Friday, August 31, 2012

Talking to Chairs.

Fabulous Friday, Fellow Fertility-Challenged!

I have slight suspicions that what I'm about to say may offend people, but since on the weekend the blogosphere seems like a carnival that everyone's abandoned and I am more than likely talking to myself, I'll say it anyways.

Did anyone watch the Republican National Convention last night?  The Clint Eastwood part, specifically?

What was that?

Okay so I've already admitted that I'm an evil bleeding-heart liberal (if you're a conservative bloggy friend I dig you, and respect you, and I will make you dig me - come put your head to my breasts) so it's at times a smidge uncomfortable for me to watch.  I also must admit that long before last night, I've seen what I perceived to be old white men having arguments with a completely hallucinated version of President Obama - it aint new.

But I saw Clint and got excited about him talking.

I like it, on either side, when people get up and address all Americans, merrily refrain from accusing me of being un-American because I'm not exactly like them, and just state what the damn platform is. Admittedly watching some of the other speeches I locked my doors in fear that a large group of white men from parts of the country I've only visited by-way-of-layover would come storming up my driveway with torches and drag me into the streets for a hangin'.

So when good ole Clint got up on stage (who I find to be a lovely & talented director) I thought 'well looky that - a reasonable old school republican who will explain it to me in a way that I can understand without immediately describing me as a 'them' that must be stopped'.

You understand I don't want to take your gun away from you - don't you Clint?  And I understand that you're probably not going to hold me under baptismal water in a church somewhere until I accept your religion or my inevitable drowning.  We have an understanding, you and me.

For the first two minutes.  Then you had a hallucinatory conversation with a chair.

For those of you who missed it - he pretended an empty chair was President Obama, and that the invisible President was telling him and Mr. Romney to go fuck themselves. To watch, click here.

I've also already admitted that I dig weird.  I DIG WEIRD.  I do think that he was, even with this, the least offensive speaker in regards to people who disagree with him, and that labeling this whole chair thing  a super big deal is blowing it a bit out of proportion (and it's actually kind of funny).  I SO wanted to get it because it was as though someone had hurled my Grandpa up on stage two minutes after he learned he was going to give a speech - which was sad and uncomfortable.

But it was that all-too-rare form of weird that leaves, even Stork, Queen of Weird, just going... "What... was that?"




I am an improviser.

If you were to invite me to speak at your wedding, I would write down a couple of bullet points that I want to make sure to get to, but I'd still go into it thinking "nah, I'll just wing it".

I am way better at improvising words then I am at planning.  Same thing goes for my style of writing.

Don't get me wrong - occasionally I think things out.  A lot.  And some of my favorite writers/comedians are the ones that really think things through.  They're beautifully written, sometimes serious, and they do an excellent well-thought out job of making you feel like you're IN the place/time/situation they're talking about.

With my personality, often when times/situations call for that sort of thing out of me, it's forced and a little dishonest and after many years o' writing I've noticed that the things people seem to respond to the most are the stuff I just kind of crap out.

Writing, to me, is like taking a poo in a public bathroom.  If you worry about the kind of splash you're going to make or whether people are going to be offended by what kind of stink you leave, you're not going to get any real relief.  (And in the end, it all just tends to be crap, anyways, so might as well save yourself some constipation).

I'm a little choosier when it comes to speaking-speaking, but in my opinion the best, funniest things come out when people are a little out of their head.

For example - Billy Eichner.  Yes, yes, I have a sick and annoying love for him and nothing that man has ever said didn't make me laugh, but he's the most recent example of something someone said that didn't really make sense and therefor made me pee.

He was talking about how he detests Rachael Ray, and just made a face and said "that woman is like a demon... trapped inside a goat!"

I die.  Makes no sense whatsoever, and yet somehow it makes perfect sense and I die.  I laugh now just thinking about it.

My roundabout point:  I'm a devout improviser and I totally think improvisation works for funny.  But mayhaps when it comes to things like political speeches people should find a happy medium between robotically reading off a teleprompter with no feeling and just fucking winging it.

