Thursday, September 27, 2012


Greetings, my little temptresses!

My uterus, in case you were wondering, is doing nothing.  She's not approaching a period, I don't think she ovulated - she is fucking useless.  I dunno if she's been watching "Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo" and has decided that procreation is for suckers ( yes indeed, folks, I have only seen clips but I still marvel at the fact that those people can spawn).  Maybe she's taken a page out of the NFL and is assuming that while she's on holiday waiting for me to throw more money at her I have a bumbling temporary.  (PS - I could give a shit less about football.  Can someone come up with an unfootball me app for Facebook?  K thanks).

Whatever she's doing, she's useless.  U-S-E-L-E-S-S. I am trapped in an emotional prison with her. She is my prison wife.  I  have to cater to her every whim because she's protecting me from an even worse form of prison (which is hard to imagine), and yet I'm simultaneously whittling the end of my toothbrush in hopes that an opportunity will arise where I can just shank the bitch.

I drove Bub to the airport this morning for a wee business trip.  This is my first night alone in.. years & years.    I am a brave lady about many things but never quite mastered the house-alone-at-night form of bravery, so I'm looking forward to testing my womanly strength.  I calmed myself for the impending evening by purchasing a very cute 40's looking dress, and was lulled by a saleswoman's complimentary Persian voice into buying a dress where my sizable bazoos hang out for the world to see.  Womanly strength + bazoos = I am practically Erin Brokovich.

I am occasionally going to partake in the Barren Librarian's That's Me Thursdays.

Basically wherein one lists 3 things about themselves that has absolutely nothing to do with infertility.  Here goes.

1.)  My house is the epicenter of Halloween.  I live 2 houses down from an elementary school, and in a straight, grid-like neighborhood at the bottom of many many many very very hilly suburban streets where you would only let your child trick-or-treat if you wanted to kill said child.  Last year I spent $100 on candy to hand out, and ran out after 90 minutes.  The first year we were here it was on a weekend - and I stopped counting the trick or treaters but I'm fairly certain it reached a thousand.  Seriously, don't visit me on Halloween because you will run a kid over.  Not good for infertile karma.

2.) I have very, very large eyes.  You may be thinking "oh how lovely" - FALSE.  They are mostly unsettling.  Between that and the indescribable essence of Stork, I am an invitation for all local crazies to strike up a conversation.  On the way to the airport this morning at 4 AM, I stopped for gas and a drunk man talked to me about all the dew on my car, I had to apologize to Bub for the delay because when I am half asleep I'm somehow hyper magnetized.  When I went shopping, a man who was trying to return hand lotion because, and I quote, "it was cursed", decided to tell me about his woeful tale.

If you are within a block of me, you will think I'm making eyes at you. If I am in a dead sleep, you will think I'm making eyes at you.  If you are the lone space man who happens to be orbiting over my neighborhood in your saucer, you will think I'm making eyes at you.

3.)  If I pass a pair of cozy socks in any store, they will strike me as the coziest socks that ever were and I must take them home.

And I am dreadfully dreadfully behind on EmHart's September photo challenge.  I have many pictures!  So many.  Prepare to be bombarded this weekend.  A few submissions:

Throw a few people in here and it will look like NY.  Nope.  Paramount Studios here in L.A., and all just fronts.  Fairly certain if I hurled my fat ass hard enough at one of these buildings I could put a dent in it.

My 40s looking purchase from today... I'm gonna need you to get a few drinks in me to show you the bazooms one.

Roald Dahl
I'm slightly cheating here and giving you a pic I've had for awhile.. but damnit if I didn't try for a half of an hour the other day to get a picture of this damn dog still and in her pig costume.... but I give you Luna, my own personal BFG.

The thing that makes me most peaceful is being in my own house, chilling out with Bubbaloo and the animals.  This is Phoebe striking her coziest pose (and I said on my homies page - don't be fooled, she'll cut a bitch).

Now.  Who's going to come over so we can hang out in footsie pajamas and ward off the boogie man?

Sidenote:  I am disabling the comment verification thing because I am blind & it can drive me crazy (if you have it, know how much I adore your blog if I comment because it's a good 5 minutes of squinting and cursing the heavens to get to you).

Strike up the porn.

Monday, September 24, 2012

The One Where I Screw Hope

Happy Manly Monday, putas!

Thank you, thank you, for re-affirming my negative.  It has been a looooong time since I have bothered taking any sort of pregnancy test, and I normally like to shove them under Bub's nose and say "this is just one line, right?" to curb any possible obsessions.

The only other thing that can get me to throw out a pregnancy test very quickly is to look at the result, and say to myself word for word, "Now Stork, based on this, are you going to run into the other room and announce that you are pregnant?"

Knowing it aint gonna happen without IVF is strangely liberating most of the time.  So I don't see a need to even involve Bubba with pregnancy test taking - because a logical person may see me peeing on something and say "aha, there is hope" when I highly doubt I even ovulated.  When one is without O, one is also without D or P.  So thanks for being my temporary internet Bubba.

Like most people, I started dating hope with total naivete.  Had she shown up on my doorstep wearing a leather jacket, wreaking of moonshine and sporting a tear-tattoo on her face for every one of her kills, I would have known what I was getting into. But no, she arrived a few years ago looking fresh and angelic - wreaking of innocence, Disneyland, fresh baked cookies and unicorn farts.

I was immediately infatuated.  After all, the only part of her reputation I was familiar with was the one where people had a chance encounter with her and then their lives were turned into a never ending Disney movie with families, BBQs, endless bowls of noodle salad and an apparently inescapable need to spread your joy on Facebook like internet herpes.

I was not aware that half of the people she dated had that lovely ending, and the other half were taken hostage, sodomized with lubricated wands and needles and then forced into a looping hell of awkward social situations where you're forced to pretend you're not actually dating.  (She is happily married to some - me, I'm her low self-esteem mistress who goes online internet stalking her actual spouses).

I fucked around with her every month for a long time.  I fucked with her at home, out with my friends, at family parties, on vacation - we were true exhibitionists headed for a very special episode of "Taboo" (no need to switch between us and adults who wear diapers for fun or fall in love with inanimate objects - we're taboo enough).

I fucked with her every month, and at the end of the month expected her to call.  Or acknowledge me.  Or decide that she was going to add me to the list of her spouses.  No dice.  And the following month, I would just go back and ask for more.  I was like all those silly girls that go on the Maury Povich show.  I would change her mind, she would change me.  True love and all that.

It took a couple of years of this for me to tell her to fuck off.

And now every once in awhile she calls for a booty call, and I have to re-tell her to fuck off.

I have to remind her that I want nothing else than to strangle her (slowly, and with lots of eye contact).  Bury her in my backyard and at the end of my labor dance a jig of glee on top of her, possibly to Jay-Z's "99 problems but a bitch aint one", and then pee out all the inevitable gallons of vodka I would have drank in celebration, because it's nice to leave the dead a little gift every once in awhile.

And now, for a Bubba fact for Monday.

Bubba works in the vicinity of Harrison Ford.  Not with or around, but it would be very likely to run into him in the parking lot.

Given Bub's volume level and professionalism, I do not expect him to carry a copy of "Indiana Jones" to work with him every day, and then the second it's possible to run up to him insisting that he autograph it for his wife.

But I have hope.


PS - I am going to put together a fancy shmancy tab for Manly Mondays and participants.

Manly Monday, newcomers - we just decided that on a Monday, we were going to share something about the men behind the infertile women other than their sperm analysis stats.

Soooo... If your name is not on this post, and you would like to participate, let me know - I'm gonna put all those snazzy ladies on the tab and any newcomers.

Do me a quick favor, por favor...


Everyone put on their calm, cool, collected hats.  I need a rational voice.

Bubba the magnificent stayed home from work today (he has a business trip later this week, and frankly, we're right smack in the middle of watching "The Walking Dead" series which is really, really good.. and he's a workaholic so this is a rare treat).

