Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Kapowski Cheese

Wonderful Wednesday, warrior-wombed.

Well, fuck me.  I have been trying to find new clothes now for the past week and a half. The only place I have found clothes in the last few months are at this little boutique where the clothes are overpriced but the woman who owns it confuses me with her lovely Persian accent and her compliments.  Damn her.

So I've been attempting to re-commit myself to finding clothes at chain stores.  Namely the embodiment of all things evil, the mall.

In case you were wondering, there are currently 2 1/2 choices for looks in chain store fashion right now:
  1. 12 year old baby prostitute.
  2. Mother of 12 who has just given up on life.
What is the 1/2, you say?  Ahh, apparently they are bringing Kelly Kapowski back as a possible look.  You know, tight fitting floral shirts, brightly colored pants (today I saw turquoise jeans with giant white polka dots), overall shorts (again, floral), way too many varieties of paw-printed.

(Source).

Nobody is going to want to sex me up in clothes like that.  And while we're at it if they're going to bring the worst things from 1993 back surely the world is ready for a Color Me Badd reunion.

Help me gawd, help me gays... Goodbye Forever 21, let me know when you start a sister store called Forever 27 or Forever Fat.

I brought Mr. T with me last Friday and he put in a solid effort of trying to wrestle me into trying on clothes.  (I haaaaate shopping after about an hour.  I know, I know, it's no wonder I can't get pregnant as I am clearly missing some crucial woman genes). We eventually gave up and re-dedicated ourselves to finding me an outfit that would make me look like the bumble bee girl from the Blind Melon video.  Tragedy of all tragedies, this was not at all difficult to accomplish.

I did, however, have some random sneaky person stick this on my purse while I was shopping and I thought it was lovely.  Cheesy?  Yes.  But much like Kelly Kapowski, the cheesiness did not prevent me from smiling:


I stuck it on a bathroom door in the mall to hopefully bring someone a little cheer when their only mall related success has been successfully fending off people jumping out of kiosks and trying to sell you super duper, life-changing, and it's only $100 hair products.

So in my pre-holiday craziness I am hopping on here to catch up on blogs, and just to let you know that I will evidently be spending the holidays visiting my in-laws naked or in leggings.

Because I'm pregnant?  A Pervert?  Both?  No.  Because I do not wish to wear clothes that make me look and feel like an Easter themed cheese stuffed sausage.

And while we're on the subject of religion and cheese, I will leave you with a very serious, very religious mouse.


Sunday, December 16, 2012

Totally Inappropriate

Hola kids.

Okay, this is my last ranting and raving entry for awhile... Tomorrow I will go back to tap dancing bear.

What I would really like to do is put this up on Facebook but that would be opening a totally unnecessary and exhausting can of worms.  So just this little post to vent it out a bit, and I will feel better because it is exhausting all my big girl muscles not to say something in a more public and less anonymous forum.  (Not to mention, thus far in my blogging experience I am delighted to say that most of us seem to be way more reasonable when we disagree than some of the people on my Facebook friends list).

Most of the postings on Facebook about the shooting in Connecticut are perfectly loving, individual responses to something awful. I'm in no way irritated or annoyed by people who are posting about it every hour on the hour, I'm in  no way irritated or annoyed by people who are ignoring it altogether and continuing to post shenanigans.  I'm not even irritated or annoyed by the discussions on guns or mental health (if anything I'm grateful, even when someone says something totally off-putting, that most people seem to at least in this moment be in a place where they're willing to discuss it in the first place... I would also like to point you in the direction of this, which is the one thing that's being posted that I found particularly poignant and will hopefully make some people want to discuss how we deal with the mentally ill).  I'm not irritated or annoyed by the quote about the incident that claims to be from Morgan Freeman (it's not - the person just seems to have put his name to it so that it got circulated.)

What I am annoyed by - and tell me I'm not alone here - is this, that's been circulating the last couple of days:


I originally saw it in my newsfeed because a friend of mine commented on one of their friends' posting of it.  Then I read an article on Mike Huckabee making basically the same statement.  Then a cousin posted it who is not that bright but means well.  Then an aunt, who is really sweet but I don't think really put any thought into exactly how offensive this could be right now.

Again, these people who posted it are generally sweet people, who I think are just a little clueless and posting this only because their reading comprehension has led them to believe that it's saying "this is happening because we've turned our back on G-d".

That's not what it says though, does it?  It says that there is violence in school because we don't allow G-d in school.  And seeing as how this is being posted now, when at least in America you are either thinking about this Connecticut incident constantly, or trying your very best not to think about it, it's saying that this happened because there's no prayer in schools.  Because in public schools, they don't enforce Christian prayer and they try their very best to be inclusive of all religions by not mentioning them at all.

I have zero problem with people talking about praying about this, or saying that we should turn to G-d.  That is of course a very genuine, kind, and positive reaction when something like this happens.  As I'm writing this there is an all-denominations memorial happening in Connecticut and I think that is lovely. What offends me about this doesn't have anything to do with being anti-religious or worrying about one religion stepping on another religions toes.  I am not okay with this quote.

Had I seen this at some other point in time I would disagree, sure, but I wouldn't be terribly offended.  This is being circulated now as a response to what has happened.

Fine, fine, I'm not religious.  Tell me I don't get it.  But I'm not an atheist either - so the very idea that anyone is implying that this happened because G-d is pissed about prayer not being in the US public school system is ludicrous and offensive.  (I'm sorry, as many things as I may have wrong about this life I refuse to believe that G-d is that tiny seeing as how I still find it hard to believe that people can be that tiny).The idea that the shooter did what he did because he didn't pray in school is also ludicrous and offensive.  (Also?  I believe the shooter was homeschooled.)  I have no idea if this is meant to say that the kids had this brought upon them because they didn't pray in school, or that the shooter did it because he didn't, but holy shit me.  Really?  Would either scenario be a better thing to say?

And the thing that offends me the most about it?  Whether or not you realize it, it implies that these kids would not have died if there was prayer in school.  That this is as a result of not following a Christian agenda in schools. There's a hint of "I told you so" to it that is just completely and totally inappropriate not to mention totally unrelated.

I'm not even going to begin to get into how many murders there have been in history on behalf of religion and G-d.  Religious people murder.  Non-religious people murder.  Black people, white people, men, women, Christians, Jews, etc. etc.  To try and blame it on simple personal statistics is disturbing and the idea that morals and religion always intersect is ignorant.  People murder because they're mentally disturbed, they snap, or they are devoid of morals.  They have access to a weapon and a victim.  Whether that person is an atheist or a snake charming evangelist rarely has anything to do with it.

This happened because someone who was mentally ill got ahold of a gun and decided to off himself in a way that would attract attention.  That is why it happened. His religion, lackthereof, sex, race, sexuality, or the fact that he was autistic (which is an entirely separate entry and very real concern I have that now people who have never heard of Aspergers are going to associate it with violence and/or a mental illness, which it is not) have absolutely nothing to do with it.  I repeat, someone who was mentally ill got ahold of a gun and decided to off himself in a way that would attract attention.  This is something that should make us wonder how we can better handle gun control, how we can better protect people and how we can better handle people who are mentally ill.

(Just think for a moment how much you would like it if someone told you you weren't pregnant because you weren't praying in the way that they do or in their preferred forum... and then multiply that times a million).

I am totally for talking about G-d and prayer when something like this happens, or any time you want, for that matter.  We should all be doing some sort of prayer for these people and if that's not your thing, then thinking some positive thoughts and good vibes their way.  But to imply that this happened in the first place because we don't require children to do that in public schools?  Disgusting.

I'm sorry if I'm offending anyone by being offended by this.  The people who posted this on Facebook are actually lovely and I'm guessing (hoping) that they didn't read it in the same way that I did.... I'm venting about it here again knowing I could offend some people because I just have to let it out rather than attack someone who I know means well.  (And I get that most people who would post something like this mean well... We're all just kind of reaching for words or the thing to say, here.)

This is the time to come together and have reasonable, open minded discussions about how we help prevent something like this and how we help the people who had to live through such a horror.  It's not the time to go finger-pointing or suggesting if only other people had your lifestyle, things like this wouldn't happen.

But whether these children were all in school praying 8 hours a day to whatever G-d you would prefer or grew up in a house where they don't believe in G-d, they had a right to live.  Whether this gunman was praying 8 hours a day to whatever G-d you would prefer or grew up in a house where they didn't believe in G-d, he did not have a right to do this.

On to happier thoughts tomorrow.