I think with some degree of thought-out, on both sides, they would further give themselves a chance of not demonizing the other group or the undecided, and with a little wiggle room for some improv there'd be space for some passion to rile up the already devout.

I'm just sayin'.... Maybe that way we could avoid borderline disrespectful conversations with chairs and exploiting the bewildered while still allowing both sides to see that you're passionate.

Sidenote:  Do you think when Mr. Romney said "Mr. Chairman", he was in fact talking to the invisible man in a chair?  Just a thought.

As my friend said on his Facebook page, "Not since Morty Guffman has an empty chair had so many eyes on it".



Send me Secrets!  We may be on a Secrets hiatus for a week should I not get a couple more - and as previously promised, I shall punish you by filling up your newsfeed with sad Sarah McLachlan's animals.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Degrees.

Happy Thursday to the Barren and Blogging!

I am done with summer.  DONE.  Nevermind the fact that it is forever and always going to be the 'summer of a chemical pregnancy' in my mind, but it's 100+ mother effing degrees outside.  While I am a true American-mutt, I am mostly Welsh which means my skin tone and general temperament was meant for cloudiness and moodiness and not this never-ending-freakshow of sunshine.

It's tiresome.  I miss the thunderstorms, snow, etc., of the east coast.  With the exception of about 3 weeks out of the year, waking up to yet another beautiful day is fucking exhausting - makes me feel like I should be doing something wildly outdoorsy and positive, like I should be living out a fucking toothpaste or tampon commercial.

(Did I pick the right state to live in or what?)

On the subject of Fall - my lesbian-internet-crush EmHart is having a daily September photo challenge. I have never participated in such a thing and am notoriously crap at taking photos, but I am excited to give it a whirl and post my photos in a weekly posting.  Hopefully it will help bring on Fall a little faster.  Join us.  Drink the koolaid.


So, one of my bloggy friends, Ms. D, is pregnant.

She wrote an entry a couple of days ago basically about the general discomfort of being a newly-pregnant IFer.

This has to be completely uncomfortable.

Why?  Because when you're trying to make a baby for such a long time, you're very familiar with the "Oh crap" punch in your gut the minute someone says they're pregnant (and the varying degrees of happiness you can manage to muster for that person, which are often teeny-tiny 'can someone hand me a microscope?' amounts).  So I think we can all agree, when we finally get pregnant (and we will, damnit) even though we cheer for our own sisters in shittiness far more than the average fertile, we will know that the cheer is a spice, the mustered-happy is the mustard, not the whole hot dog.

Instead of the blissful ignorance of a fertile, when we say "hooray, I'm pregnant!" we will be able to instantly bring to the surface the feelings that that's going to bring other people, like when a song you listened to when you were going through a break up comes on the radio and it acts like a musical time machine.  The newly pregnant IFer is far more likely to associate the "I'm pregnant!" song with a lot of sadness and fear than they are genuine giddiness.

This has me thinking about how we have a tendency to 'rate' ourselves according to who has it worse, and the degrees of sympathy for each other.

Some admissions, first - because of years of infertility there are people for whom I would happily stand at the door of Club Infertile and bounce them out.




The people I will happily chuck out are those who are in the throws of a panic attack after one cycle of timed nooky.  This is not because I'm mean (fine but it's unrelated) but only because by the time I'm done laminating their club cards they will already be at the doors of Club Pregnant.

Second admission - when I click on an ICLW link or  on the name attached to a witty comment on a blog - if that person is already pregnant I usually don't stay, unless there's something that really stands out about it.

There are of course exceptions to this (the exception's usually in the writing itself instead of the subject matter).

 But, you know, if I were a long-time-single girl and blogging about it, I may not be too keen on blogs that are solely focused on wedding planning or the unbelievable love someone has for their husband.  Or if I was blogging about having to lose 100 lbs, 99% of my related-blog interest would probably be about women who are in some stage of a diet - not the ones that are 110 lbs after having lost the weight a year ago.  (The exceptions being the girls that still clearly have the soul of a fat/single girl).