I am going to crank this out in five minutes while he has briefly stepped out, because I don't feel the need to share this level of insanity with him, because it's temporary and shall pass.

Let's get the facts straight, for a second.

Jenny does not ovulate.  This is my first full real cycle since the dreaded chemical, and the likelihood of me still getting a bonus ovulation from the month-o-hormones back in June is hi-lariously slim.

I think I'm getting sick.  This is probably from the endless allergies I have.

I had two episodes in the last couple of days of brief, bright red spotting.  But really, I can't tell maybe it's coming from my popo.

And my left ovary - just my left - has been giving me some sass the last few days.

Just know, I am normally very rational and fully understand I'm not going to get knocked up without half a dozen men in labcoats in the room.  I bought a test this morning to shut myself up, really.

That stupid bitch Hope.  I have long since abandoned fucking around with her every month in hopes that she would turn it into a relationship.

But, unfortunately, I appear to be having a day where I am getting a sinus infection, probably some sort of traitorous cyst on my ovary, and mayhaps bleeding from my popo (what.. could that.. be...)

So just do me a favor, look at this, tell me it's negative, and then I will carry on back to my tap dancing , Forest Gumping my way through infertility, and waiting ever-so-patiently to do IVF later this year or in January.

::hangs head in shame::

Friday, September 21, 2012

Oh... You must have me Confused.

Fabulous Friday, my little Reproductive Felons!

If you are here from the fabulous ICLW, by all means - read on.  Or, you can click on this fancy shmancy little tab over here which will direct you to entries that will perhaps give you a saner and more relevant glimpse into the hamster-wheel mind of stork.

And now, a post where I free myself by confessing that when required, I can be a terrible twat.

So, I have this friend who we'll call "Manuel".  He is, even by my snooty standards, one of the most comedically gifted folks I have ever met.  I've known him since we were in high school back east, and now he lives here and is an actor.

He is obviously in a business where rejection is ample, and where things are said to you that in any other circumstance would be deemed 'rude'.. but usually put in Hollywood language.  You know, "you're too ethnic looking" means "you're brunette".  "You're very healthy looking" means "Boy are you obese".  He takes all these things, as you must, in stride.

He has one phrase, however, that he has used forever that I have always loved, reserved for moments of undeniable rudeness, which I have unfortunately had the distinct displeasure of having to use twice in the last week.

To pull this off, in response to a rude comment you must smile a little Romneyesque plastic smile, blink as much as humanly possible, make your eyes say "I'm from hell, homeboy" and calmly say:

"Oh... you must have me confused with someone else".

I complained about an employee to the manager of a grocery store.

Okay, okay - don't feel icky.  Give me a minute to get you on my side.

First, let me say - I have never.. lodged a complaint in my life.  Even when people are a little rude.  Why?  Because working with the public is the most G-d awful thing imaginable.

We've all been there at some point (unless you literally emerged from your Mother's vaginal canal so fancy you were wearing a top hat and a monocle, a-la-Mr.-Peanut).  You spend 8 hours with people sneezing and frothing and complaining and not putting their freaking phone down long enough to acknowledge you, all the while wearing some humiliating uniform that doesn't fit right.  And then at the end of the day, you get paid approximately 1/100th of the cost it would take for one session of therapy to undo it.

So I have never complained about anyone, with the exception of this 'manager' lady.

On occasion one with her, she was the only line available, and quite literally the only person I've never interacted with there before.  She didn't say hi, didn't respond to my usual "how's it going?".  Fine.

Then, still apparently totally unaware that I was there despite the fact that she was ringing up my groceries, berated a bag girl in front of me.  And I mean.. berated.  Used the word 'stupid'...repeatedly.  Totally in shock, I just said "well, that was awful" to her as I was leaving, chased down the now fleeing bag girl who told me that yes indeed, that woman is a horrible cunt but the manager-manager wasn't there that day.

A few days later, there is yet again only one line - for those of you keeping score, my urine cannot produce more than one line and neither, apparently, can my karma.

After the person in front of me is finished (and I have my shit on the belt) she flags down a woman who's leaving, and proceeds to have a giggly conversation with her.  I stand there for a minute waiting for her to finish.  Then two.  Then three.

Then in my squeakiest, non-judgey, most Disney-princess voice I say "Excuse me?" and without looking, she continues her conversation but sticks her "one minute" pointer finger at me.

I, at this point, have had it, and said quite loudly "Oh, you must have me confused with a 3 year old interrupting your phone conversation" and begin flinging my groceries back into my bag.

One of my usual checker-buddies walks by and takes me elsewhere because I'm being blown off, and while ringing me up confirms again that yes indeed, she's a cunt, and would I mind stopping by the manager-manager to say something because all the employees have, but it would be helpful to hear it from a customer.

So I did.

And though I am certain she deserved it, I still feel a little dirty and a little afraid of my grocery store, now.  I also feel a little like a poorly dressed Mr. Peanut.

Now, the second time I had to use it was with a door-to-door religion salesman.

Alright before you light your torches and grab your battering rams to storm up my driveway, let me assure you that it is already occupied by people with torches and battering rams.

Evidently (is it the Satan flag I have flying next to my garage?) my house is some sort of religion-magnet, despite the lovely "no solicitors" sign I have right next to my doorbell.

I get people twice a month, at least.  All religions.  Unfortunately, the two dogs are both furry little barking busts who throw me under the bus, even when I have quite literally injured myself throwing myself under Bubba's desk to hide.

I have answered the door many times because of said furry little busts, and because if they're not wearing a tie and button down shirt (the salesman, not the dogs) I can be thrown.

Seeing as I am a talker who doesn't want to hurt anyone's feelings unless necessary, I have ended up in - no joke - hour long conversations on my front step. And when I'm in my house I'm in PJ bottoms and a holey tanktop not suitable for the holy. I once had a woman explain to me for 90 minutes that women were figs, and I'm pretty sure my nipple was out the whole time.

As I have mentioned before, I am happily without religion.  I'm not an atheist, I'm an agnostic who has taken what she likes from each religion and written off some things as hogwash.  But I'm nice, and I listen, I take the damn pamphlet (which is usually pretty entertaining) and get on with my day.

It takes balls, you have to admit.  The Jesus in my head is a rocking hippie - Will Ferrell in a tunic perpetually dancing to Norman Greenbaum's "Spirit in the Sky".  Does this make me want to go door to door asking other people if they are living up to the Will Ferrell image in my head?  Yes.  Okay, but not really.

While I am normally quite nice, today I answered the door, and had this conversation:

Stupid:  Hello?
Robot-Made-To-Look-Like-One-Of-Us:  Hi, ma'am.  I was just wondering, do you have any gay friends?
Stork:  Umm.... Yes...
Satan's Minion:  And are you worried that they don't understand the severity of the eternal hellfire that awaits them?
Blinky Eyes and Plastic Smile:  Oh.... You must have me confused with someone else.

And I slammed the door.

Sidenote:  Mr. T, the best friend, is as gay is the day is long.  Now wherever he goes after this life, that's where I'm going.  That party is going to apparently be free of judgmental assholes and let's face it, it's going to be exquisitely decorated.

I aint worried - I'm confident that Will Ferrell isn't judging.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Roller Rink

Greetings, bum-ovaried!

I have had an interesting couple of days.

The weekend I spend channeling my somewhat grumpy energy into cleaning this house to a psychotic degree.

Yesterday, the best friend Mr. T and I shat away 4 hours in a mall.  I was lulled by the air conditioning and eu de mall - a mix of brand new leather and countless baked goods - into spending ludicrous amounts of money on things I had no idea I really, really needed.  Like freshly painted red toe nails (as I was getting pedicured they were playing the price is right which I haven't seen in years - it's not the same without the shagadelic Bob Barker and those slutty looking 80s models with the big hair). I also bought a pig costume for  Luna and a skunk costume for Phoebe, as you do.  I only had my fill when I found myself sitting in a chair in Hollister waiting for Mr. T, and deciding that I did not want to smell like a teenage Abercrombie model had thrown up all over me.