Friday, December 14, 2012

Tragedy

Today is an awful day.

Forgive me for being a little disjointed with this - normally when there's a topic I'd like to bring up on here I think about it for a little while to get my words in order.  Please also forgive me if in the hours after I post this the facts change as the picture becomes clearer. I feel like I need to dump some of my thoughts out and you all are, after all, my wonderful, loving diary.

I'm sure everyone knows about this already but just in case there's one person reading this who doesn't, this morning in Connecticut, a gunman entered Sandy Hook Elementary School and murdered 26 people, at least 18 of which were elementary school children.

I am by no means a Connecticut expert, I've been there only a few times.  The best lady friend, Kali, is from this particular town, and apparently Mr. T's sister-in-laws nieces and nephews go to this school.  From the little I do know of this particular area,  this having happened there is one of those events that reminds you it could happen anywhere.  The wealth, education, political leanings, population, and usual safety of any given town is in no way a predictor of whether or not something like this can happen there.  It could happen anywhere.

In a lot of ways this is a wonderful, amazing world with a lot of love and light in it.  In other ways, it's a disturbing, terrible place where the creatures who run it are the most violent and unpredictable imaginable.  It's both.  It will always be both.  It's hard on days like these to not think of the world as a body - as long as there are a few sick and twisted cells, the entire body will be sick.

You have to be dead inside to do something like this.  Our tendency as a society is to of course think to ourselves "how could someone do something like this?" because most of us, however strong or weak they may be, still have feelings and a conscience.  This person was clearly dead inside.

There are families who got up this morning just like I did.  They woke up thinking about Christmas gifts they still need to purchase, wondering whether or not they remembered to pay the gardener this month or if they should go see a movie this weekend. They woke up just like we all did, expecting it to be a day easily passed through with all the usual mild peaks and valleys, and instead by mid-morning it turned into the worst day of their lives.  A tragedy so terrible it will be held up as an example to all the world for just how awful it can be.

On some level all of us will be waiting for some sort of explanation as to why this happened.  It's not going to come.  There is not going to be any explanation at all, much less one that is any way satisfying. There is and will be a continued discussion of how this happened, and even that will probably not be in any way satisfying.

There's already a flurry of discussion on social media and news sites about whether today is the day to talk about gun control.  The argument ranges from 'we should never talk about it' to 'we should, just not now' to 'if not now, when?'.

I tend to lean towards the side of let's talk about it in a day or two when it's still fresh, but today let's just think about those families.  My only thoughts right now on the subject are what they always are... I grew up in a house with guns because my Father had to carry them for work.  I also hate that they exist in the first place, as did he.  Gun control is different than taking away everyones right to bare arms. I have no desire to take away everyone's guns, but how we're doing things now?  Not working.

This will also inevitably end up causing a discussion on mental illness.  Everyone including myself will want to blame this persons parents, friends, colleagues because they're still here and he isn't.  They should've known, they should've stopped it, maybe they even caused it.  It's hard to give a shit seeing as how whatever illness he had made him a monster, but there will/should be a discussion on what to do if you're aware of someone who seems to be going off the deep end.  I would like to think, for now at least, that no one who knew him thought 'in a few days he's going to slaughter an elementary school'.

This may not be a popular opinion, but I think often times in situations like this it's akin (but obviously the pure evil version) of knowing someone who may or may not be suicidal... often times the people in their life feel powerless and don't fully grasp what the ultimate consequence may be or if they do that it would ever really happen.

Forgive my somewhat disjointed thoughts, again I lean towards worrying about these details tomorrow or the next day, but they're there and I'm sharing them.

My thoughts, and love, and anger, and shock is with the families of these people.

I also think we should all hug our loved ones today and tell them how much they mean to us, because none of us know what tomorrow brings.



Thursday, December 13, 2012

Lurking Babies

Happy Thursday, interwebs.  I trust that you are enjoying your last 8 days on Earth before the Mayans come and eat your still-beating hearts.

And now, a note.

Dear Lurkers,
I have a giant, giant puppy named Luna.  Bub the hub and I are one of those obnoxious couples who will do our very best to convince you to rescue an animal that needs rescuing as opposed to purchasing a designer dog.  Our two dogs and our obese grumpy cat - all of whom are monochromatic and I'm not sure what that says about me - are rescues.  (Although at some point in my life I would like to have a Great Pyranese as they look like a ginormous, white snuffalupagus).

Anyhoo.  Luna is the newest, and we've had her for 9 months - we have put together that she wasn't abused in any way but probably just sort of stuck in someone's backyard and never really paid attention to. She was unfamiliar with the usual human-dog interactions, namely snuggling and affection.

At first when we tried to snuggle with her, she would give us that look usually reserved for women who have accidentally found themselves boinking some guy that believes that jackhammering is the end all, be all of sexual divinity. You know the one - "I hope you're getting something out of this because I sure as shit am not".

Then slowly but surely, she started to get into it a little bit but still didn't quite get it.  She would lay somewhere within the proximity of one of us, put her giant paw in one of our faces and give us a hopeful look like "Is this a thing?  Cause I feel like this should be a thing".

And now, finally, after months of practicing, she will calmly lay down next to one of us and let us snuggle her for quite a bit before going about her usual business of eating all of Bub's socks or re-arranging the living room furniture through the lost art of hopping.

My point is - much like Luna I am a little rough around the edges, I realize, but I am quite nice if given the chance, I promise.  I shall be loyal and kind and only really show my teeth if someone messes with you.  And will only eat a sock if left alone too long.  I will like you.  (I have multiple in-real-life friends who have told me they were nervous to befriend me because they didn't think I would like them.  Is that a thing?  Cause I don't think that should be a thing.)


And now that I've proclaimed myself to be nice, I promise, I'm going to unleash a torrent of nasty bitterness on you because where the mother eff else can I?  I'm going to let it out because otherwise I will be emotionally constipated and I already have enough of that to worry about this holiday season.

Do you ever have something that you would really, really like to like but just can't?  Like sushi.  Or jazz.  Or Anne Hathaway.

Such is my relationship with positive thinking as of late.  I would really like to be a positive thinker, and aside from my snarky sense of humor (it's my style, people) I like to think I usually am.  Recently, however, even when I try the previously fail-safe method of cheering myself up via the magic of Christmas, it ends up coming out more like this:



Now when it comes to baby-making I am actually doing better, emotionally, this holiday season than I was last.

This year it's more of a Clark Griswold, slightly-crazy-but-mostly-numb twinge of bitterness, whereas last year it was a sadness as if everyday from sun up to sun down I was forced to watch the slaughter of puppies dressed as reindeer.  I'll take Clark bitterness over puppy-snuff sadness any day of the week.

It's all the lurking, creepy babies.  Babies, babies, everywhere there are babies and they're out to get me. (This is not a conspiracy theory I tell you!  One day it will be a Dateline story and you will believe, oh yes you will, about the Christmas when babies came out of the woodwork to assure Jenny's committal to the nuthouse).

Tis the season, evidently, of facebook pregnancy announcements.  Here's a picture of my toddler holding up an ultrasound photo.  Here's an ultrasound with a joke underneath it about the consequences of alcohol (womp womp). Here's an ultrasound with a little message about Santa bringing something a little extra in his sleigh this year!  (barf).

Now, on the one hand should I get pregnant I don't want to totally deny myself all the things those fucking fertiles get, like making facebook announcements.  On the other hand, being an infertile, I know that everytime someone announces a pregnancy on Facebook an angel in heaven loses it's wings, plummets to the earth and is crushed/disemboweled by pavement in front of school children.

So I'm really not sure I would do a facebook announcement, but if I caved and did it it would go something like this - "Bub and I are making humans.  Absorb this information.  For peeks into my womb buy me dinner first."

Another point - and forgive me for saying this if forgiveness is needed - I don't give a flying fuck about Kate Middleton.

I didn't give a shit about her when she was getting married.  I didn't give a shit about her when they tried to turn her into a Hallmark channel movie.  While the rest of the world was up watching a wedding I was asleep.  I definitely don't give a shit about the 10 page articles dedicated exclusively to her hats and I sure as shit don't need to hear about her being knocked up.

I will though... Oh but we all will.  We're in for 6 months of royal baby watch.  It is inescapable.  And unless it emerges from her vagina already wearing an over-the-top hat, I am not interested.

Mind you - I understand that when a celebrity gets pregnant there is crazy coverage and I have enough problems with that.  (Gawd help Jennifer Aniston if/when she gets knocked up).  But usually they at least give you a couple of issues of People magazine between updates.