I mostly want to meet the girl when she still has weight to lose, or when she has just met somebody - then I'm invested and totally stoked when she's skinny or in a relationship. I want to see someone get happy.




So some comparisons that we tend to make that are pretty gross.

IVF vs. IUI vs. Clomid
I am far down the road on the crazy train.  Not only do I have to do IVF - but I get to be a challenge within IVF.   At this point in time, Clomid seems charming and cute by comparison.  At the time it was fucking awful.  At the time, it was a rancid experiment titled "how many days can we go without committing a homicide?"

If Infertility were the Titanic, I have spent years watching people either right away or at the last minute find themselves a lifeboat, and I'm still stuck on the damn thing dancing & playing the violin, and trying not to notice that it's getting a tad chilly.

That being said - all I have to do is remember that Clomid sucked balls, too, and try my very best not to be jealous of people who may not have to go as far as I do.  I may be closer to the water and there may be less lifeboats, but I can still remember that 10 minutes ago I was still in a fucking panic about escape, and it was still 0 fucking degrees outside.


Miscarriage vs. Never been Pregnant
I think I may have even said this to D - but a year ago, I had thoughts like "if I had only had a chemical pregnancy, then at least I would've known I could get pregnant".  Now I can see that that's hogwash.

I did 2 1/2 years hard time in the "I've never been knockedupinstein, not even once" prison camp, and now I'm on the icky end of a chemical pregnancy.  It's apples and oranges.

We could debate all day whether it's better to have never had any chocolate while the whole world is a veritable Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, or to have been allowed one square and then be told "nope, no more, not ever".  The bottom line is both suck.


Success vs. Not Yet
Now, having admitted that I don't usually do blogs that are pregnant before I even find them, the ladies that find success on some leg of their journey are still members of our group, I get happy for them and to sweeten the pot I even get a little hope for myself.  (And, should we ever indeed be the founders of an Infertile City, our neighboring towns are going to have to be full of IFers in recovery to be a buffer between 'us' and 'them').

No, nobody should feel 100% totally awesome when one of them gets knocked up - and I don't think they expect us to.  Not to mention that aside from the (to steal a quote from EmHart) Born Again Fertiles who seemingly forget they had trouble in the first place, they're the only mamas who are still going to get us.

Keep in mind, newly pregnant, you are the only ones that we muster any genuine cheer for.  Keep in mind, not-so-much-pregnant, that it would suck balls to be in a world where IFers never succeeded - and that more than likely said newly-pregnant has already to some degree had her pregnancy tainted by constant thoughts of "is this really going to be it?  Is this really going to be it?". She is therefor, definitely still not one of 'them' and needs us to rally around her, and maybe cut a few bitches.



So, the jist of Stork's point today, as one of the Elders in the Infertile Tribe, is that we should all try to be as inclusive as possible in our little club.  With the exception of those fucking asshats that try to get in after two months.

Monday, August 27, 2012

I Fink U Freeky, and I Like You a Lot

Merry Monday, my fellow baby-pang broads!

Ahhh, what can one say about a weekend that started with an intended 5 minute 'who needs deoderant? I'm just running a quick errand' trip that resulted in my car breaking down and spending 3 hours at the mechanics in 100 degree heat, and ended with accidentally taking an ambien when I thought I was taking levothyroxine?

What can one predict about a week that begins with an hour and a half traffic jam on the way to the Obgyn's for a lab order, and in the hospital shuffle accidentally kicking an adorable, handicapped, elderly Korean woman?  (HARD).

Oh, Stork.  Sweet, sweet, accident prone Stork.

On a positive note, I talked to G-d and She and I figured out the one common thread between all infertile women.

Do I have a medical degree?  No.  Have I done any research except for just under two months of blogging? No.  But I figured it out.  I'll be expecting a check made out to "Stork and G-d" for millions from science, and the inevitable fame that will follow, any day now.

Ready for it?

We are all, every last frigging one of us (and by 'us' I can scientifically verify this at least means the women who blog about it) Fucking Weird.