And then to top off a Monday we watched documentaries and took pictures of ourselves wearing my dog's cone-of-shame (I have many EmHart pictures to catch up on, but I am making this my submission for 'fashion').

Then this morning I woke up at the butt crack of dawn to take my other best friend, Kali, to get an IUD put in.  She has a big fear-o-pain so this involved valiums and comfort.

I was right for this job for the following reasons:

  1. I am now a gold medalist in the sport of having strange things shoved up your nooners.
  2. I tend to keep a calm head - nevermind the fact that I apparently enjoy wearing a flying saucer/roller rink/decorative dish around it.
  3. While I'm useless in many-arena I am pretty good at calming others down.

However, this was the first time I've been in a gynecologist's office (with the exception of picking up lab orders) since the ill-fated IVF.

Why must all gynecologist's offices be wallpapered floor to ceiling with thank you notes and pictures of smiling babies?

"Thank you Dr. so & so for my little miracle".  Yeah, yeah I'm happy for you.  Fuck off.

Should I have arrived home this afternoon and a man dressed as the grim reaper popped out of my hedge, I may have been less put off than the surprise of having one pregnant belly and wall-to-wall baby pictures at a Obgyn's.

Infertility is just an endless roller skating rink.  Spinning in circles with other people's happy children being chucked at you from all angles.  If you're good at it or not you still keep doing it..  Even when you're managing to have a decent enough time it's fucking exhausting and you're doing everything in your power not to show people how close your legs are to giving out right under you - and guess what, if you get knocked down you're still on freaking rollerskates and have to get your ass back up.  The only difference between infertility and a roller skating rink that I can see is with infertility you don't have to suffer the indignity of listening to "Life is a Highway" 50 times in a row.

I am not ashamed to say I am taking one of Kali's Valium's bestowed onto me and replacing the baby form of dizzy with an altogether much more pleasant one.  (I did not point out to her that I have gyno ptsd ::pats self on back::).

And now I'm off to disappear into your blogs.  May your Tuesday be free of baby wallpaper.

Ahh!  And PS - I have missed manly Monday, so be prepared for an overdose.  Bub only gets weirder.

Friday, September 14, 2012

Whole Wide World of Wonderland

Happy Friday, lovelies, and welcome to the post wherein I virtually lick you all in the face.

Though I love compliments just as much as the next person (particularly since I walk around this world with my uterus hurling insults at me on a daily basis) I am one of those people that becomes flabbergasted and blushy.  In real life (and my friends will attest to this) when given a compliment, I don't say anything but instead do a little head-to-toe emphasis-on-the-bosom shimmy.

I've received a few kickass compliments via this wonderful online world the last week.  One, I did a guest post over here at Amanda's and people left lovely comments.  Two, Ms. Melissa over at Stirrup-Queens mentioned my blog today in her bloggy round up.  (If you are new to being a she-who-blogs-of-ovaries, this is a must have on your blog reader).  I also hit 70 followers this week which is mind-boggling.

This makes me blush and for a few shining moments in an otherwise shitty situation feel pretty fucking great.  Particularly considering after my first few posts I thought about just becoming a reader because I didn't feel like I have anything particularly helpful to contribute (Bubba talked me out of it saying 'people need goofy'.)

These compliments make me want to kiss you squarely on the mouth, slip you a little tongue and question your sanity.

So I just wanted to say (and read it 3 times - Stork's affection usually comes in the form of a gentle nipple pinch and a light slap) I am so fucking grateful for all of you and our little corner of the web.

Without even realizing it, I have been silently searching for sisters-in-shittiness  in an endless world of wildly fertile or child-averse.

The other day I saw Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland for the first time (I know, I know - what kind of a Burton/Depp fan am I) and one quote struck me: 

The White Queen is preparing Alice to fight the jabberwocky and she says "Alice you cannot live your life to please others, the choice must be yours, for when you step out to face that creature you will step out alone".

And I thought, aint that the truth.

Even when we have wonderfully loving husbands, wildly supportive family members and psychotically involved friends, at the end of the day when you face something like this you're facing it alone... but I can't put into words what a comfort it's been to discover a secret online Wonderland world of women also fighting their own Jabberwockies and writing home to tell the tale.

So for you, my sisters - I've unknowingly searched the whole wide world and I'm so glad I found you.

I shimmy in your general direction.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Sleeping with and Mourning Celebrities

Wicked Wednesday my witchy wombats!

So, Monday I had sort of a rough trip down to see my Grandparents - my normally very feisty Gma isn't doing so great.  She had a bit of a fall a few weeks ago and now seems a trifle bit confused (and not in the usual charming way) so that got the wheels turning a bit.

And then, on the 90 minute trip home my car, who in car-years is as about as old as my Grandma, kept getting butt-raped by SUVs.  Let me assure you I am not a slow driver, though I have my limits - on the open highway, I do 80 maybe 85.  If 85 is to slow for you in the stop-and-start L.A. traffic, then I hope you have an eject button and a parachute.

And may I point out that under any other circumstance people would know that tailgating is inappropriate. For example, if I were in a bar and slightly apprehensive, nervous, and a little cautious, nothing would give me confidence quite like a stranger angrily pressing their front side against my backside.

So imagine my delight when I arrived home and had a package from the fantastic little sister-in-law, Bubella. I tell you - being adopted, if you count the biologicals and the sister-in-law, I technically have 4 siblings (sidenote - any of them could legally marry each other) and oddly enough she is by far the one I'm closest to and have the most in common with.  It's as though G-d/Zeus/Bea Arthur said "not only will I give you a soulmate, I will give you a sister-mate that he'll bring you".  So this brightened my day up significantly:

Yes folks, it is a button that says "I slept with John Lennon", and you should absolutely think of me any time someone says hooker. 

So now I am left with the task of coming up with a small, inappropriate gift for a badass 16 year old girl.  Seriously contemplated sending her her first vibrator, but am terrified that her parents would be greeted from a long day at work by a vibrating package.  So any thoughts/suggestions are appreciated.

This button is also honey-colored, which was one of my overdue photo prompts from the lovely EmHart, who I wish was a hooker.

On the subject of photo prompts and odd shopping excursions, today Mr. T and I went to lunch and then stopped off at a Marshalls.  (Mr. T's surgery has left him temporarily mute, and it was an odd experience having people look at me as though I had a heart of gold for having a deaf/mute friend.  And possibly also thinking that that was the only type of friend that can stand me).  

I am trying to make over my living room with some light touches.  I bought some candles that will make it smell like autumn, and I am done, d-o-n-e with the throw pillows I normally have on my couch.  They're from the upper part of the rainbow (my least favorite color scheme) and have taken a beating from the fur-chidlren.  So I bought some new ones today (which are in part, blue, my other missing photo prompt).

Now I don't want my couch-pillows to look like bed-pillows, but I would like them to say "sit and watch tv, or have a nap, or get it on with the Bettie Page like vixen who obviously lives here".  Thoughts?

And last but not least, I am left with the 'morning' prompt.  Now the aforementioned seriously-name-your-price EmHart mentioned the other day that as I clean to Harry Belafonte, she cleans to Michael Jackson.

Fast forward to this afternoon, and I'm going through old photos on my computer to clear up some space.  Back in 2009, when Mr. Jackson passed away, Bubba and I lived very close to "the Jackson Compound" (why do they call it this?  Are they planning some sort of revolt?).  So the morning after he died we walked over to their street to see the mourning... So I give you some pictures I took, that are taking up space on my hard drive.

The end of their street:

I've seen large press events in my life, but never like this - 

This is to the side of their driveway - can't even tell you how many people were in the little neighborhood.  Presumably those are Jacksons pulling up in the black SUV...

The front of their driveway -

Makeshift memorial in front of their fence -

Mourners on one side, press on the other.  Genuinely felt bad for Jackson neighbors -

May your neighborhood be free and your beds full of celebrities.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

My September 11th

Today is Tuesday, September 11th, 2012.

