, honestly, am starting to think is the urban myth of the Suddenly Fertile. I mean, did you know that all you have to do is adopt a child, get involved in foster care, or have one successful pregnancy to miraculously become fertile? Who comes up with this crap?

Meanwhile, I also tortured myself last night by checking out a variety of adoption sites. You know, in the hopes of prompting the urban myth to crank up my uterus and ovaries – who knows, maybe just browsing adoption websites could be enough for me to miraculously becomes fertile? No? Didn’t think so. After reading through a bunch of different things, I came to the following conclusions in regards to adoption for me and the hubs:

  • Domestic infant adoption is not going to happen unless we miraculously happen to find a birth mother ourselves and only have to pay legal feels etc. (Sure asking for a lot of miracles, aren’t we?)
  • International adoption is completely out of the question for us because, even though we’d be open to it and we’re suitable or even ideal candidates for several countries, it’s absolutely impossible with my husband’s work schedule because there’s just no way he could go on sabbatical so we could spend weeks or even months in the host country. (Honestly – who can? I mean, unless you’re unemployed or something, in which case my guess is that you really can’t afford the costs associated with international adoptions.)
  • Adopting from foster care – which essentially means a child that’s of school age and more than likely a different ethnicity. Now, I have no problems adopting a child from a different ethnic group because, the way I grew up, the only skin color I know is “human”. I don’t care if you’re white, green, yellow, black, striped or with polka dots – I judge people based on who they are, not how closely their skin color matches my own. However, I’m weary of the child – rather than us – being chastised for being in a home with ethnically different adoptive parents. But this, of course, is only one of many considerations – the others being that it can take up to 2 years for a child in foster care to actually be placed with prospective adoptive parents; and the fact that you need references from people that aren’t related to you. Mmm, yeah – we have no friends. Every single person who’s been in our lives in the past has pretty much left the premises through our struggle with IF. We don’t even know our neighbors. And that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that I have absolutely zero interest in getting to know our neighbors and I feel like I’m actually turning into a socially inept person.  I’m not laying the blame on anyone else – as I’ve mentioned many times, I’ve basically been avoiding social situations and interactions with both alarming frequency and length of time because I just can’t face the barrage of questions about our childlessness or the constant baby bumps and idiotic terms like “babymoon” that, quite frankly, make me want to throw a dirty diaper at whoever coined the term.

To my knowledge, neither watching the movie nor browsing adoption website has made me Suddenly Fertile. In the meantime, I’ll just keep hoping for a miracle…even it it’s with the help of modern medicine.

Hope S(t)inks

I’m going through a bit of a rough patch. Ok, that’s kind of an understatement. I can’t even find the words anymore. I lie awake at night, half-heartedly composing blog posts that never make it because I don’t even crack open my computer, never mind type, edit, and then send my blatherings out into the Great Unknown…shivering, wondering, wavering. Does anyone care? Does it matter to anyone what I think, what I feel? Why would it matter to strangers who don’t know me when it doesn’t even matter to my own family.

Yesterday, the bitch landed on CD40 with a resounding thud – five days late which, even though I knew there was absolutely zero chance of it being anything but an untimely delay to once again screw with my brain, I dared to hope. HAH! Me? What a joke. I’ve never even gotten pregnant. At times I think I’d rather deal with anything that gives me any hope whatsoever that my body is even capable of conception at all – because, at present, I have zero indication that this is even in the realm of possibilities for me, ever.

Sometimes, hope really stinks.

Sometimes, instead of lifting me up, it just makes me feel like I’m sinking…because when hope isn’t realized by the goal you set your sights on, it just falls flat and leaves you feeling sad, tired, and broken.

I’m drowning.