(Now, now - before you get all offended let me assure you that coming from me, this is the highest of compliments.  I am Queen weird, forever searching for more weird.  Hang with me for a moment before you get your panties in a wad.)

So how did I come to this riveting, blow-the-roof-off conclusion, you ask?

A couple of weeks ago when Bubella was staying with me she had a moment where she felt bad for a hot second about being slightly odd.  (True story - if you're 'different', in High School you spent a significant portion if not the whole experience wishing you were 'normal', and your entire adulthood watching the naturally 'normal' live dull lives full of odd-desperation).

I've read a few (if you were one of them by all means give yourself a shout-out in the comment section - accidental ambien makes us forgetful) posts the last couple of months about how difficult it can be in adulthood to make some good lady friends.

Then this morning I went into the ObGyn's to pick up that lab order and when I finally got to the fucking parking garage started having bad vibes.  It occurred to me that I have Fertility PTSD - it's been a long while since I went to that office without bad news quickly following it.  (I'm like a Vietnam Vet that still hears choppers - only instead of choppers it's the sound of latex gloves being snapped on and the gentle woosh of a condom being rolled down a wand).

I kept repeating to myself "I am not the only one that feels this way" and that made me think of all of you lovelies.

We're all fucking weird. Cooky driven to cookier by life experience.

Our little corner of the blogosphere is the Island of Misfit Toys.  If the world were Bridesmaids, we are a tribe of Annies in a world of Helens.




If I've read, say, 100 infertility blogs in the last couple of months - I can only maybe maybe maybe think of coming across 1 or 2 blogs, in passing, that belong to beige, normal women.  This is an incredibly high percentage of wonderfully odd.

You know the type of woman I'm talking about when I say beige - we all know them in real life.

The woman who's never really had any shit happen in her life.  Her house is more than likely, quite literally, bedecked in beige.  You try to have a friendship with her, but it never goes beyond superficial.  When you talk to each other you over-annunciate your words, find yourself saying things like "cute" and "sweet" way too often; she oversells how busy, important and happy she is; and you wouldn't dream of talking about anything real with her because this would inevitably end up in you revealing your weird - which she wouldn't get, would probably find shameful, and would more than likely just end up bursting into flames.

Enter, internet infertiles.

Fuck me, EmHart has a thing with puppets and the color blue as do I.  Kristin is a member of the in-real-life seemingly very small deceased-parent club and feels slightly homeless as I do.  And lo - lo is sexually attracted to who?  Patrick Stewart?  WHAT?!

(And those of you itching to tell me that all women/people are multi-layered and complicated, NO.  FALSE.  If you are also itching to tell me that despite the fact that you are layered and only have the bare minimum of odd requirements you are 'average' - also false. But I appreciate your weirdo-denial/optimism!)

99% of the blogs I have come across are from delightfully weird women who have been through shit.

This may not be a club we can fully appreciate because we've always been members - but to feel good about it one only has to glance around at the weird-imitators of this world and the lengths they go to to fake membership.  (Lady Gaga for one - a true weirdo does not say "make me a dress of meat because it will shock people", a true weirdo says "Where should I keep my bacon... ahh yes, in a dress.  What do you mean that's weird?"  Genuine weird does not take effort).

I have yet to come across a woman who can say "my life was perfect - never had anything bad or interesting happen, and then I found myself infertile".

So yes, I've said it a thousand times and I'll say it again - being in the Infertility Club fucking sucks, no one wants to be here.  But the only ones in it are wonderfully weird warrior women (wwww's) who have already proven their ability to handle shit storms long before infertility struck.

Not that you had to have led an unhappy life, or that by 'weird' I mean that you only wear black and in private try to bite your own face - I just mean to say that on some level you are (and know) that you're 'different', you have something to say, and whether it's instantly apparent or takes a wee bit of getting to know you, others have also reached this conclusion.

So why, as I kicked an elderly Korean women, did I reach the conclusion that in the venn diagram of life the "Infertile" circle is completely encompassed by the "Stone Cold Pack of Weirdos" circle?

Because we're the people who have the ability to go through things and instead of falling apart, turn around and describe them in a way that will make the beigest of the beige get a sense of what living a full life is like.