If you haaaappen to be coming across this blog for the first time - you should know this is not normally a place for seriousness or introspection of any kind.  I am normally, as I often put it, a dancing bear.  Tune in any other day and you will be tuning into ludicrousness and general shenanigans.

But, today is not really for ludicrousness and shenanigans.  Today is a Tuesday, September 11th, much like it was 11 (Jebus I can't even believe it) years ago.

Since I have only had this blog for a few months, I've never told my September 11th story on here and in doing so I'm going to reveal a few things about myself that you might not know (look out ya'll, Stork is naked). But every year on this day, I watch/listen to other peoples 'where I was' stories because I'm fascinated, and I'm particularly fascinated this year because of my new bloggy universe.

I'm particularly interested in what it was like for people who were not on the east coast of the US when it happened.  If you were on the west coast of the US - did someone wake you up and tell you, or did you wake up and the whole world was on fire?  If you were in a different country, how was it perceived?  What was it like if you didn't know anyone personally in DC or NYC?

Two admissions before I get into my story.

One thing you may not know about me - I consider myself from D.C.  Fun fact for those unfamiliar - Washington D.C. itself is a teeny tiny spec of a diamond - if someone is driving you up the east coast and you take an inopportune 10 minute nap, you may miss it.  Most people who say they are from D.C. (as I do) actually live in Northern Virginia (NOVA) or southern Maryland.  I'm from Nova, but I always say I'm from D.C. - because I am.  I grew up a few miles away from the Pentagon (which again, even though they always call it D.C. is actually in Arlington, Virginia to prove my point).

The second thing to know about me, as with most people who were raised in D.C., one of my parents worked for the government.  My Dad had a very-important & odd position in the government, and for most of my life worked in a building that would most certainly be considered a 'target' place to work.  (If this peaks your curiosity, message me! I will spill in a one-on-one conversation happily).

On Tuesday, September 11th 2001, I was 19 years old.  My family still lived in Nova, and I was going to college a few hours away.

It had only been a few months since I had seen the world trade center in person.  My friends and I took a road trip (it's a five hour trip to NYC from DC - it was a fun over nighter I've done many times) and for maybe the second time in my life I stood in front of them.

Something to know if you were never lucky enough to see them in person - the pictures you see on TV, the holes you see the planes left in them, it doesn't do justice to how tall these buildings were.  I'm frightened of heights - and standing in the courtyard listening to muzak and staring up at them was enough to get my knees to shake.  I had been to the top of them many years before, but for some reason summer of 2001 I was too scared of the height thing to go to Windows on the World.


I was in my dorm, planning on sleeping in because I didn't have a class until 11 something.  I heard our phone ring, and then my roommate, who we'll call Amy, screaming and hollering and asking me to wake up.  So I did.

Amy had a relative that worked in one of the towers, and her Mom called her because she was watching the Today Show and up came a picture of one of the towers with a giant, fiery hole in it.

So we watched our little TV.  I tried to tell Amy that I was sure her relative was fine, and that I was sure it was just like they were saying - probably a helicopter crash or a private plane, the fire would be out in no time.

In the back of my head I thought about the bomb from the 90s... And I kept thinking of how enormous those buildings were, and that even though it looked like a small hole (alarming, don't get me wrong) on TV, that in reality considering the size of those buildings, maybe I wasn't seeing it in the proper perspective and maybe it was something much, much bigger.  But Stork likes to keep positive.  So I of course kept that thought process to myself, and tried to shut my thoughts up altogether.

Then after maybe 5 minutes of watching, there appeared a silver object in the right corner of my screen getting closer.  I literally thought "what the fuck is that?" and then BOOM.  It slammed into the second building.

Amy screamed, I froze.  Amy's hands went to her face and she kept repeating "Oh my G-d" to herself.  I said nothing - I was in shock, and just thinking along in sync with the voices on television that were suddenly saying 'okay, this is on purpose'.

I sat on my bed, and watched the story unfold.  Amy went out into the now very loud hall and got people to turn on their TVs who weren't awake. One of my hippie guy friends came in and watched with me. Admittedly even with the horror unfolding on TV my thoughts turned to DC.  I asked him if he thought they were going to hit D.C. and he said "nah", but his eyes were lying.

I tried not to think about my Dad.  I tried not to think about the people who were above the floors that got hit.  When someone on the TV said "you can see large bits of debris falling from the building" and hippie friend said "that's not debris" I tried not to think about that, either.  At some point, Amy came back in and we all watched in silence - the only sounds I heard for a long time were the sounds of other people's TVs in my halls, playing different stations but all listening to the same story.

We sat like that, frozen, for who knows how long before Katie Couric cut to a picture of the Pentagon on fire.  That's when, where I was, everything changed.

People rushed into the hall.  RA's hurdled our entire dormitory into two groups - one, people who just wanted to watch the programming together, and two, people who had parents working in D.C.  I fell into the latter category.

My group was ushered into a different dormitory.  When I went outside, all I heard was the sound of fighter jets - that we went to school right next to - being launched into the air.  As we were walking people kept mentioning my Dad's building 'you know that's what they're going to hit next, you know that's what they're going to hit next'.

We went into a study hall (I'm not sure what it was I never went back again - I just remember a large room with tables and chairs) and everyone went to work on our cell phones.

If you were in the DC area at the time (and I want to say the same for NYC) more than likely, after a certain time your cell phone was useless.  So many people were trying to get ahold of loved ones that everything was jammed.  I tried calling my Dad several times, but I kept getting "your call cannot be completed.."

After an hour or so, my Mom got ahold of me.

She had been teaching a few minutes from the Pentagon, and when they heard a blast, the earth moved.  Being from CA her first instant fleeting thought was 'this must be an earthquake' before putting together the obvious.  They were put on lockdown.

She told me that she was fine, my sister was fine, and she was sure my Dad was fine - but I wanted to hear his voice.  Even though it's not where he worked, in my head it wasn't inconceivable that he would be at the Pentagon.

Most of our family was out here in CA - I had no idea if they even knew what was going on yet because it was so early.  When I called my Grandparents because my phone obviously worked a lot better than my Moms - they were clearly awake, clearly panicked, and had woken up to rumors that DC was being bombed.  I told them that Mom was ok, my sister was ok, and nobody could get ahold of my Dad but we were sure he was okay.

Turns out, he had chemotherapy that day and wasn't even in his office.  His work was about to get crazy, but he wasn't there that morning.  After my own family was sorted out, I thought about my high school sweetheart's Dad who worked in the Pentagon ( he once took us inside when we were younger for 'take your daughter to work day' because my Dad couldn't take me into his).  My Dad got ahold of him later that day, and he was fine as well.  Everyone I knew went to college in the DC area or in NYC.  Much of my day was spent trying to track everyone down - luckily no one I knew went to school anywhere near Battery Park.

Others were obviously not so lucky.  A girl in my dorm lost her Father who worked at the Pentagon, and two others lost people in NYC - my friend's cousin was an EMT, and a girl I didn't know had a brother who I want to say was a waiter.

The rest of the day was spent watching the TV in silence, and listening to our military's planes outside.

The 11th happened to fall on a stupid anniversary with my college boyfriend, and he thought it was a good idea to just get out for a bit, anyways.  We went to a restaurant in town where they wouldn't serve us because he was 'muslim'.  (He was muslim - in the sense that I am Catholic, which is to say ish at best.  And not that it matters, but he didn't look middle eastern at all - he looked like a mixed person, which he was, so I don't even know to this day how they put that together).  We didn't make a stink about it because horrible on top of horrible was too much to deal with, and we suddenly lost our appetites anyways.  They did write a story about it in the school paper though, a few weeks later.