My cycles have been pretty eratic, ranging from 28 to 40 days. I can’t help but feel completely freaked out – partly because I think, how on earth could I even hope to time anything au naturel when my periods are so damn unpredictable; partly because I keep wondering if I’m teetering on the edge of being perimenopausal (perish the thought!!). I know it’s stupid, ridiculous even, to worry about any of that since, according to Dr. McGreedy, there’s pretty much no chance in hell that I could ever get pregnant on my own. But until we’re in better hands – how can I not try, right? I can’t just throw my hands up in the air and say, oh forget about all that, let’s just wait and see what happens if/when we find a new RE! And with my husband’s crazy work schedule, I’m starting to think I’d be better off just asking him to make a “donation” and hand me a turkey baster (please accept my profuse apologies for this crass mental image – I blame it on the hormones that are apparently only good for giving me monthly cramps and assorted indignities).

So if you’ve been wondering why I haven’t posted (I know – so presumptuous of me) – it’s not because I’m gone or because I’m bored with blogging, busy with fun things, etc. It’s because I sound like a broken record. Woe is me. I’m sad. I’m angry. I’m lonely. I feel despair and despondency. What else is new? At this point, I feel like anyone reading my blog must be rolling their eyes thinking, “Seriously? This again??”.

Please forgive me. I feel like I’m lost at sea without a compass. I’m drowning.

The news here is…oh wait, there is no news. Unless, of course, you count being a pathetic 30-something year old believing in miracles and fairy tale endings news. Didn’t think so.

I want to be part of a community, part of life, part of something – but I feel like I’m frozen in place. I don’t even know how to have a conversation anymore. I even dread turning on the tv because everything, and I mean everything, is just reminding me about how I’ve never gotten pregnant in my entire life – and how, around me, everyone else is moving on. All these commercials that are all about baby this, mommy that, super hero daddy. I’m so sick and tired of it. I feel like screaming – and, honestly, if it wasn’t for my husband, I probably would’ve thrown the remote at the tv and felt a wave of relief right about the same time as a satisfying crunch indicated the death of that dreaded monster and harbinger of Fertile Myrtle Daily.

So I watched documentaries on Netflix. I watched Amelie, which is one of my favorite feel-good movies – not only because I kind of love Audrey Tautou but because I have a bit of a weakness for French cinema. I mean, the French have a knack for drama and what I would consider “real people” story telling that, in my unvarnished opinion, is simply unparalleled. My only irritation came from not being able to disable the entirely distracting subtitles, though I was glad that, at least, it hadn’t been dubbed (perish the thought!). There are so many aspects of this movie that I love and relate to; it makes me want to jump on a plane and spend a few months in France…mmmm, le fromage! I watched cooking shows that made me struggle with envy: the fresh, healthy produce I can’t hope to find in this place (because, really? Zesting a citrus fruit is all fine and well when it comes from an organic farm stand, freshly picked just days before you use it. I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that none of us dealing with IF want to put any additional pesticides in our bodies if we can help it.); the boon of laughing children, family and friends. I finally got around to tackling my “mending” basket – fixed a hat and three cardigans that all had undone seams or holes…from about a year ago. Anything to keep my mind off THE ISSUE. You know, the hollow emptiness I feel pretty much every waking second of my life.

Meanwhile, I’ve set up a “battle station” on my nightstand with about a dozen IF books and a notebook. I’m working on finding my way through the maze, trying to formulate a plan. I keep struggling, I keep fighting the tears (and losing the battle), I keep getting angry and running scared. But I know I can’t keep hiding. I can’t keep worrying about whether or not my story is original, relevant, interesting. I can’t keep judging myself and finding myself falling short of self-imposed standards of perfection. I’ve been doing that my whole life, and clearly it’s not really working for me.

Anyway. I’m still here. Still hurting, still trying to find my way…Not giving up yet.

Happy Day

I slept like crap. I kept waking up and then, this morning, I felt like I’d been run over by a freighter. I looked in the mirror and though, seriously? I look like I just escaped from a maximum-security women’s prison. Yikes!

