You're a Chicken and I'm Diane Keaton

Greetings, citizens of Blog world!

Forgive me in advance for any misspellings in this post, my p is sticking (ahhh, source of all my woes - my pee sticks and my p sticking).

Should you only be in the mood for a low dose of Stork today, please ignore this post entirely and may I draw your attention here.  A week from today, there is going to be a video challenge. Should you want to join in on the fun - and you should, we're going to collectively take a little bit of shame out of all this by coming out of the closet - please refer to that post and join.  And if you are super famous and/or your face is full of boils, you may participate in said challenge using only your voice (and I promise - when drawing my mental picture of you, I'll give you really, really good boobs).

If you are not down for either, I call chicken, m'lady.  Ironically, participating in a video challenge will not make me want to find the real you - but if you don't participate, I will become a blood hound, hunt down your chicken ass and call you in the middle of the night making bok-bok noises.

My jaw has blown out yet again (minds out of the gutter, ladies, I have TMJ - apparently I am delightful when awake and horribly angry when I sleep, video related threats aside) and I seem to have accidentally thrown out my perfectly good ambien when I was getting rid of old prescriptions.  (Which proves the old adage, messiness is godliness and cleanliness is the devil's playground).

Monday has been quite manly, indeed.  I must have had some sort of car dream during one of my hostile sleeps, because I became convinced this weekend that Towanda the old reliable Honda was on death's door.  She... hiccups.  I'll be sitting at a light and she kind of shakes for a minute before getting her shit back together.

Cut to me, this morning, sans functioning jaw, doing an interpretive dance in front of a large group of manly mechanics to try and explain what she was doing.  After some glazed stares, a lovely man in coveralls won the round of charades and sadly I was without a cookie or even an ambien to reward him.

So me, Towanda, and her new sparky spark plugs are off to try and convince a pharmacist that I am not a drug addict, but a silly insomniac woman who cleans and sleeps in furious spurts.  My charm will be more difficult to get across without the ability to speak, so after many years it seems my modern dance classes will finally come in some practical handy.

Today I kill two birds with one stone.  Today's manly Monday fact will be about my gay husband, Mr. T, and also covers one of my answers to an October writing prompt. Both involve the queen of all things awesome, Diane Fucking Keaton (yes, fucking is her middle name.... scientific fact).

The question is, what is the greatest compliment I ever received.

So I'm not sure if it's the greatest compliment I have ever received, but it was pretty fucking great and infertility related.

A few months ago the gay husband, Mr. T, was sick and so we were watching movies and laying around like walruses.  I had never heard anything about The Family Stone, but it was one of his comfort movies and he was the one that was sick.

Anyhoo.

Diane Keaton in the movie is.. Diane Keaton.  She's the matriarch, she is pretty funny, very blunt and very mellow.  (Again, Diane Fucking Keaton, ladies and gentleman).

There is one scene where they're having a big family dinner, and a new girlfriend accidentally says something insulting about Diane's deaf and gay son.  While the new girlfriend is stumbling to try to undo it, and the whole family is visibly uncomfortable, Diane's character is quiet for a moment, ignoring everyone else entirely.  She then throws her fork at the insulted son who is looking down, embarrassed, and then says "Hey!  Hey you.  I love you and you are more normal than any asshole sitting at this table".

We're watching this, and Mr. T turns to me and says, "I wanted you to watch this because this is exactly the kind of Mom I imagine you're going to be".

In the moment I don't make a big deal of it (I probably give him my signature compliment response, a tidy little boob shimmy), and I don't even know if he remembers saying such a thing in his drug-fueled sickly state... but rare is the moment where someone of their own accord turns to someone like me and makes a statement like that.  Having someone tell me specifically what kind of Mom I would be was magical, because I have a hard time imagining it myself sometimes. Not to mention in this instance he was comparing me to an awesome Mom, a Diane Keaton Mom.

When all this infertility nonsense makes me cold, I pull that gem out of the back of my head and it warms me right back up again.

And honestly, ladies, I have very little usable advice in the how-to-handle-infertility department (other than to laugh as much as possible, and to buy cheap panties after someone utters the dreaded words 'progesterone suppositories').  My one rare gem-o-the-day is that if at all possible, you should run out and get yourself a gay husband in addition to your straight one, because they can be disarmingly wonderful and absolutely invaluable, even to a cold-hearted name caller (chicken!  yes you - the one underestimating her bravery) like me.

Oh, and get the panties for $5 a pack at target - get the gay husband someplace where they charge you $50 for one pair of brightly colored boy panties. They are very different shopping trips.