In the weeks that passed I remember reading about a man who spent 3 days searching for his wife in the Pentagon wreckage without stopping to sleep.  I remember SNL coming back on and Lorne Michaels asking if it was okay to be funny, and mayor Giuliani saying "why start now?".  I can't remember if we were hearing them directly yet or just hearing about them - but I remember learning of the phone calls people made from the planes. I remember thinking how strange it was that all the fictitious TV shows that took place in NY or DC didn't acknowledge it at all.  I remember thinking about growing up close to Dulles airport, the millions of times I had taken a flight from there to L.A., and thinking the likelihood of me not having taken flight 77 at some point was pretty slim.  I remember being scared for my Dad in an entirely new and permanent way.

Even though you know me well enough by now to know that I try to keep things light and airy, every year I make sure to watch a special, read a story, do something to stare at it.  Others would think this is macabre and to remember people for the lives they led.  But I'm one of those people if there's a viewing before a funeral, I go to the viewing.  I need to see to believe, I need to face down the awful in order to accept it.

But tomorrow I'll go back to dancing bear.

Monday, September 10, 2012

A Weird Little Glimpse into My Marriage

Manly Monday, My Minxy Mom-abees!

Oh - today I am in two places at once, like a magic trick.  I am guest blogging over at Growing Griswolds and inevitably causing her to lose followers - she is amazeballs, USA and you should check her out.  A double dose of me in one day - much like taking a double dose of any drug, you may be delighted or you may die.  I am also over here.  (Magic magic magic magic....)

For those of you who fled the internet over the weekend like some sad abandoned carnival, a few of us had a little pow-wow and decided that today would be the day we would give a bit of a glimpse into the secret world of Men.  Marriage.  Men.

It just seems odd to me that we should know so much about the sperm of our respected partners, and so little about the actual partner himself (or herself) other than silly nicknames like DH, or Z, or Bubba.  And so today is the day to give a little glimpse into our weird little marriages and the ones crazy enough to enter it with us.  If you'd like to join us, by all means add your name in the comment section!

I give you a weird little glimpse into my marriage, and my Bub.

(Flowers from our wedding).

Bubba in Bullets:

  • Prior to our meeting, he went to many-a-club with his friends, who have told me that he has been kicked out multiple times for falling asleep in said clubs.  Once, he fell asleep on a speaker, and an employee told him he had to leave because "the tone we're going for is sexy... and this is not sexy."
  • He has one main facial expression, which is 'grumpy', and subtle variants of 'grumpy'.  This incidentally makes him very sexy.  
  • I pride myself in being able to make people laugh (it's my thing - in exchange for which I have 100  I cannot do), he is by far my favorite person to make do this.  A smirk from him is my comedy high point.
  • He is a born musician - can play any instrument.  If you give him a shaver he'll figure out how to make music with it.  This is equal parts impressive and infuriating.
  • I guarantee he snores louder than your husband does.  It's like sleeping next to a chainsaw ripping into an angry bear.  I can no longer sleep without this noise.  Equal parts impressive and infuriating.
  • He is a professional computer nerd who lords over other computer nerds.  He goes to work in a t-shirt and jeans, and stares at a black screen of programming jibberish.  I like to think he works in an evil tower seeking world domination and  I am thankful he doesn't feel the need to over-explain what he does because it might ruin this image.
  • He is half German, primarily raised in Germany.  There is no lingering accent, except for a few mispronounced words ('Q-pon', and my favorite 'rum' instead of 'room') for which I tease him mercilessly.
  • The only porn he owned outright when we moved in together was mysteriously Portuguese, and mysteriously without sound.
  • If he shaves in the morning, he will have a beard by nightfall that makes him look like he crawled out of the Bible.
  • He puts wooden spoons in the dishwasher and his shoes in the dryer.
  • Yes, he is my best friend.  Show me the woman who says "I married my 4th best friend, really, but the top 2 were unavailable and the 3rd was gay".

A weird glimpse into my marriage:

  • Everyday when Bub comes home from work, I have a barrage of pointless questions that I would like him to answer, like, "do you think the cat, because of weight and coloring, thinks she's shamu?" "Do you think there's a guy who got a sperm analysis, who can't cum without shouting and talking dirty to the porno ladies, and made an ass out of himself?" "Why are rubber ducks a thing?" He is a very good sport.
  • When he's being too quiet I pinch his nipples and gently slap him.  (He is, decidedly, not a fan of this).
  • I can't do dirty talk (I'm more of a dirty listener) so I like to send him one word texts with dirty words.  You know - PENIS.  SEX.  VAJAYJAY.
  • Inexplicably when he's in the kitchen, I have to flash him or pull his pants down before going about doing dishes or cooking.  No I don't have OCD - it's not like I think gravity will reverse itself and we'll all go flying if I don't, it's just... what I do in a kitchen.
  • On occasion he playfully calls me "bitch" and I playfully call him "mein fuhrer".  I love this, however I'm a little worried we'll accidentally do it in front of someone who will misinterpret, much like I'm afraid I'll accidentally kitchen-flash him when someone is over for a civilized dinner.
  • I do not let him leave the house without a kiss and an I love you.  If I don't do this, gravity will reverse itself.
  • I cannot fall asleep undrugged if there is a light on in the neighbors house much less my own.  He, on the other hand, loves nothing more than to fall asleep on the couch with all the lights on in the house and the television blaring something inevitably loud and violent.
  • We have a box of sex stuff in our closet.  Married 6 years, and while we certainly have the occasional off week we haven't reached that sex-slow-down I've heard so much about.
  • While I always thought it was cheesery, I can safely say with absolute certainty I love him more now than I ever did before.  And I was psychotically in love with him pretty much from day one.

Other Manly-Monday participants (and if I somehow left you out - some seemed less committal - lemme know in the comments and I will add you!)

I am traveling to the OC today (or as I like to say, behind the orange curtain) so I am gleefully looking forward to coming home this evening and getting my fill-o-gossip.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

Pure Golden Books

Super Saturday, my little chinchillas!

So my Friday was full of visiting the ill and having an evening of sexcapades (separate events, respectfully).

I settled on Mr. T's "get well" presents yesterday morning at the enchanting local drug store.  I proudly checked out with a $4 tiara with matching earrings, a Hannah Montana balloon, glitter tattoos, what can only be described as a stuffed & squeaking lump, a muscle man magazine and a card wishing Mr. T the happiest of Jewish new years (he is not Jewish).  Who says you can't get quality gifts at CVS?

I've heeaaaard that some people send flowers, as evidenced by the parade of flower deliveries to his home yesterday. The nerve.

And now, to play catch up on my picture challenge.

Iiiiii have an extensive collection of  very worn looking books.  As Arwen Rose pointed out over here, book nerds fall into the category of 'preservers' or 'crackers' as she puts it - people who are hell bent on keeping their books in tip top shape, and people who like their books to look a little abused.  And as I said to her, I fall into the latter category - all my books look as though they had a heavy night of drinking, got in a bar fight, and thought it a brilliant idea to clean up in the washing machine after.

I got my love of books from my Mom.

Two things to know about her:

  1. She is a now retired reading specialist/teacher.  I grew up reading for fun.  
  2. Though she has a dry sense of humor and never encouraged me to be softer or quieter because I am a girl, she is a saint.  I heard her curse once and it was possibly the greatest moment of my life.
I tell you number 2 because it relates to her, books, and my hunt for the thing to take a picture of in regards to the "pure" prompt.

One of her shining, and few, unlady like moments took place when I was in the 8th grade.  Our english teacher gave us permission to read whatever we wanted and write a report on it.  I read "Like Water for Chocolate" (if you haven't read it.. soooo good, one of my all time favorites).  When I turned in my report, she said I had to do another book altogether because, in short, she found that book to be pornographic.  My otherwise saintly and quiet mother marched into school and had a confrontation with her.  My Mom called bullshit - the alleged 'sex' scenes in this book are really all in metaphors and far from racy.  She was right - turns out the teacher had only seen the movie (which, by the way, if you're looking for a good porn and rent this movie, you're going to be sorely, sorely disappointed).