We're the people with stories to tell.  We're the types that leave - offspring or no - a mark on this world.  We're the people whose art lasts.

And on that note -



What?! Inexplicable!

Sidenote:  I woke up today (Tuesday) and on my blog reader there seem to be a few blogs missing... Has this happened to anyone?!  I didn't get rid of any! Shit now I'm trying to figure out who's missing...




Sunday, August 26, 2012

Secret Sunday: The Return

Happy weekend, darlings!

Put on a ridiculously feathered hat and pray that Oprah forgives you your sins, it's Secret Sunday.



My secret is that today, thinking I was taking my thyroid medication, I instead took an ambien.  So the chances of my brain functioning properly (or even remembering that I wrote this post) is looking grim.

And so, this week we shall mix things up and have you vote on what story I shall share with you next Sunday, when my brain is not fuzzy and drunk.

1.)  What dirty deed I performed on someone wearing a dog suit.

2.)  How I slept with my husband 2 hours after I met him.

3.) A bisexual college experience.

4.)  My one mortifying food poisoning experience (on my honeymoon, no less).

5.)  How I saw a man's head split open on a pool table, at a strip joint.

Pick your poison!


And now, the delectable secrets of others.


From the lovely EmHart at Follow Every Rainbow:
All my secrets seem to involve sex, and not with my husband. I am not sure what that says about me, but there you go. We have another drama school era one this week I am afraid, it is a rich hunting ground. This is really rather more of a useful tip for all you ladies than anything else. You see I had fancied, lets call him Chaz, for about a year, and had made several unsuccessful attempts to get into his pants, but I seemed somehow to have friend zoned myself. One evening we were heading out to celebrate J.R's birthday and we ended up at the strip club that several of my dancer buddies worked at. It was quite fun really and I got chatting to a lovely stripper who was an estate agent by day, stripped by night and intended to retire at forty, the girl had a plan! She offered me a sample lap dance for free, just because I was curious and she liked me. So I had my dance, which was rather odd, but quite sexy all the same. Afterwards I headed back to the lads house for more partying. Hoorah, I ended up finally finding my way into Chaz's pants and I am convinced it was in no small part to the fact he had sat enthralled watching me get a lap dance from the lovely stripper earlier in the evening. So girls, when you just can't bag that man, get him to a strip joint and he will be putty in your hands.  True story, top tip.


From awesome Jen at My Bum Ovaries:
I tried marijuana, at the ripe old age of 29, for the FIRST TIME just this month. I wasn't going to while TTC, but my journey is going absolutely nowhere any time soon, so I figured what the hell? Lately my thinking has been "I already tried playing my cards right for 29 years and that apparently doesn't work so let's try having more fun and being a little irresponsible." And it was really fun! :)



From gorgeous Kristin at Return to Go:
When I was six, I travelled to the majestic Rocky Mountains for the first time of many. It was a ski vacation scheduled mid-year through my Kindergarten year. I fell in love with my ski instructor, I thought we would be married. I fell in love with skiing, it is much easier when you are four feet tall. And I fell in love with the mountains. Sigh. But that isn't my secret. I was battling a nasty sinus infection of sorts. One morning I woke up and my face felt incredibly stiff. I couldn't quite figure out what was going on. Upon visiting the loo and checking the mirror, I found out that my nose had run through the night and a combination of snot and blood had pooled on my face and hardened on my face. The snot formed a bit of a mask in the area around my nose. It was gross. I didn't tell anyone. I used a wet, warm washcloth to soften the snot mask and wipe it from my face. You're welcome.


From the Bird Innocence Project:
When I was 4 years old I went to pre-school. They had a pet bird who they sent home every weekend with a different kid’s family. When it was our turn I was so freaking excited, I set the cage on a table outside. Then I opened the door and watched the little bird fly away. I knew this was not a good thing so I threw the cage onto the ground, made sure the door stayed open, then ran inside screaming “Mum!!! The dog knocked over the bird cage and the bird GOT OUT!!!!!” My Mum was beyond embarrassed at having to take an empty cage back to pre-school on Monday. I only admitted what I’d done  a few months ago- 27 years after the fact. Luckily she saw the humor in it by then.