I love you, UK.  You have produced the loveliest people, music, books, and you are by far a much more sane and logical country than the US. I have many-a-time thought about running away from here and into your arms.

But fuck me... why, at the end of the revolutionary war, did our forefathers not make the UK sign something that said we do not have to deal with royalty in the tabloids on a daily basis?  Why did they not foresee (they were forefathers after all) my wanting to open a people magazine without half of it being dedicated to the womb of royalty?  You dropped the ball, forefathers, you dropped the ball.  If I had a time machine I would deal with that first before I went on to anything silly like the constitution.

Also, seeing as I've been home nursing a kidney stone I have been watching some terrible daytime TV.  Note to residents of the US of A:  If you find yourself wanting to call the Maury Povich show to see if your husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/wife is cheating, they are.  If you are unsure of who the father of your baby is and think to yourself "obviously the best way to handle this is to go on a daytime talk show" then at least ask yourself in this day and age if there is any possible way that this video isn't going to resurface when your child is older.

 I'm thinking if I was 12, and my friends & I were fiddling around with this magical invention called youtube and up pops a video of my mother testing 5 different men, and then hurling her ginormous body onto the floor sobbing when none of them is my father... that would be a rough day.

Also, if you're in the grocery store maybe try to keep an eye on where your kids are.  I completely get losing them - something I would totally do, believe me - I don't understand how long it has to take before you realize they're gone.  As I was avoiding eye contact with all the Kate Middletons peering at me from their covers in line this morning, I had a child wrap themselves around my leg, hacking and sneezing the black death onto my jeans.  It was a good 6-7 minutes before their Mom rescued me and proclaimed "omg I didn't even realize she was missing!". Awesome.  I guarantee you I will notice in a few days when my ability to breathe without coughing is missing.

Bah.  Humbug.

End of Rant.

I'm nice, I promise.  I am just incapable of bullshit (and poop in general this time o year) and this is how I'm feeling.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming.




Monday, December 10, 2012

Poocoustics

Oh, my loves.  It is a Monday, indeed.

I spent Sunday evening in the hospital.  ::jazz hands::  Let's back up.

As you may recall, seeing as how I am a shit godmother and life is too short I went to my goddaughter's birthday party wearing my bravest big girl panties yesterday.  I drove the 90 minutes to the OC, armed with a positive attitude and my best quip to the question "Do you have kids?"  (this particular Sunday I was feeling the "no, just free time and money" response.)

Giant, open house style birthday party with 3 million kids, parents doing the "I've got my shit together" lisp (is that a CA thing or an international thing?) and a reptile show.  I got her a badass cabbage patch kid and was ready to piss sunshine all over their front lawn and kick those giant lizards in their gizzards.

I did swimmingly.  I was my usual mutey self around family with the exception of my grandparents.

A little background - my family is giant, awesome, and a little nutty.  If you have met a Mexican person in Orange County, CA, congratulations you have met one of Stork's relatives. I, however, am a bit of a wildcard in the clan - I'm the only one who has never lived there whereas 99% of them have lived within a few miles of each other their whole lives.  So, just because of distance, with a few awesome exceptions - some old some recent - most of them don't really know me too well.  Example - because of the magical Book of Face, the last couple of years people have come up to me at our Christmas party with genuine surprise saying "I didn't know you were funny!"  This is my one defining characteristic apart from an increasing resemblance to Rodney Dangerfield... but thank you for enjoying my quirky web presence.

ANYHOO.  Not one tear shed, not one horrible moment of explanation required, and even when I found myself holding one of the bajillion babies present, my only thought was 'hello small human, you are delightful'.

So the shit show was not in the children or in the giant reptiles, but in the back pain I had all day that slowly went from 'this is odd' to 'if letting that burmese python swallow me would make me feel any better, excuse me while I slather myself in BBQ sauce'.

So I spent Sunday evening in an ER getting pumped full of drugs and trying not to screech (if for no other reason than it getting in the way of the acoustics of listening to other patients - which is some awesome morbid entertainment).  Twas a kidney stone, I got sent home with some medication and apart from ruining my saintly mother's trip to San Diego for the evening, I feel much better.

I am home-home.  I arrived an hour after Bub left for work this morning.  In celebration of my return and in protest of my absence, in the hour that they were alone Luna peed in her crate and Phoebe barfed all over the couch.  I'm all for these dogs displaying emotion towards me seeing as how they both normally feel the sun rises and sets in Bub's ass, but I don't need their love to be quite so... moist.

So a wee bit of pain, but the medication should help me slowly regain my Christmas spirit.

(I am so doing this next year).

I'm a little sad that we will be away from my Mom for Christmas and with my in-laws (we alternate), however I am delighted because I adore my in-laws (Bubella in particular), their Christmas is delightfully child-free and far, far away.  There is one reason apart from my Mom that I dread the in-law Christmas, and that reason is the Bathroom of Poocoustics.

I am poop shy.  Only in the most dire of circumstances do I poop outside of my own house, and even though I've been with him nearly 10 years, I can't stand Bub even being aware that I poo much less being within a few feet of me doing so.

I'm a business pooper.  Whereas for men it seems to be more of a religious experience, I'm in, I'm out, I'm aware of my surroundings - I get the damn job done.

At my in-laws house, there are two bathrooms available to me.  One is right next to the living room where people tend to congregate, and the other I have come to believe was specifically designed for everyone to hear you doing your business.

The Bathroom of Poocoustics is without a fan.  The B of P sits directly at the top of wooden, echoey stairs.  Those stairs are directly next to the living room where people congregate, and if you were to stand in that bathroom and whisper to yourself, it would echo down those lovely stairs into the whole house so that it sounded like a shout.  In addition, there is a vent in the B of P that travels directly to the basement - and though I do not have direct proof, I'm fairly certain it's an even louder portal of sound.  (I have heard people whispering in the basement from the B of P, and it sounds like they're doing it in my ear).

My initial method of dealing with the Poopacolypse was to try to stay as constipated as humanly possible whilst we were there.  This worked brilliantly - although a little uncomfortably - the first year.  Year two, I made it a few days, had to go, clogged the toilet and then Bub had to unclog it for me.  I spent two hours facedown in our bed instructing him to never, ever, look at me again.

My current method of choice is to let my poo dictate when I will take a shower.  Turn shower on, do my business, take shower.  I'm a little worried, however, that since this method occasionally leads to two showers a day that my in-laws may think I have OCD.

On the other hand, this isn't too different from spending Christmas with my extended family... Different kind of shit, same concept.  Everyone will hear your personal shit because of proximity and echo-capacity.  So the question of the holidays for me is really who do you want to be listening to what kind of shit?



Sidenote:  And I'm sure my discussion of poop today isn't going to help matters, but the spam comments o porn have reached a fevered pitch.  (I can't even repeat the description of a website someone tried to advertise on here... not because of imaginary lady-like ways but because it will surely attract the perviest of beasts). So I think I'm going to take the 'anonymous' option out.  This means if you have something snarly to say you'll have to fight me like a man, and I can fairly retaliate by hunting you down and pooing on you in front of your extended family.



Thursday, December 6, 2012

Shit Ideas

It.  Is.  Thursday.

Well, its happened.  I got rid of that little robot that makes you type a word before you can comment on my blog a month or two ago, and now I'm getting the porn comments.  (The spam folder seems to be catching... most of them.)

I have arrived, internet!

Such is my hate for that robot (again, I'm blinder than any of you) that the robot stays gone until someone figures out a way to post an animated gif of jiggling breasts as a comment... and probably not even then because let's face it, who doesn't like boobies.

(Sidenote:  you would be shocked how many people arrive at my blog by searching 'stork porn'.  What is stork porn?!  No wait, don't tell me.. can't be as good as my imagination).


The House of Stork has been a little insane the last week. I'm fine, but there have been a few people in my life who have been less than fine so I've been doing a wee bit o running around.  So we don't grow apart as people, I'm going to dump some nonsense on you that I otherwise would've neatly constructed in a few blog entries.

1.)  If I win the jackpot, vacations and/or mental hospitals for everyone.  (And by mental hospital I mean celebrity mental hospital - where it's really just an expensive vacation on a beach somewhere for 'exhaustion').

2.) I am resolving myself to liking Bruno Mars.  I'm excited about this development because the music I like in the last decade is few and far between, but he really needs to be a little more scarce on the radio before I overdose.