However…the day has gotten off to a better start. My husband took the morning off so he could be here for the “meet and greet” with a guy who’s supposed to be doing some home repairs after the little disaster before Christmas. If you’ve read my previous posts, you might remember me mentioning the buffoon who’d come to our house a few weeks ago and trampled all over our house with his street shoes on – including my bathtub. Now, I’m not a germaphobe in a clinical sense, but that’s just nasty. To boot, Mr. Disgusting almost gave us a heart attack with how much the project was going to cost – without even giving us an estimate. I kept pressing the issue and he kept side-stepping it. Now…I’m not an idiot, and I’m sure as hell not going to hire someone for a major home repair without a written estimate. The whole situation left me feeling frustrated and annoyed – mostly because we’re trying to save money and any unanticipated expenses are just one more thing that’s keeping us from meeting our goal. 

So I was pleasantly surprised by the scruffy guy who turned up on our doorstep just now. While Mr. Disgusting looked like he could’ve just come from a yacht club (where, apparently, no one informed him of professional etiquette), Scruffy seems to be the sort of no-nonsense, unpretentious type of person who’s focused on doing the job, and doing it right. To boot, he’s retired military – which I have a HUGE amount of respect for. Scruffy, for all his “less refined” dress sense, actually took off his shoes before heading to the area to be investigated – and then it appears that the project is going to cost even less than what the office manager had quoted my husband. Can you say BEST NEWS EVER?? (You know, taking into account the context – obviously there are other things that would be better news but hey, you take what you can get, right? 🙂

Right now, Scruffy is hard at work and I fled the scene because of the smell of whatever he’s using – I figure I don’t need another strike against my (in)fertility and possible make things even worse than they already are. I offered him some water, which he politely declined – so I’m patiently waiting for the work to be completed. I like people who are professional and polite. I don’t like people who are overly effusive in that hypocritical, fake, and “sales pitch” style – it usually doesn’t work on me anymore since I’ve gotten burned one too many times in my younger (and more naive) days. The good news is that, according to Scruffy, the problem isn’t nearly as extensive as we were made to believe by Mr. Disgusting – so I’m really glad we didn’t agree to shell out thousands of (unnecessary) Dollars that would put a serious dent in our IVF fund. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Disgusting never did email my husband the written estimates I insisted upon – just another reason I think the guy was totally shady. 

Anyway – I think today is one of those days that reminds me, in a rather rudimentary way, to be happy about and grateful for the little things. Even if it’s just mundane and boring, in a way, I’m just so glad right now that – as far as we can tell at the moment – the problem will get fixed for a fraction of the cost we thought we were looking at. Hopefully this will be the end of it for now. 

Meanwhile, I can’t seem to stop yawning because of the really bad night I had – replete with weird dreams, heart palpitations etc. So I’m extra grateful, today especially, that I have the “luxury” of putting my lounge pants on after Scruffy leaves and just sort of wiling away the day until my husband comes home tonight and we can have a nice meal together. The weekend will probably be busy as there’s much to do: top of the list being the clean-up of the garage and sorting out of things we can donate or sell in our efforts to scrounge together enough money for making a baby the new-fashioned way. Here’s hoping that 2014 will be our year – and yours! 🙂

Motivated 12-Month-Old Seeks New Opportunities

So I just had to share this because it’s not just hilariously well-written and such a lovely way to, perhaps, air some frustration in a “constructive” way – but seriously, I’m thinking that’s a little genius kid 🙂

Dear Hiring Manger,

I am pleased to submit my application for your Part Time Kitchen Assistant vacancy. I have 12 months of strong background in the home kitchen industry. My current supervisor’s selfish need to make me breakfast and hand scrub my sippy cups has resulted in an ability to work independently and make high-level decisions with minimal supervision. Although I am grateful for the experience I’ve been afforded, I am seeking a new environment where creativity and innovation are celebrated, instead of met with exasperated sighs.

I am confident you will see that my application outshines that of my peers. Here are just a few examples of some strengths I bring to the table:

  • Maintain impeccable cleanliness standards through the identification and consumption of stray pieces of dog food, remnants from last night’s dinner, and other varia.
  • Assist in loading and unloading the dishwasher wherever applicable. Recognized for expertise…

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