From My Naughty Soldier:
My husband was in the Army for 5 years and I loved to see him in his uniform. It was a major turn on. So when it was time for some adult fun I would make him leave the pants and boots on and do it like that. Just seeing him with it on was so effin hot that I couldn't keep my hand off him! Sometimes I make him put it on for old times sake :)


From Jenny (who has to be awesome because of that name) at Sprout:
Before my husband and I were married, we were going to have a vacation together.  But money was a little tight and we were trying to cut costs.  He asked his mother if we could use her RV, thus avoiding hotel and restaurant bills.  We even offered to pay her a weekly rate for it, but she refused.  The reason:  she didn't want us having sex in it.  (Probably because she thought of me as a whore.  Yes, she actually called me that.)  She did, however, lend us her lovely new Cadillac.  And guess what we did in the backseat of it on a deserted stretch of road in New Mexico.  I did have that whore label to live up to, you know.  ;)  (Btw, backseat sex in your future mother-in-law's car is surprisingly hot.  I know it sounds wrong, but there you have it.)




You've just been Churched.

Now grow a pair next time and send one in!



Thursday, August 23, 2012

Plumbing.

Happy Thursday, my little internet geishas!

Despite accepting that there are idiots on this planet that believe body parts are conscious and sentient (ahhh yes... I remember that one time my kidney sat me down for a hot bit of cocoa, and asked me how I felt about her creating a stone, seeing as she was unsure how much I enjoyed all the caffeine I guzzled) I am still having one helluva period.

I have been in a hormone induced funk.  So I've been playing Mario bros.

Anyone else find that whole storyline strangely pornographic?  What are these plumbers doing involved with a princess?  Is she a bored housewife?  While the prince is away is she inventing plumbing problems to get a wee bit of attention?  How many people are aware that she is knee-deep in blue collar Italian workers, not to mention dungeon culture? I don't even want to think about how giant lizards come into play.

It's all very S&M.



Senor Bubba's sperm analysis is on Monday.  He had one, oh, I want to say a year ago. Twas fine.

I made him take pictures of the inside of the room.

In a very-fancy-I-assure-you clinic, the spooj room was just one sad couch that looked like it hadn't been replaced since the mid 1970s (who says you can't pull off a neon print?), a shotty tv and a stack-o-porn.

I don't know why I was expecting something super fancy and secret and a kinky-deserving-of-Mario... I'm fairly certain if you put a man in a hazmat suit, gave him a TV that only broadcast the Teletubbies and invited the local senior citizen center to watch him, he'd still figure out a way to get off.

Which begs the question... What would the lady version of that room look like?

Honestly, our plumbing tests are just no fun.  Tis a cruel world wherein infertility testing for a man involves an orgasm, and for us it involves multiple versions of  everyone's favorite game "how many things can we shove up there?  Could you shoplift a watermelon?"

I'm thinking candles, I'm thinking flowers, I'm thinking wine.

I'm thinking they'd have to hire some man to sit you down and compassionately nod whilst you tell him about your childhood, while he simultaneously greased his own abs.

Everything would be upholstered in Ryan Gosling.  Pictures of him, his flesh, his dirty tissues, whatever.

There would be speakers telling you repeatedly that you are stunning, that men prefer a little junk in the trunk, and that there is nothing sexier than a woman in sweatpants & a tank top with holes in it, eating her weight in chocolate and yelling about senators.



So you there - you there in the funk.  Yes, I'm talking to you.  Don't question me, damnit - either I read your blog or I have sensed you psychically in the ether.


Dear You,

Tis a shitty shitty thing that we are both members of the terrible club that knocks you down repeatedly before you can get knocked up.  (It's very chumbawamba of us).

You're just going to have to conjure up all the best bits of all the women that you used to be, because it's going to take all of them to stay afloat.