3.) My family is huge and every year they have a Christmas party, and there is always, inevitably, several people who are in fights with one another and it makes things awkward.  This year it's apparently going to be awkward between one of my cousin-in-laws (is that a thing?) who is a certifiable idiot, and my cousin who I love dearly, but who is genuinely shocked that people are suggesting that maybe she doesn't have to immediately fall in love with the first hillbilly to tapdance down meth-mountain and into her heart.  As happy as I am to be spending Christmas with my in-laws and therefor in a childless environment, I'm a wee bit saddened I don't get to see how this plays out.

4.)  Yesterday I spent the morning with men trying to yank my crowns out while I was on laughing gas.  I am terrified of dentists, and this experience was made doubly ludicrous by the fact that I had my 5 year old cousin came with me and to calm my nerves kept shouting "I want to see them yank out all of your teeth!"

5.)  Also if I win the lottery, I will be immediately putting my Mom on some sort of cruise ship.  She does too much for people.  Nothing would delight me more than her texting me and saying "I' am currently drinking wine in Italy with a scandalously young greasy-haired boy.  Everyone can go fuck themselves for the next week".

6.) I'm doing research on cults  This will probably turn into an entry later, but I'd just like to throw out there that in the Fundamentalist section of the Mormon church (not to be confused with the usual mormonism - these are the prairie looking folks with multiple wives) women are excommunicated for having miscarriages as they are 'baby killers'.

7.)  I am a shit Godmother. In my family we have 'ninas' and 'ninos'.  I'm on the outer fringes of the family, but when my cousins - all of whom procreate like rabbits - ran out of alternatives, I was named Nina to a resulting bunny.  I adore her and she just turned 3 yesterday.  The last year I have avoided all activities that involve her and other children.

Last year at her birthday party, I did pretty well with the 22 year olds talking about their 17 children and how it gives life meaning.  Then they put in a video her grandma made her with newborn photos set to sad music.

I also went to see her in a Christmas recital.  Hopped up on Clomid, no less, I sat in the dead center of a theatre surrounded by people younger than me holding babies on their laps, looking at the stage where their other babies were dressed as candycanes and snowmen.  Not the brightest idea I've ever had.

The problem with being a non-crier is I have absolutely no idea how to tell if it's coming.  Sitting in my living room now thinking about it?  I'm gonna give her birthday party a whirl.  She's 3 and I feel guilty as fuck.

This is a shit idea - right?  This is a shit idea.  Good gawd.  But I feel guilty, she's getting older.  Fuck.




Okay, that's it.  We're caught up.  Prepare yourselves for a totally unrelated entry on cults.



Friday, November 30, 2012

Pregnant vs. Unpregnant

Happy Friday, my darlings!

I am going to say upsetting things.  It is Friday, however, when people flee the internet for 3 days like cockroaches in daylight.

As we speak I am sitting in delightfully new pajama pants counting down the minutes until it is socially acceptable to order some Italian for dinner.  Bub has a work thing tonight so I am solo and ironically watching Home Alone to get in the mood to put Christmas decorations up.

Holiday movie, or snuff film?  You decide.


There has been some weird shit going on in the blogosphere with the whole pregnant person vs. non pregnant person thing.  

If you think I'm talking about something that happened on your blog - probably, but I can count no less than 7 incidents in the last couple of weeks that I'm drawing from so you'd be one of many.  Namely with snarky comments and general weirdness. (Oh, I'm also referencing an in real life incident)

Now somehow by the grace of Tom Cruise I have only ever gotten one comment that I believe was meant to insult me (weirdly enough I believe it was meant to say that my dislike of Twilight is a step back for the woman's movement) and only ever read a couple of blog entries that made me say, out loud, in my best Whitney Houston voice "hellllll to the nah" and unfollow.

So by me being general with this, you're not really missing out on any juicy gossip.  I'm just talking about the weird divide between people who are already knockedupensphritzel and people who are still in the trenches.

So I submit for your approval, from a completely unqualified and goofy full-of-love place in my heart, some of my ideas on what should be our general rules and guidelines.


Thoughts for the unpregnant:

Let me start this by saying, I am not pregnant.  I was pregnant this summer for about 30 seconds, and it did not end well.

I'll be the first to strip off and jump into the pool here and be honest.  There are about... 5-7 ladies that when they got pregnant/should they get pregnant, I am/will be genuinely happy for.

Lemme back up a minute - if someone is not on that list of 5-7, it doesn't mean I'm not at all happy for them or that I wish them ill will (fuck no, settle down) it just means that some percentage of me, upon hearing of their pregnancy, goes "Of Fucking Course".

(And by all means - if there is someone who would like to leave me shivering in the water here and claim that they've never had that response to a pregnancy, please reveal yourself so I can point at you and make my best home alone face).

I don't think the girls who have 'graduated' from infertility will begrudge us this - the vast majority seem completely sensitive to this, and even in the midst of their happiness go to great pains to point out which entries are going to be mildly and/or greatly upsetting to people still in the trenches.

(I'd like to state for the record here that I am not referring to the very few, as the lovely EmHart puts it, 'born again fertiles' who seemingly immediately forget their entire struggle... Those people are an entirely separate breed that requires a post of their own - I'm just talking about the majority of pregnant infertiles.)

I don't think there's anything wrong with, if you're not in a place for it, taking a step back from a pregnant blog if it's too much for you.  And I think the pregnant understand that. There's enough misery involved with being around pregnant people in real life that I don't think we have to push ourselves too hard in online life - don't make yourself completely miserable to avoid taking away one one millionth of a persons complete happiness. (And I really think that the vast majority preggos get that).

But here's what we can try our very, very best to do.

The ones you're close to, the ones you feel a connection with - do your very, very best to maintain it. Much more than likely after an infertile gets pregnant there are going to be weeks/months where they are absolutely terrified and still, do not in any way shape or form, relate to fertile people.

I've been traveling this road for three years, and I've had one loss.  I can safely say that, should I end up pregnant again, there will be no blind celebration.  There will be no immediately telling everyone (except you people).  There is no longer an automatic connection in my mind between pregnancy and a healthy baby, that ship has sailed - and I think I can speak for the pregnant in saying for most of them, that ship has sailed too.

Also, should I become pregnant, I swear on a stack of religious pamphlets I will not begrudge people who take a step back from my blog (although in my particular case, I tend to blog about other things anyway and I don't see that changing).  There are, however, a few girls who I'm particularly close to who I would expect to try - the operative word here being try - their best to rally around me.  Mostly because I will be terrified, I detest fertile people, and if you can manage it I don't want to be abandoned in my scariest moment.

So what I think we can try to do is ask ourselves 'am I one of those few people that if I left them alone right now, they'd be genuinely hurt?' and then do our best not to do that.  If it's some new person you're following or someone you don't have a particular connection with - life's too short.  If you have one, try to keep it.

Also, they're going to be complaining about pregnancy symptoms.  This can be a bit trying - but I think we can try our very best to keep in mind that they're of course grateful, just terrified.  Sympathy for the terror is really my greatest request.

Something I literally struggle with everyday is to remind myself that by a woman getting pregnant, she's not taking a pregnancy away from me.  Dumb luck has thus far taken a pregnancy away from me.  (I'm all for thinking fertiles have taken away pregnancies - fuck those bitches).

And we can try - at least for those 3-7 women that we're closer to - to keep in mind that when we're pregnant, after we've all been through we probably will barely be able to handle the guilt that we have built in, much less any additional guilt being put on us.  


Thoughts for the Pregnant:

Much like my thoughts for the unpregnant were strictly about pregnant former infertiles and not the 'born again' fertiles, my thoughts for the pregnant will strictly be about people who are still in the trenches and have been there for awhile.  Those girls who have been trying for two months - screw them.  I'm bouncing them out of the club.

I have an infertile acquaintance who just had a previously infertile friend tell her she should 'be grateful for her infertility'.  And then proceed to give her the speech - you know the one - about how her life has meaning now that she has kids, she just understands so much more now, things she couldn't have possibly known before!

I know you agree - How.  Rude.  How in the name of Jodi Sweetin does someone say something like that?

Here's the thing.  Accidentally or on purpose, occasionally when someone gets pregnant they immediately assume that all other infertiles are going to get pregnant, and that now that they are pregnant, they can see the situation much more rationally.

It is - and I think we can all agree here - never appropriate to tell someone in the trenches anything other than "this fucking sucks that you're going through this and I am so pissed on your behalf". Jazz it up with your own words a bit, but you get the jist.

If you had recently beaten cancer, you would not go into the chemotherapy room, plop your now 20 lbs heavier body next to the sickly sucking on their popsicles, wolf down a burger and between swallows say "Oh my gawd you guys, you're going to be so thankful for this down the road".  Because none of them know if they're going to get where you are (and neither do you) and some of them just won't.