The thing I'm looking for in regards to "pure".  A few years ago I was going through some of the books my Mom has that she was going to get rid of for lack of room (which is saying a lot) and I found a book of poetry that I took for myself.  Imagine my surprise when I got home earlier, and it turned out to be a book that my saintly, book-loving Mom had apparently stolen from a library in the 60s. I am, delighted.  And for the life of me now I can't find it to take a picture of (did she at some point hide the evidence?)

But alas, I will not be showing you my book collection today as I am about to engage in a tornado of cleaning and my bookshelves have enough hair on them to make several large wild animals from scratch.  

Instead, I show you things from Mr. T's house.

On the subject of Golden (although I guess the more appropriate description would be 'orange') during a break between an old lifetime movie where Tiffani Amber Thiessen is of course raped, and a horror movie, we read magazines:

I would just like to point out that this woman has fully functioning reproductive organs.

On the subject of books, one of Mr. T's coffee table books.  Anyone familiar with bunny suicides?  Okay so it's nothing but a cartoon bunny and the creative ways of killing himself, but if you are sick & twisted as we are and looking for a chuckle, it's a gem.

(Fun fact, Phoebe the corgi has now two years in a row killed a bunny a few days before Easter.  My backyard is apparently where bunnies go to die.  Should bunnies not be passing down stories of the evil black and white she-beast by the lemon tree to future generations?)

And speaking of Golden & books, I completely forgot the existence of "little golden books".  You know, those funny little children's book with the bronze spine that easily breaks... I do believe I should start collecting.

Ah!  And today's prompt is music - this is what I clean to.  Set your pandora station to Harry Belafonte and I defyyyy you to not be put in a good mood.

If you would like to participate in and read some manly admissions on Monday, click here.

May your weekend be full of tiaras and lacking in bunny deaths.

Friday, September 7, 2012

Propositions.... And please comment!

Ladies!  I have propositions for you hookers.

Proposition 1:
I think we should have a manly Monday.  Wherein, the title of your post could be either "manly Monday" or "A weird little glimpse into my marriage".

This would be a chance for us to get a clearer view into your husband, and a glimpse into your weird little marriage.

In regards to husbands:
"His sperm count is ..."  UNACCEPTABLE.
"He works here..." "He is obsessed with this movie..." "He wears boxers when he sleeps" etc. etc.

In regards to marriage:
"We eat dinner every night around 6 at the kitchen table".  UNACCEPTABLE.
"He farts in his sleep" "He likes it when I slap his ass in the bedroom" ACCEPTABLE.

Who's in?  On Monday at the end of my post I'll put up links to other participants.

Proposition 2:
Changing "Secret Sunday" to a monthly occurence (last Sunday of the month) and choosing a theme for those secrets.

For example, this month's theme will be "SEX".  So this will give you, regular readers, first time readers, lurkers, pleeeenty of chance to come up with one.

Future theme possibilities:
Gross things I've done
Secrets of other people (that I can now share anonymously)
Fertility related secrets
My husband's secrets
A bad thing you did back in HS or JHS.

And I would totally love to hear your other ideas!  They don't have to just be funny or sexy categories - we could get serious with it, if we want.  Thoughts?  Opinions?  Concerns?

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Irrational Bears

Jolly Thursday, my fellow pin cushions.

My Thursday has thus far consisted of the following:
  1. Waking up after having apparently slept in some grotesque cirque-de-soleil position that makes my shoulder feel like it's trying to jump ship.
  2. Fasting to have vials and vials of blood taken out to check multiple hormones I can't keep track of.  Fully anticipating someone calling me to tell me I'll soon be able to grow a beard.
  3. Mr. T, the BFF, is having a minor surgery today.  When I had my chemical, he brought me the traditional miscarriage gift of a stuffed strawberry with feet, as you do, who is now the keeper of my fax machine.  I am hoping that CVS can help me come up with something equally as unnecessary and irrational to bring to him tomorrow. Perhaps a porcelain figurine of a bear or some sort of shellfish.

And now, some irrational fears on future children.

The Dancing Bear
Though Bub & I are essentially the same person with different volume levels, my husband is extremely introverted.  I am not.  This is quite a pleasant arrangement - I need quiet, he needs noise.  I've been in relationships with men who are as noisy and outwardly goofy as me and it could only ever turn into a never-ending dance off of one-upmanship.

That being said, if I had to deal with a tiny version of Bub's volume level, or if he had to deal with a tiny version of mine, we would be screwed.

I was born with a gift-curse of having whatever comes into my head come out of my mouth.  As a 4 year old, I regularly danced on tables in restaurants and once told a border guard that his mother in law was a pig because I thought it would make him laugh (it did).

A normal boring restaurant is Bub's nightmare - too many people.  Now if G-d willing in a few years we have a child, I am equal parts delighted and put off at the idea of Bub having a daughter that danced on his table and told the waiter his wife was a gold digging whore.

Equally as frightening, the idea of being in charge of not embarrassing a child with Bub's wallflower tendencies.  I would embarrass an outgoing child.  I am equal parts delighted and put off at the idea of a tiny Bub having to deal with a Mother fighting the urge to dance on tables and tell the waitress she admires her breast implants.

Dos Equis
We have two dogs and a cat.

Phoebe the corgi we've had for 6 years.  She was my idea - so skinny Bub out of nowhere got the type 1 diabetes, and was told that walking would help with keeping sugar low.  Just as I would not run unless I was being chased by a large blood thirsty bear, Bub would not walk without the threat of something peeing on him if he didn't.  Enter Phoebs.

We saw her at a big dog adoption, both loved her, but Bub thought she was too big.  In the end, I won.

Luna the giant puppy we got in March.  I had begged for a puppy for my 30th birthday in January to no avail.  Then, in the mystical inexplicable way which is Bubba he suddenly said one day "let's go get a puppy", so we did.

Now, try as I might to explain to these dogs that they were my idea - chase Phoebe around and tell her "Daddy thought you were too big!  and you're a corgi!", whisper to Luna that she is technically my 30th birthday present, they have both selected him as their human.

He is the most interesting man in the world.  When he walks from office to bathroom, living room to bedroom, they follow.  When he's working, they dive under his feet and try to engage him in play.  

When he gets home from work, cue the epic furry breakdown of desperately running around and trying to find gifts to bestow him with - even the cat occasionally gets in on it.  It's the 3 furry wise men bestowing gifts unto the apparently everyday newly born Jesus.  At 7 PM in this house it's the canine version of some charmingly spectacled girl in a tweed skirt passing out simply because the Beatles came on TV.  If they wore bras, they would be throwing them at him but seeing as they do not, they just bring him socks.

What if I have a kid who selects Bub exclusively as it's human?

Lick Your Face
Though I highly judge the behaviors of the dogs that were, excuse me, my idea - I am no better.  Bub gets home, and I quite literally tackle him and lick his face for a good half hour.  I flash him when he's in the kitchen.  I swat his butt when he walks by. I am used to only having these furry bitches as competition.

(Sidenote - can we please have a prompt day, where everyone titles their entries "A Weird Little Glimpse into My Marriage"?  Just a thought.)

So what exactly happens when you have a small person in the house?  You just kind of... nod a hello and then go about your already busy day, maybe catch up around bedtime?  Where is the face licking?

On the random front - I watched "Melancholia".  Anybody seen that?

Okay so I was told it was going to be long and boring, and I'm telling you it requires a very certain mood which I happened to be in at the time (artsy fartsy) but I loved it.

Definitely weird, definitely artsy fartsy, but I got it.  The jist of it is (and I'm not giving anything away here) the story of two sisters and how they handle the world, and oh ps a planet called Melancholia is headed towards a collision with Earth.

The whole point to it, I thought, was how one deals with melancholy (surprise, surprise).  You have one that when sadness arrives soaks in it until her fingers get all pruney, and another one who instantly goes into trying to make things better.  One is so used to feeling awful that the actual end of the world is taken with a shrug, and the other is so used to trying to make things better that she only loses it when she realizes that's not going to do anything.  So the jist of it was - Dancing Bear or Debbie Downer, when sadness wants to get you it's going to get you.  (Now what IF girl can't relate to that?)