You are an amazing, kick ass woman - and you know I don't like people on the whole, so my vote counts twice.  I have never met/read a huge idiot who had a genuine problem with getting pregnant - but how many idiots do we know that got pregnant easily?

When it happens - and it will - you'll be putting one up on the scoreboard of awesome people in a time when we're losing dramatically to awful people.  Because you've been a Mother to that kid looooong before it was conceived, and love is never something you're going to have to work for.

When you're angry/frustrated/just done with your uterus, and you're thinking that you are disappointing everyone - yourself, your husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/plumber, your pain in the ass mother-in-law - and are thinking you may not end up with a child at all, know this:  should you never procreate, all those people (including myself) will have considered themselves lucky to have known a kick-ass, fascinating and vibrant warrior woman that makes up for those boring assholes down the street with 10 children.

Now send me your secrets, asshats.

Love,
Stork


Tuesday, August 21, 2012

PMS: Puhlease, Mr. Senator.

Greetings, galliwags!

I genuinely don't know what that is.  Sounds piratey, though.  Arrrrrrr.

My treasonous uterus has finally decided to churn out a period, starting yesterday.  First period post-chemical 'period', and it's one of those super fun hormonally charged ones.

My one tried & true "this is going to be one hell of a period" symptom is chocolate cravings.  Normally if you put a bag of potato chips and a candy bar in front of me, I will have inhaled the entire bag of potato chips and require you to heimlich out the bits of plastic bag I've accidentally ingested before you have a chance to ask me which one I would prefer.

Cut to me, yesterday, on the sofa eating my weight in Snickers bars and watching episodes of "Intervention" on Netflix streaming.  I went back and forth between weeping for poor Allison being so tragically addicted to huffing computer cleaner, and contemplating whether huffing computer cleaner would alleviate cramps.  I, too, would like to walk on sunshine.





I make no promises that my husband will not return home from work to a sobbing mess asking if she's pretty, and complaining about how I got in a fight with the dog.  (Yes, it sounds ludicrous - but everytime she hears a child from the backyard she gives me a look like "why don't you have kids for me to play with?" to which I reply "because I'm practically barren, you pile of judgmental butt-licking fur!").

Now would be the time, if you are an ICLWer (hey gurrrrl, heyyyyy!) and would perhaps like to get a sense of my more charming and tolerant side, to click here.

So what should happen when Stork's uterus is particularly angry to begin with?

Senator Akin happened.

Okay, okay, I know - you've heard all about it.  My husband came home the other day and said "did you hear about that senator..." and I snapped, spitting and frothing snickers bars,  "yes of course I did!  The uterine phone tree was immediately activated after he shut his mouth! Gawd!"

It's everywhere.  Both his quote and bits of peanut.

However - for those of you not particularly into news or politics, or who are the merry residents of countries a little less ignorant, this is what happened.  A senator was asked on Sunday if he would support abortions in the event of rape.  And he responded with this little gem:

"It seems to me, first of all, from what I understand from doctors, that's really rare. If it's a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down".



Let's just shelve the fact that "Legitimate Rape" is an excellent name for an all-girl punk band.  Just for a minute.

Here's the part where I make some political admissions.

I am one of those evil CA bleeding-heart liberals. (Keep in mind that if you're not, I'm open-minded, have conservatives in my life that I luuuurve, and so help me I will charm the pants off of you one way or another).

I am pro-choice.  Much like I do not enjoy people not going through infertility saying things like "why do IVF when you can just adopt?" I do not enjoy the idea of anyone telling anyone what to do with their uterus, ever.  What I would've done had I found myself 16 and accidentally pregnant (accidentally pregnant!  Look, I made a funny!) is completely irrelevant.  Maybe I would've had an abortion, maybe I would've vomited at the very idea of it - it really doesn't matter because in either event I wouldn't tell someone else what to do.

I completely and totally get that other people see money differently, see the government differently, etc. etc.  Those differing opinions, if I squint my eyes and tilt my head, I can totally see having.  For example, some people think there needs to be a lot less handouts because people abuse the system - I don't mind paying a little more tax for handouts, knowing full well that there is abuse in the system, because some people genuinely need it.  But I get why some people have a problem with it - the abuse is gross to think about.  I just think the pay-off is worth it.