Most of us are married - or at least have girlfriends, boyfriends, partners, etc. etc. I happen to be happily married.  I have - maybe - a few helpful tidbits of advice, when asked, on marriage (that would work in at least.. my marriage).  Finding Bub, being in the position to even start a relationship?  Luck.

Should my 16 year old sister in law and I get into a discussion on love, I will tell her one day she's going to meet someone fantastic and if she wants to get married, she can.

When my 35 year old already divorced friend comes home from a blinddate and tells me that midway through dinner the guy cleaned his ears out with his keys, and then when they got back to his house disappeared into his bathroom for 20 minutes and at one point shouted "release the kracken!", I do not tell her this was all a necessary experience that is going to earn her love.  (By the way - true story).I tell her that guy is a douchebag and that I'm hopeful for her, because there's only one reason I found Bub and she's on dates with kracken guy and that's luck.

My point is, with someone who's been in the trenches for awhile I think it's best to be pissed on her behalf, and optimistic for her at the same time without being condescending. Ask yourself when you're talking to her "am I in any way making this sound like I earned this, and she hasn't yet?"

Because - I'm sure you'll remember - for the most part it feels like we're all on the Titanic.  Some girls got on a lifeboat when they were first available and not squished, and some of us are in the freezing cold water balancing ourselves on doors with that damn dead weight Leo.  It's helpful to keep in mind, during communication, that if you got on a lifeboat, even if you don't feel lucky (because after all, you were on the Titanic to begin with) it's looking pretty sweet from the water.  Do your very very best to avoid complaining about your lifeboat too much in front of those of us stuck in the water.


Thoughts for All Sisters-in-Shittiness:

If anyone's particularly nasty to you, cut em' loose.  I'm all for spirited debate - gawd knows people don't always agree with me and I am wildly impressed that when they don't, minus 1/2 of an occasion, they express it in a way that makes me think.

But if they're expressing it in a way that's purpose is to make you feel shitty or stupid? Let me know if I need to go to bat for you, and try your best to guffaw at the situation (and maybe feel a little bad for them).

I'm adding this inspired by a note - I think another thing that we can all try to keep in mind... Should I get pregnant, there are going to be gajillions of infertiles who 'deserve' it more - who have battled far longer than me and with far worse circumstances.  Likewise, there are going to be gajillions of people (particularly in real life) who have three kids, all conceived very easily, who 'deserve' it less than me.

Unfortunately, the line of people who get sent home after this war isn't organized by who has the most battle scars.  (If it was, we'd have far happier children and far less orphanages - but it is what it is).  I think we should all try our very, very best to accept this (which is close to impossible).  If we could come close to accepting it, however, I think when we're happy we'd have less of it taken away by the sadness of others, and when we're sad we'd be less likely to be catapulted into an even deeper sadness.  (And that's kind of the constant battle of this community, in a nutshell).

And pregnant or unpregnant, much like this cock-or-two, try to step a few feet out of your cage every once in awhile and apropos of nothing say to the world "bitch, I'm fabulous".




Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Dear Santa

Happy Wednesday, my fellow womb warriors!

(Sidenote: anyone seen that movie "Womb"?  It's freaking disturbing.  Woman loses love of her life, woman utilizes technology to give birth to clone of her love, falls in love with son.  If you're looking for another horrifying weird movie to do with falling in love with children, see "Birth".)

Yesterday, I went to Disneyland.... I swear I don't live there (okay fine, I've been meaning to tell you guys I'm Mickey Mouse).  This time with the lady best friend Ms. Kali.  I ended up getting her a half of an hour later than anticipated, and we missed a horrifying accident at the Disney exit by the same amount (spooky). There were miraculously no lines, and we did everything in record time.  

This morning, I went and spent ludicrous amounts of money at Bath and Body Works on my Christmassy smells. I wreak of chemically produced Christmas cookie.

And now, some letters to Santa.



Dear Santa,
I am in no mood to go Christmas shopping this year.  I am planning on going Friday with Mr. T to the ::gasp:: mall.  While I make no promises that I will not be carrying pepper spray, I can perhaps promise that if I do, I will make it peppermint spray as it seems more festive.

Dear Santa,
I also do not believe I will be bringing myself to send out Christmas cards this year.  The thought of having to send 50 cards out updating people on my last year.. well... I fear if I had to wipe my ass with 50 cards I would eventually chafe.

Dear Santa,
Thank you for finally coordinating Bub's special spooj appointment in Massachusetts.  I am convinced this was due to you working your contacts with a small nod to my being a harassing, shrew-harpie of a wife.  Seeing as how he has to make it from D.C. to Boston at the butt crack of dawn on December 26th, I was hoping you could explain to me how that sleigh-magic works, or at least offer up a ride.  (In his own way he needs to be there to spread... cheer).

Dear Santa,
I was just at the Bucks of Star and a hipster girl was trying to impress a hipster boy by talking about Bob Dylan, but kept calling him Bob Dole. I did not laugh until I was in my car. Please update your records.

(And I quote - "People nowadays just don't understand how moving the poetry of Bob Dole was... I think they should do another movie like that one where Cate Blanchett played him".)

Dear Santa,
I don't know how common the request is for fully functioning reproductive organs, but if it can be done, please throw a good ute down my chute.



Any additional letters to be sent?  I'm like, 80% sure my blog is in his newsfeed.


Monday, November 26, 2012

Batfish

Happy Monday, my darlings!

Americans, I am hoping that your Thanksgivings were scrumdittilyumptious, or at the very least you were drunk enough to stand on a table and say "fuck all ya'll!" without fearing consequences.

Mine was lovely and child free.  It was at my Mom's house this year (we throw it sometimes, too) just my Mom, my sister, me, Bub, my Grandparents, and my lovely friend Kali.  So I ate my face off, and my biggest problem for a day was trying to transport both dogs in one car and there was too much celery in my otherwise favorite stuffing (celery is for rabbits! Rabbits I say!).  

Sidenote - I made Kali watch this new show on MTV called "Catfish".  SET YOUR FREAKING DVRS.  No no... check on demand and watch the first episode.

I am usually against MTV programming, however a couple of years ago there was this documentary that I loved called "Catfish".  A man stumbles into an online relationship with a woman, and falls in love with her.  Then he does research on who she is, and she's not exactly who she says she is.  So now they're doing a TV show spin-off, wherein each episode they take a person who's in an online relationship, and help them hunt down/finally meet the person that they're involved with.  As I met Bub partially online, let's just say I am very lucky that he was neither 100 years old or a 10 year old lesbian.  It is my new guilty pleasure.

And on the subject of new pleasures, though Towanda the Honda is still dead in my driveway, Saturday we  purchased a new car to share.

Folks, I have driven this car for only two days and have discovered that I am, indeed, Batman.  (Bub can be Robin or Batgirl - these are his choices).


In uterine news - it looks like Bub's super snazzy sperm test is going to work out.  It's an experimental test they only do in Massachusetts (reminder - for IVF we had poor fertilization with seemingly no explanation ::jazz hands::) and it's looking like he may be able to coordinate it while we're on the east coast visiting his family.

This is of course awesome news - annnnnnd reminds me that IVF will happen again in the near future either way, so I have to stop living like an aged rockstar.  Mainly knocking it off with my smoking and guzzling pepsi like the first person to make it to Diabetes wins. (In my defense, Batman is supposed to have a very husky voice, and if we were racing to diabetes I would win because my car go vroom vroom).


Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Acting

Happy day before food-death, Americans!

And greetings, ICLWers!

Me in bullets:
  • Been with Bubba for 9 years, married for six.
  • Condom laziness followed by actual trying in 2009.
  • 9-10 rounds of clomid, 1 IVF, 1 chemical pregnancy.
  • While I have my occasional moment of introspection, and certainly have sad eggs, this is mostly a place for shenanigans.
  • ::jazz hands::
I was a vegetarian before I met Bub.  Let me rephrase - I was a vegetarian who loved the taste of meat before I met Bub.  Then one day I casually ate some beef and broccoli and it was all over after that.  Within a week of dating him I was hooked on Bub-meat and meat in general.

This morning - 

Bub:  Any bets on which turkey gets the Presidential pardon?  Your choices are cobbler or gobbler.  I'm going with gobbler.
Me: I'll take cobbler.... Wait.. what happens to the other turkey?
Bub: Pause... maybe they both get to live but the one who wins gets a medal or something.
Me:  That's it after tomorrow I'm not eating meat.
Bub:  Oh... gawd.