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

A Message on Adoption from an Adoptee

Happy Tuesday, Tiddly winks!

Someone has gotten me sick.  When I find said person, I'm going to use every bit of Dayquil-fueled energy I can muster to pummel them with dirty tissues and clots of Vix Vapor Rub.

I did manage to venture out to the grocery store today (try as I might to arrive at different times, I don't believe I've ever gotten groceries without that damn Christina Aguilera on the speakers trying to convince me I'm beautiful, no matter what they say) and go to Starbucks.

In the food-beverage department I am an old fart who sticks to what I know, and am immediately hesitant when something that clearly belongs in one food category tries to sneak into another.  So last fall, I was definitely suspicious of the salted caramel mocha frappucinno, but in a rare moment of food adventure, decided to try one.

I was an instant convert.  It was.. a mystical experience.  Transcendent.  Made my whole non-salt having life seem like a sham. It's like going your whole life thinking you were a white Irish woman only to find out that you are indeed a black man.

It is... delightful.  It's like fall in a cup.

After it disappeared off the menu in January, I have since put many exhausting hours trying to get Starbucks employees to recreate it for me even though they were out of the salt.  Today it was back on the menu.  As I picked up my drink, several employees who know me from the many saltless tears I've shed congratulated me on having made it through the full year.

So while it has the flimsiest of connections to today's "school" prompt, since I am no longer in school this is my one damn sign that fall is back in session.  Sharpen my bouquet of number two pencils and bust out the back to school clothes, I am ready for autumn.

As I've mentioned in passing a couple of times here, I am adopted.  I am an adopted infertile.

This is a teeny tiny strange little subculture within the Infertility community.  Had I managed to get pregnant my first time at the rodeo, even without needles and wands and drugs that enhance the eggs' performance (I am the Lance Armstrong of fertility), sharing a genetic connection with a family member to me, is science fiction.

It also makes, I think, the sting of someone saying "why don't you just adopt" hurt a little bit more, because basically with my history they're saying "you should know better".

It also adds a few weird questions about what to do when I have kids.  Not that kids come out demanding to know about they're genetics, but it's going to be a strange conversation should they want to know.

I'm a firm believer that when you adopt, you tell the adoptee they're adopted from the get-go (we'll get to that in a minute). But I don't know how necessary it is to tell my kid that they're grandmother isn't genetically related to them right away, or how to explain that they have an Aunt who they'll see all the time that looks nothing like them, but an Uncle who lives in Chicago that looks a lot like them that they'll only see every few years.  I have yet to find a book that explains how to handle explaining culture to the child of an adoptee.

For example, I was raised in a large, Mexican family.  I eat tamales at Christmas.  There will never be a wedding where people don't dance to La Bamba, when the dogs do something gross I yell "caca!" and I can't wait for Bub to get old enough for me to call him viejo as my grandmother does my grandpa.  I even lived in Mexico City a couple of years (which makes NYC look like a charming, 1950s suburb).

Genetically, however, I'm French & Native American on one side, and Welsh on the other.  I look Welsh.  I do not look like I have a drop of Mexican blood in me (with the exception of dark hair) because I don't believe I do.

So should I have a child that is genetically mine, nevermind the twists & turns I would be adding on top of this discussion should I adopt a child, at some point the conversation will go "you are Mexican, but not really.  You are Welsh, but not really.  You are white, but not really".

(And speaking of white, this was yesterday's prompt which I am taking as an opportunity to ask if anyone knows what to do with white asparagus...)


Just by looking at infertility through the lens of an adoptee, I have some weird opinions.  As far as adoption goes, there are things I have strong opinions about and there are things where much like my views on the death penalty, are totally waffly and I can't really seem to commit to one.

For example - I have (and I want to make this super clear) no real concrete opinions in regards to dealing with a child that comes from a sperm donor, an egg donor, or an embryo donor.  That's a whole different ballgame that I'm just learning about existing - I therefor have no experience in that department.  So what I'm talking about is situations similar to mine.

My situation: I was literally the product of a 14 year old and a 16 year old getting it on in a tent and not realizing I was coming until she was a few months into her pregnancy.  (Which makes being infertile now... mind boggling). I was then given to the awesome parents I was always intended to have.

There is one adoptee-opinion that is strong above all the others and I'd like to put out there.  You may consider this kind of pushy if you're considering adoption or are in the adoption process, and I'm sorry, but I'm going to put it out there anyways, because hopefully in the process of internally cursing me you will be forced to at least consider what I'm saying for a moment.

Tell your child they're adopted.  Tell them they're adopted before they are even able to say the word themselves.

As an adult, I've met a lot of other adoptees.  Most of whom always knew they were adopted - some of whom were told... later.

Later - from all the people that I've known who have had to go through that - never feels good and rarely works out well.

By keeping it a secret, on the day that you have to reveal said secret (and it will come - for a medical reason, for resemblance reasons - please know that the day will come) you will inadvertently reveal the following:

  • You are adopted, which we kept from you because we think it's terrible.
  • Not only are we not your genetic parents, but we are liars.
  • We didn't think of it as your story at all - we thought it was just ours.

I can't even imagine how that last part is difficult to grasp for an adopting parent - that the story that has been yours for so long is in fact your child's.  But I promise, it's your child's story.

Even though this is over simplifying it, try to imagine if your whole life you had thought your birthday was in June, only to find out that it was in January. Your parents just told you it was in June because they thought it sounded prettier.  Even though they were the adults in charge when they did that, it still wasn't theirs to do (and it would of course make you go.. 'what the fuck is wrong with January?!'). 

If you have any thoughts associated with adoption that mean 'unwanted' or 'abandoned', you may be tempted to not let them know that they were adopted because you want to save them from feeling unwanted or abandoned.... but by keeping that a secret for so long, one day you will essentially be saying to them "you were unwanted and abandoned, and we knew that, so that's why we kept it from you" which isn't easy to take at any age.

By delaying an uncomfortable conversation, you are in fact simply revealing that you are uncomfortable with it because there is something to be uncomfortable about.

For me, I don't ever remember being told.  I always knew.  I was read books about it, we discussed what adoption meant - which was basically "you are special, and of all the babies in the world, I wanted you. You weren't a random circumstance - I picked you." Because I was told from such an early age and it was made normal - the 'abandonment' feelings were at a bare minimum - I always looked at it like I was particularly wanted.

The only moment that even remotely felt odd in terms of being adopted was finding out that my Mother was not.  It was made so normal, that when I found out she wasn't, I felt bad for her. That is my only vivid, sad adoptee moment.  Sitting in a bathtub and finding out my poor mother wasn't adopted. No drama, no pining. Just an accidental product of two people getting it on.  Barely a story at all, the poor thing.

When you adopt, other people will know your child is adopted.  Relatives, friends, etc.  By keeping the adoptee in the dark, you are allowing strangers and bystanders to trample around in a story the adoptee doesn't even know he/she has - and to discover that kind of betrayal as an adult isn't even something I can put words to.

I had an awesome friend in High School.  Her and her brother weren't that far apart in age - and they were Italian.  Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin - and they looked exactly alike, spitting images of their parents.  I went to her house one day, and she had a much younger sister, around 10 years old, who had very pale skin, white-blond hair and light blue eyes.  I met this younger sister, and after she left the room I kind of said "what happened there?" and my friend said "oh she's adopted, but she doesn't know yet".

It was like someone punched me in the gut.  I have always understood that there are some people who aren't adopted who don't understand it - but for me, I felt so gross.  I was a complete stranger, and I understood something about this little girl who I met for 10 seconds that she hadn't been let in on yet.

And I knew that one day that long delayed conversation that was supposed to protect her was going to hurt. like. hell.  Because secrets are shameful.  Instead of dealing with the perfectly natural feelings of abandonment that you get in tiny doses as a well-informed adoptee, she was going to get it all in one day.  Because it was kept so long, she was going to 'know' that it was something awful, and instead of having long ago understood that this was her family, genetics or no, she was going to instantly feel isolated.