Here's the thing.  Bub loves meat (that sounds like an excellent title for a gay porn).  Plus he can't mess around with his diet too much because, in the words of Wilford Brimley, he's got the type 1 diabeeeetus.

Secondly, our exposure to non meat eaters the last few years has been limited to Vegans, let's say... 5 vegans.  So one of those vegans is delightful, knows how to cook and knows what they're talking about.  I would eat their food, I would eat it so hard.

The other 4 we were exposed to a few days into their vegan decision, and have to sit there for ten minutes while they grill waiters under hot lights and then end up sulking and picking at bread.  Additionally, if you ask them about their decision they don't seem to have any answers and this being Los Angeles it comes off like a socially acceptable way to be anorexic.

Plus, unfortunately, our vegan exposure has always inevitably wound up with someone holding a giant bag of kale like it was their last bit of crack, trying to convince us that it's just as good as bacon.  Discredited.

So vegan for me, I think, is out.  I buy the million dollar eggs that are free range/grain fed and I feel pretty good about that.  I also don't drink a whole lot of milk and I don't wear leather as I am not a Persian socialite or 1970s rock god.

But I am sick of watching movies where an animal dies, diving to cover my dogs ears and then telling her afterwards that that animal is an acting animal.. they are tickled pink to have had this role, and are in a bar right now getting laid strictly because of it.  Inevitably my dog looks at me and says "but.. you eat those kinds of animals". Damn that dog and her retorts.

So lots to think about.... after Thanksgiving.

(10 points if you know who that is... he makes me tinkle laughing.  TINKLE).

I have had the same car since I started driving.  She is a 1997 honda civic, and her name is Towanda the Honda, and she has been the acting queen of my motor safety for 15 years.  Her skin is pealing, she shakes if you turn the not-really-functioning ac on, she is full of trash, she can only play a song on my ipod for 30 seconds at a time, and her rear says "honk if you're cute, bark if you're ugly". Oh how I have loved her.

Bub had to drive her yesterday so I could get his car serviced - but don't worry, I warned him to watch out on his way home for women flying out of nowhere onto the hood of the car as Towanda is the ultimate pussy magnet.  It's a real liability.

She is dying, friends.  I had it verified by the car doctor on Monday, and today when I took her for a wee spin her check engine light went on.  Her next and final ride with me will be to my mechanic's to be stripped and sold for parts like a common street whore.  Mentally writing her eulogy as we speak.

In other news - as I was waiting at the mechanics for two hours yesterday staring at the ceiling and enjoying the smell of manly musk, I realized I have fooled around with one of the cast members of American Horror Story and teenage 'dated' him for a few weeks. I had this revelation, had Bub check online for the one fact I knew about him that is odd, and it was him.  I have love letters from him either buried somewhere in my house or my mothers garage.  (If this peaks your interest - message me.. I can't believe it).  If I was a crueler person I could make money on ebay, I tell you.

Tomorrow we in American Infertiles will sit down, count our blessings, stuff our faces, and try to act as though we are happier than we actually are.  Our holiday portrayals could win Oscars, I tell you.

If you need a giggle to prepare for your performance, I give you... Stefon.  (Seriously, if you have no idea what this is look up "saturday night live stefon" - always makes this funny-snob CACKLE.)




Monday, November 19, 2012

The Twilight of Cancer

Well helloooooo, blogosphere!

We had a bit of a scare over here last week at House of Stork, and so instead of blogging I have had my lips essentially glued to the side of Bub's face and reminding him that I like him a lot.

So Bub had his kidney stone incident which turned out to not be kidney stones.  He was home a couple of days after I took him to urgent care, and he kept saying "it's cancer".

I am,  in most situations, the calm and rational one.  And I reminded him repeatedly that if you look up anything on google, it will say you have cancer.  Type in 'stomach pain' = cancer.  Ouch ouch my toe hurts = cancer.  Stevie Wonder's Greatest Hits = cancer.

However, because I lost my Dad to cancer ( and one you rarely, rarely die from) I have some dormant cancer-ptsd in the back of my head, so when urgent care called Bub after they got his ultrasound results and told him he must return to urgent care to have the doctor explain the results to him, I panicked.

So for a good 3 hours in the middle of last week, Stork was teetering dangerously between agnostic theism (don't believe in organized religion but I'd like to think there's some universal force) and flat out atheism.

Mind you, I used to be much more optimistic.  Score one for infertility.  But at this point, I am optimistic about G-d answering my prayers much in the same way one is optimistic that someone will answer the phone after you've been on hold with the cable company for 2 hours.  Yes it requires a certain level of optimism, but mostly you're just pissed.

(And before you tell me  G-d wants to smite me - one thing I am 100% certain of is that if there is someone out there in the ether trying to take care of me, they can handle me being pissed.  When a 4 year old is pissed at me, I let the 4 year old be pissed - I don't have the desire to hit them over the head with a frying pan in response.  And I only have 26 years on a 4 year old... G-d has a gajillion on me).

I did, in the waiting room, repeatedly think - you know what, I don't need money, I don't even need kids - I need Bub.  Of course I desperately want children, you know I do.  But when it comes down to it, in the scary moments, I will pick my husband over theoretical kids every single time. So I was telling G-d/Zeus/Tom Cruise in my mind, I can handle not having kids far better than I can handle not having Bub.  I would be a shell of a woman without kids, but I would not survive without Bub.  If need be, we'll just be one of those interesting childless couples that travels a lot, wears turquoise jewelry and has a scarf for every possible occasion.

ANYHOO.

Turns out he was fine - he just had a gnarly infection. In the parking lot afterwards I kissed him out of relief and slapped him for scaring me because that's how I roll.

And now on to more important things - the Twilight series.


I have written about religion and politics in here and somehow got away with it.  I fear what I'm about to say may be the thing that causes several of you to break up with me.  Here goes.

Twilight is the worst thing ever.  Not book, not movie - the worst thing ever.

Seeing scores of teenage girls lining up in tents to see this movie makes me weep for todays youth.

I read the books a few years ago - when we were back east for Christmas, my sister-in-law Bubella had a copy and I read it to see what the fuss was about.

A few points.

If you take a vampire and make him able to walk in the sun (and the worst consequence is that he sparkles like a diamond), make him a vegetarian, and a virgin, you have just removed everything that made a vampire cool in the first place and replaced him with a closeted homosexual.  (My point - if you took my gay husband Mr. T and made him immortal and sparky, he would not be frightening he would be fabulous.  For badass vampire, see Bela Lugosi or True Blood).

Let's just ignore the fact that it's awful and lazy writing, and just focus on one particular aspect of this - the author forgot to give Edward a personality.  She made him rich, and handsome, and the sparkly gay-pride-parade version of a vampire...but no personality.

She did give Bella a smidge of a personality, however...  if by 'personality' you mean clumsy, and absolutely incapable of taking care of herself without the aide of a man.  In reading the books it became clear to me that the only way the story would have resolved itself appropriately is if in the end the vampires and werewolves got to rip this girl to shreds.

(And I won't even get into the movie... as I have explained before, I believe Kristen Stewart is good for nothing except upsetting my bowels.. Hair flipping and grunting does not an actress make).

Now not only am I supposed to believe that this town is riveted by this mind-numbingly boring and incapable girl, but I am to believe that the oldest, most powerful vampires in the world stop all that they are doing and give a shit about what's going on with her.

And my greatest point, a few of the positive messages for todays teenage girls include:
  • All a guy needs to be is rich and handsome.
  • You are unable to take care of yourself without said guy.
  • If guy asks you to forsake your family and people who are trying to be your friends (despite the fact that you are unbelievably boring) in order to be with him, you should.
  • If an in-theory 100 year old man has been roaming the earth waiting for a 17 year old girl to fall in love with, this is in no way creepy.
  • Don't have sex before you get married - it's just plain stupid to test drive a car.
  • Get married at 18 so you can have sex - it always works out.

And my darling infertiles - spoiler alert - the dead man knocks her up.  Now I understand I'm supposed to suspend disbelief here, it's vampires after all.  I am willing to do this for sex.  Fine, okay, the dead man gets a boner despite not having any blood circulation (I calm myself about that one reasoning that he must just constantly have a boner). But fully functioning 100 year old sperm?  NO.  I won't!  I can't! 

(Sidenote - I have not read the 50 shades books.  It wouldn't occur to me first of all only because erotica has been around forever and I don't understand what's wrong with just watching porn.. But more importantly - inspired by Stephanie Meyer's writing?  NO.)

(Another sidenote - this may just offend me here, but the whole thinly veiled Mormon agenda... You're incomplete without a man, getting married at 18 is smart, don't have sex before you're married because the guys power will be too much for you - barf - and if a pregnancy is killing you, doesn't matter, keep it anyway).

The only argument that gave me pause was when one of my friends pointed out that I hate this series so much and yet I love Romeo and Juliet.

Pause.

My response to that - 

No one reads Romeo and Juliet and thinks it's relevant, in the literal sense, in this day and age.  Story of love - universal, powerful forever... but logistically finding someone, marrying them at 13 and instead of running away offing yourselves together?  I think most girls put together that that's not plausible.  But there are girls - oh I assure you they are out there - that think these books are the perfect example of what love is.

These books are a great example of love much in the same way that Beverly Hills is a great example of love. Rich old man meets emotionally vapid woman a quarter of his age, marries her because it's the one way he can get nookie.

And even the idea of comparing this woman's writing to Shakespeare... Much like Kristen Stewart's acting, it makes my bowels hurt.


PS - I am inflicting myself on the internet further.  My apologies to your ears - I was a guest on this week's Bitter Infertile's podcast (and it was early, early in the morning so my apologies for any allergy-riddled sounds).  I'm in the last 45 minutes I think - but listen to the whole damn thing!  Was fun.  What a great bunch of broads.



Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Jenn

Good morning, interwebs.

This is Jenn.  Jenn is an amazingly kind, absolutely hilarious, possessor of an amazing open heart and I don't believe she has ever written anything I haven't had to read all the way through.

In the weird world of IF, she's one of those broads that I was genuinely (not just mostly genuinely) happy to learn that she was knocked up.  I want nothing more than for people like her to put one up on the scoreboard for Team Awesome, and should one of these days I manage to spawn be able to say "now there's a Mom I would want to hang out with".

She started bleeding on Monday and went to the ER.  They told her that they needed a couple of days to verify it, but she was most likely having an ectopic pregnancy.  This morning they verified that it's an ectopic pregnancy and just sent her to have her methotrexate shot.

I am heartbroken for her, truly heartbroken.  Sending her good vibes and giving her some kind words is encouraged.

On my end, thus far I have accomplished:

  1. Harassing her with text messages
  2. Setting myself up for a potential underground railroad should she need to escape ( and good Lord do I mean it - I am on call with trannies, legal pot and celebrity stalking)
  3. Cursing whoever is in charge of this shit show with particular emphasis today on her behalf.
Whoever's in charge, you're making a shit load of mistakes with these women.  Girlfriend was made to be a Mom.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Colors of Medicine

Happy Tuesday, Tiddlywinks.

Yesterday was not the best ever.  On the other hand, it could have been much worse.

I basically had a day of experiencing, live and in HD, the southern California emergency care system for the first time in a long time.

My Mom took my Grandma to the emergency room yesterday.. So I unexpectedly threw on some clothes and drove the hour and a half to join her.  My Grandma's fine - she has had some.. falling spells?  And is lacking some of her usual feist. So I drove down to join them because sure I wanted to assess the situation, but mostly because my Mom's kind of been running herself ragged and I wanted to make sure she.. you know, ate.  So my morning consisted of breaking into the patient section of the ER (I am both delightfully sneaky and charming - FACT) and bringing them Subway sandwiches so we could throw lettuce all over the hospital. 

Then Bub alerted me that he needed to go to urgent care...  He had yet another date with a cup yesterday morning, and I am somewhat sad to report that the urgent care visit was not in any way a result of some sort of porn catastrophe.

 A late manly Monday fact - Bub is the worst patient in the history of ever. He once got in a gnarly car accident and was outraged that I took him to the hospital.  His uvula was once swollen so bad that it was stuck down his throat, and he was horrified that I made him go to urgent care.  So for him to announce to me that we were going.. I assumed he had lost a limb or at the very least was texting me whilst on fire.

Mind you - we're used to having to go to Cedar Sinai, an excellent hospital in LA (if you're a celebrity that's where you give birth or overdose).  Much like a swanky Hollywood nightclub, it's delightful once and if you get in - but in this case you get in right away only if you are a celebrity or you have lost a limb.  (I once sat in the waiting room for 6 hours with a kidney stone, passed it, and then left without being seen).  So hospital options definitely puts one up on the scoreboard for living outside of Hollywood.

So I left my Grandma at the ER (again, she's fine), drove the now 2 hour drive to get home, let the dogs peediddle, did 10 seconds of work and got dressed.  Then Bub and I went to a ghetto fabulous urgent care which was empty, the Doctor was lovely, the whole thing took an hour and they sent him home with some pain pills... Looks like  he probably is having a kidney stone, won't know until he gets an ultrasound tomorrow.

Sidenote:  yes, feel bad for him, poor Bubba.  Also know that G-d is smiting him for when I have had kidney stones, and he looked at me and said "do we really have to go to the hospital?"

So Jenny is now an expert in the many shades of healthcare available in the greater Los Angeles area.



Ladies!  I am tickled pink that so many people have requested the questionnaire from EmHart & myself.  If you have no idea what I'm talking about - Miss Em and I are working on a screenplay and need your help - click here.

And now for some good vibe requests.

This is Jenn who we all know I have a lesbian crush on.  She has had a little scare with her pregnancy and is finding out what's going on tomorrow.  Visiting her and sending good vibes is wildly encouraged.

This is LeslieGail, who is one of my newer lesbian internet crushes.  She is lovely.  Her pregnancy is coming to an end, which is devastating and good vibes are also wildly encouraged.  

As if that weren't shitty enough, her Doctor acted like a huge, unbelievable asshole and I have been enraged all day on her behalf. So enraged that I'm wondering what can be done about this kind of situation?  Just review someone like that online, send a letter on her behalf?  I'm not sure.  Leslie wrote him a well thought out eloquent letter in response to it - which shows what a lovely and mature person she is.. I would've been  halfway through peeing on the roof of his car before it occurred to me there may be a better way to handle it.

I understand that there a large quantity of asshole Doctors out there with absolutely zero bedside manner - which makes me appreciate the wonderful ones holding down the fort even more.  I also understand that some of our demands and expectations can be stressful - it's a stressful situation.

But understanding?  Required.  It is fucking outrageous that there are RE's who do not understand that what is a 15 minute discussion in their day which they will quickly move on from has the power to completely destroy a womans already fragile mental state. 

There is, of course, a shit ton of bad news that has to be delivered to women from these offices on a daily basis.  But an RE allowing his frustrations or personal shit to color how he delivers the information is unacceptable.  For you, a bad day or temporary frustration is something that you will get over in a day or two - however, for that woman, however you handle the delivery of that information has the potential to traumatize her.

Jesus.  Maybe their needs to be a site exclusively dedicated to rating RE's and their bedside manner.  It maybe wouldn't save us a lot of grief but it would certainly help us decide who we want with us when we're grieving.




Monday, November 12, 2012

Give Us Your Brain Goo

Hello, ladies!

I was planning on going more into detail about this today but I am taking an unexpected (seriously found out about it 10 minutes ago) trip.

The jist.

We had a discussion a bit ago about how we the IF community are poorly represented in film - we're usually glossed over, and we're usually horribly depressing.

One of my lovely lesbian internet lovers and I, Miss EmHart, are going to attempt to tackle this issue by writing a script.

We need your help.

As she has put it in super pleasing and explanatory way, I'm gonna ask you to click here to figure out how to get involved.

And then I'm going to harass you about it tomorrow.


Friday, November 9, 2012

Talking to Mirrors

It's Friiiiiiiday!

I don't know why on Earth I should be excited about that, as my weekend will kick off with spending a ludicrous amount of money to have restaurant food delivered to me just so I don't have to go out, and end with cleaning my house so that I can actually get shit done next week.  But nonetheless - Bub and I will be in the same place for 48 hours and I'll have someone to answer my ridiculous questions as they pop up.

Yesterdays:  do you think dogs vote?  It's a valid question.  There are two humans, two dogs and a cat in this house and I assure you the dogs have no idea that we were dealing with an election.  (Though I can also assure you, had they known, they would have barked for Obama.  They are two black lesbians, after all). I don't see why it's not entirely possible that when Phoebe runs up to our gate and seemingly barks at the trash can that that's actually her pre-designated voting booth for mayor of dogtown.

Anyhoo.