It was her story to have - definitely not mine, and not even her parents.  It was hers, and she was being robbed of it without even knowing.

So my deeeepest storkiest apologies for getting preachy - but I just read a story about someone who found out at the age of 42, and it inspired me to just friggin say this whether you like it or not.. Because this is the one thing, as an adoptee, that I know... that I know.

What I do not know is what to do with white asparagus.

Monday, September 3, 2012

Secret... Monday.

Happy Monday, my Secret Church Parishioners!

Since in the US we were granted an extra weekend day, Secret Church is getting to you a little late, as I was celebrating Sunday by watching an exorcism film, as you do.

"The Possession" did not satiate my horror needs.

The basic storyline - during a period of 29 days, a girl goes a little bonkers, wherein the most frightening things she does involve eating raw meat in front of a fridge and weeping to herself, consistently looking like she's about to vomit, and wishing for the teeth of men who piss her off to just fall out.

Puhlease.  Child's Play.

Her allegedly demonic acts were among the most benevolent of mine during a hormonally charged period of 29 days.

Change the name to "The Clomid", call it a documentary and then call me.

By popular demand of last week's vote, I shall tell you the story of how I slept with Bubba two hours after I met him.

Keep in mind, I was 21, my father had just died, and I had no real interest in getting into a relationship - just wasn't my style - and marriage wasn't something I thought I'd ever end up in.

So a few months before I met Bub, a psychic (I know, don't judge me) who had always given me accurate, freaky accurate information, and lived hundreds of miles from either one of us, said without any prompt, "you're going to marry a man, and his name will be..." Okay, let's say my husbands name was Bubba Jones (it isn't).  That psychic said "You're going to meet and marry a guy named Bubba.... wait, it sounds like Bones, it rhymes with Bones".  (Keep in mind my husband's name in reality is SUPER unusual and that makes the rhyming part even more impressive).  So I did what any girl not wanting a relationship would do, and went on a crazy ass dating spree with anyone who was NOT named 'Bubba'.  

I even signed on to to get a few dates.  So I contacted a guy, or he contacted me (can't remember) and we started writing emails and going back and forth and we were exactly.  alike.  How we saw the world, our religious beliefs, our political reliefs, we found the same things funny... So I gave him my phone number.  He called in December of 03 and left me a message (I was visiting here, not where I lived on the east coast). On the phone he introduced himself as 'Bubba'.  Soooo, cue a slight panic attack.  

It took me a couple of weeks to get over that, having told myself repeatedly that 'Bubba' was a very common name and that does not mean that this was who she was talking about.  Plus, I really liked this guy who I had never met.

So eventually I called him back - and after several phone conversations that ran wellll into the night, making me late for work, classes, etc., we set up a date for a Friday.  He lived in the state bordering mine, so he drove to me. 

When he arrived, I was still upstairs in my Mom's house getting ready - so technically he's known my Mom for about 20 minutes longer than he's known me.

When I first saw him, I was done for.  He was gorgeous.  I know people say this about their husbands, but he was gor. geous.  He drove me to the movie theatre, we got drunk in the parking lot, and by the time the movie started (Big Fish), we were all over each other.  It took every bit of strength not to leave the movie, but I made him sit through the movie because you know, I'm a lady. ;)

And in the middle of making out, on theme with being a lady, I asked him what his last name was - and he said the one that the psychic predicted.  But at that point, I didn't care.

So then we went to the first available place to do it - and before we did I said "I don't do one night stands" and he said "Me either" and then we were off to the races.  And boy did we mean it - I moved in with him 2 weeks later;  it's been almost 9 years and we're still humping.  Apart from this bum reproductive thing, I often feel so lucky that I half expect him to one morning wake up, decide that he's had his fill of this one night stand, and scoot on over to his now 2,000 mile away old home.

From Lame Revenge Seeker (her words!):
I've never told anyone this secret, not even my husband, because... well honestly if someone told me they did this I would judge them a little.  When I was in college, I got dumped by a guy had been dating for a couple months.  He happened to be the guy I gave up my V card to, so I was a little bitter.  So what's a girl going to do to get a little revenge?  Apparently this was the best I could come up with: I went to his house at 6am on a Sunday morning while everyone was still asleep and took a picture of his Jeep parked in the driveway, went to my college campus computer lab and made a flyer saying the Jeep was for sale for $1000 and put his name and phone number on it, printed out 75 copies of it, and taped them up all over campus.  When I ran into his roommate the next day, she told me about the flyers and said he had been getting calls all day and I acted completely shocked and wondered out loud who would have done that.  I have no idea who he thought did this or if he ever even suspected it was me.  Oh, and while I'm spilling embarrassing secrets that I will take to my grave, from ages 14-16 I was part of a Renaissance troupe that traveled around to Renaissance fairs.  

From B:
When I was in high school, I had a really strange guy in my homeroom in 11th grade.  He said extremely off-the-wall things to me and the people I hung out with.  On pajama day, he showed up in basketball shorts with stains on them.  I don't mean kool-aid stains, I mean it was a crusty white stain.  It set off my gag reflexes.  There was one day he asked a friend of mine, "When you gonna let me hit that?"  I didn't much care for that sort of talk to my friends so my best friend & I started writing him anonymous love letters in which he responded to.  It was the ultimate revenge.  He wrote some really dirty things in his letters & not only did he propose to this "anonymous girl", he also wrote a duet song for her.  Finally one day I happened to notice he was going to the special education classes.  I felt so awful & guilty and I still do.  This is my ultimate secret that has reserved me a special place in hell.

From Aspgriswold at Growing Griswolds:
I have a secret. I'm not sure if it counts really but it's a thing about me that not a lot of people know about. So, I think that labels it a secret. I don't have a uvula. The hanging-ball thing most people have in their throat. I don't got one. :) 

I had my tonsils taken out when I was in highschool. That is when I parted with my dear uvula. The surgeon got a little scalpel happy. At least that is what I like to think. Damn surgeons.

From Arwen at MRKH Musings:
As a still relative newly wed I am still at the keep the mystery stage. My hubs is a flatulent man. If I need to let one go I bide my time and wait (usually only minutes) till he farts then I sneak mine out quietly on the sly! Masked by his I always get away with it!

I once had sex in the women's bathroom of a church. K (the hubs) and I were at the wedding of his cousin. On the way over, we got to talking about sex. We talk about sex a lot. This time we talked about the weirdest places to have sex. Then we realized that we had never had sex in an odd place. Our lives were not complete! Fast forward to reception time. K looks over at me during a lull in the conversation at the table and I just sort of know what he wants. So I excuse myself to the bathroom and K follows a few minutes later. Now, I thought we would sneak off through the church and find a really good place like behind the pulpit or in the sound booth but K didn't want to wait the five seconds it would take to find a better place then the bathroom. So it happened right there. Against the bathroom stall. It was awesome. No one surprisingly caught us but I do think the people at our table knew something was up when we came back slightly disheveled and basking in the afterglow. But who cares? I was happy!

From AnonyMom:
I'm not the only one to share a sex story, so here goes....My ex boyfriend and I were much more adventurous than my husband and I are...well than my husband is...I would  still totally get down and dirty or funky or whatevs, but my husband just a little inhibited...Taking risks was what made things even when we were on vacation with my parents and my sister, her husband and their one year old child, in a small 2 bedroom cottage, we were assigned SEPARATE air mattresses on the floor in the common room. They didn't stay separated for long. One night things got heated, and we took it on the to front porch just as a thunderstorm was blowing in over the lake (for some reason thunderstorms turn me on, I'm weird OK) was probably the hottest sex I've ever had, and partly because it was risky both with my famliy less than 20 feet away and the fact that we could have been struck by lightening or the tree next to us could have been.... I still get a little frisky when a storm is blowing in, and my husband is willing to comply as long as we're inside a formidable structure....

So. Much. Brilliance.

Send in your secrets for next week while you're thinking of it, wusses!