There once was a man at a party who tried to hit on my husband and then steal his shoes.  We are now friends because that is how I roll.  He posted this to my facebook wall yesterday, I clicked to see what it was as I was getting my shoes on, and quite literally fell off my couch from laughing.  Enjoy.



As it is the month of November, a time to be thankful, some bloggy things that I am thankful for.

I cannot believe I haven't thanked her for this yet (in my defense, I thought I had and then realized this morning nope, nope you didn't because you were having problems signing into her blog).  Apropos of just her being awesome, Ms. Sunshine over here sent me a care package, complete with smarties (all gone) and a chap stick with a monkey on it that I pull out regularly to talk to.  Ms. Sunshine, you made my day.  Thank you for making my tummy happy and for my new best moisturizing monkey friend.

Thank you for all the lovely comments on my post about my Dad.  It makes me happy to think it spoke to anybody who has lost a parent or knows someone who has.  You know I'm not one for goop and introspection usually, so it's a little weird for me to have stuff hanging out like that.  Thank you for being so kind.

Some of ya'lls nominated me for the Liebster Award.  Amazing.  (Also, and I can say this because Bub is German, I love how even happy words in German sound a little hostile).  I can't explain to you how tickled I am when people seem to appreciate my blog.  It seems a lot of people have been nominated for this - so instead of re-nominating you, I'm thinking of every once in awhile on here doing an entry strictly on a blogger that you should be reading and why.  Ich liebe dich.

And somehow - somehow! - my list of followers seems to have crossed the 100 threshold this last week.  I am simultaneously giddy and wondering how many of you should be heavily medicated.

I swear - when I started this blog I thought it was just going to be me, talking to myself about my uterus and occasionally throwing in the unrelated rant.  Seeing as how I do this every day in my mirror anyhow, I thought, what would be the harm in doing it online?

But no, instead I have gotten to meet some badass chicas who are always so funny, thought provoking and kind.  I was expecting to talk to mirrors, and in the way of mutual experience I kind of am - only the mirror has opinions and her own brand of hilariousness and kindness that I could not expect.  (And those of you mysterious ones who don't comment - please insert yourself into my life as it makes it harder to hit on you inappropriately if you don't).  Thank you for taking an interest in my weird little life.  I am so thankful for you.

And as getting sappy makes me uncomfortable, let's just say...  Boobies.  Poop.  Fart.

Oh!  I did solve the economic crisis yesterday, it's a super awesome plan.  Ready?

Three words:  Gay. Bridal. Registry.

BOOM.  Solved.

**Edit - also strangely enough I checked my traffic for the first time in forever and I'm getting a bit of traffic from Facebook?  Anyone know what that is?  (Don't get me wrong - I am delighted that anyone would be linking to me anywhere - just curious.. Other than you Jenn who I know did but it doesn't look like you... And Jenn, that one guy who commented on it... My word, my word...)




Wednesday, November 7, 2012

To Dad

This Sunday, the 11th, would have been my Dad's 67th birthday.

I'm writing this on the 7th because to tell you the truth, I'm not so sure if I sat down on Sunday and tried to get through it I would be able to, and I want to put something out in the ether about this man that you unfortunately will never get to meet.

He passed away from cancer on my Mothers birthday, May 4th, in 2003.  It's been nine years and counting - and my brain still can't seem to wrap around the fact that that number is only going to get bigger.

His birthday falls on Veteran's Day here in the U.S.  For some strange reasons, I happen to have eaten my lunch about a dozen times in my life next to the Vietnam Memorial in D.C. to people watch.  Most of the time people are just walking by it, sometimes they stop to take pictures, sometimes they stop and look at it for a moment before moving on to chasing pigeons.  More than once, however, I've seen a grown man walk up to the wall like he were approaching a casket at a funeral, clutch it to steady himself and burst into tears.

That's how I feel about my Dad's death.  Most people don't know anything about it, a chosen few were aware of it and moved on to the point where it's just occupying a dark shelf in the back of their minds.  For me, I've seen too much and I remember it all.  If I think about it too hard the Earth becomes unsteady, and as long as I live he'll never be another name or a statistic that I can easily pass by.

Watching cancer is to watch a monster.  It's like your loved one has turned to sand by the ocean, and as sure as you can measure the ticking of a clock you watch the ocean rise up and slowly take little bits of them away, one wave at a time.  In the moment you don't even care where 'away' is, because all you know is that it's not with you.  You're overwhelmed with the sense that they're communing with something you can't see, something you've forgotten and they're remembering.

Losing a parent is something I know some of you know plenty about.  And I'm sure I can speak for all of us who are a part of that particular horrid club, it's not one you imagine being a member of quite so young (I joined at 21).  It's both a comforting and horrible fact to know that eventually, everyone will be a member.  They'll all feel differently about it when it happens, but everyone will eventually understand.

My Dad was the strongest person I've ever, or will ever know - physically, emotionally, you name it.  I know those just seem like words that people say - but believe me, he's the strongest person a lot of people have ever known.  The only ever time I genuinely saw him break down was when he was sick and apologizing to me for ever putting me in the position to experience losing him. (And while I genuinely hate having lost him, I am nothing but grateful for every moment I had him - 21 years with him was a thousand times greater a gift than a lot of people have in a lifetime with a father).

For me, joining the loss club meant realizing that the center does not hold, that anything and everything can be taken away from you in the blink of an eye.  Everything, everywhere, ends.  And as anyone in our infertility club will tell - the hardest part of loss isn't necessarily forcing yourself to go on with your life, but it's in re-entering the normal world and realizing that people just kept on living theirs after everything was taken away from you.  The world did not stop nor is it going to be any gentler with you because yours did.

My husband missed meeting my Dad by 8 months.  When people ask how I knew that Bub was 'meant' for me, part of my response is always that he had lost his Dad at the exact same age as me (to the month) and that he was the first person who told me it was going to be okay who I could believe. He's also a man in every sense of the word, much as my Father was. Had they met, they would have loved each other.

Of course I want to talk about my Dad's life and what a good person he is - but as any of you who have had a miscarriage will understand, even when you try to focus on the beginning or the middle of a story, when it's a sad one the end always has a way of finding you.


My Dad was kind of hysterical.

He wasn't like me in the outgoing kind of way.  He was thoughtful, and chose his audience but when he had one, he was hysterical.

He would persistently suggest whenever a boy came over to my house that he was going to put on his neon shorts from the 80s, his Stetson hat and cowboy boots.  Occasionally he would come find me in the house wearing that outfit and do a little jig.

If we were driving (and it's a known fact that he was the worst driver) and I wasn't paying attention, he would scream out of nowhere "Jenny!  Jenny!  LOOK! LOOK! OH MY G-D!".  I would yell "WHAT?!" in a panic, and then he would casually point out the window and say "a tree".

Whenever I would leave the house he would say, word for word, "look both ways before crossing the street and watch out for people running red lights".

Once, in a blizzard, he walked a mile just to get me tampons.

Apropos of nothing, he would make a point of every few days hugging me, kissing me on my cheek and saying "you make it all worth while".

He never talked down to me about anything - politics, sex, my ridiculous teenage problems or whatever random Jenny thought I had.  Not once, in my entire life, did he ever make me feel like anything other than charming, capable, smart and loved.

He taught me that defensive driving is the way to drive.

He taught me that there are people on this planet who can eat beets raw (disgusting but true).

He taught me that I'm capable of outfoxing any man at anything.

He taught me that the people who run around screaming "you should be afraid of me!" are never the ones you should actually be afraid of, but the ones to be pitied.

He taught me that there are moments in this life that require absolute seriousness, and so when there's a moment that doesn't, you shouldn't take it so seriously.

He taught me that I am a force to be reckoned with - to this day when things get hard I think "Jenny, Dad would've had the utmost confidence that you can handle this".

He taught me so many things that if I spent my time thinking about why I have made any choice in my life, Dad would always be somewhere in there.

One thing he could never quite convince me of in life is country music.  He was more of a CCR, Rolling Stones kind of guy, but he did have a tendency to sing "On the Road Again", and tried many times to convince me of the validity of Mr.'s Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash.  I remained unmoved.

After he died I had a hard time letting myself get truly emotional about it - it's just not my way. I think both of my parents would prefer it if I didn't try to be strong all the time and just let things out, but that was especially true of my Dad. A little bit after he died, someone showed me this Johnny Cash video.  I burst into genuine tears, felt every bit of it all at once and thought "damnit, you win".  (Watch, it's beautiful).

So for you, Daddy.


And I would trade every last bit of my empire of dirt for just one more day with you.