 (Although I'm a little lost when it's the same people that think all conception should result in babies - are we then not supposed to give the struggling Mom a wee bit of money?)

Admittedly where I get totally lost and can no longer see things differently no matter how hard I squint is the whole exxxxxtreme right - you know, "Jesus fought the dinosaurs and then discovered America, which he intended to be gay-free".

That alllll being said (and man alive, I hope we can still be friends after I've said it) I genuinely don't think this man's statements have anything to do with Liberal vs. Conservative.  I genuinely believe it has to do with Reasonable Adult vs. Unfuckingbelievable Idiot.

In fact, he actually makes me feel bad for reasonable conservatives because he's making it look like this is a representation of that party, when it's the representation of a moron.  There really needs to be a Moron party which takes anyone in any party who doesn't have the ability to reason.

There are far too many raging idiots coming out of the woodwork and we've given them microphones - microphones!  It's like giving your crazy drunken racist uncle a megaphone and a tie for Christmas.

All the women that I know have had their cervix contract in horror, and try to run screaming up back into their bodies just listening to that utter shite regardless of political preferences.

We all say stupid shit. This is true.

What I don't like is the use of the word "legitimate" next to "rape".  This implies that there is "illegitimate" rape.  It also implies that if a girl is pregnant and claiming it's from rape, she must have really wanted it. Because you know, otherwise, her body would have just shut that shit down.

And as someone, Mr. Senator, who has been telling her uterus to GET pregnant for a good 3 years, I can assure you that my uterus doesn't give a flying fuck about what I want or don't want.  When was the last time your spleen gave a shit about how you were feeling?

What concerns me, ultimately, is that an adult in authority doesn't have the ability to distinguish between reality and the movie "Teeth".




(Anybody else seen that movie?  Now there's a movie to watch when you have PMS and are feeling as though all the men in the world want to make decisions on behalf of your unassuming nooners.  If you've never heard of this movie - watch the trailer, Imma tellin ya'.  I fully envision the senator drunkenly stumbling into his living room while it was randomly on, sitting down and thinking "OMG!  Science!!!!").

In my head I have Senator Akin tied to a table, with a wide variety of pointy instruments, and as I insert them I very gently ask "now do you find that legitimate?"

In short, unless it's for invitation only adult-indoor-sports or fertility treatments, I would appreciate it if strange men everywhere could stop talking about my vag and what I should do with it.  Me no likey.






Saturday, August 18, 2012

Much like the Terminator

Hola, seƱoras!

Sadly, Bubella left this morning.

I adore that girl.

If I was a Kangaroo, I would carry her around in my pouch.  If I had a magic wand, I would shrink her to fit on a keychain and take her out whenever I wanted amusement. I love her so much I could rip off her head, use it as a stress ball and her ears a calming chew toy.

She has left an angsty teen shaped hole in my heart.

However, while I was in super fun tourist mode, I missed you so much I had what I imagine your face to look like burned into my flesh - which isn't pretty because I can only draw stick figures.  I hope you don't mind.

I shall catch you up before I return to meatier topics.


Things you missed:

1.  Since we last spoke, Bubella and I went to -

  • Disneyland - in 100 degree heat and animatronic heaven, I got to simultaneously have fun and verify that yes indeed, kids do suck.
  • San Diego - margaritas, seafood, shopping.  An overnight stop en route to Bubella's first Donkey show (justkiddingsettledown).
  • Cinespia.  There's this crazy thing in Hollywood where every Saturday during the summer, they play a movie in Hollywood Forever Cemetery, projected on a mausoleum.  Giant clouds of pot smoke, everyone has a picnic, there's a DJ before..  We engaged in losing our terminator virginities - that's right, out of my group of 4, only one had seen it before.
  • Oh, and on her last day, for those of you who will recognize what this is, I took her here - 




WHAT?!  YES.  Bow in the shadow of my awesomeness.


2.  Bubella broke up with her first love - her boyfriend of a year and a half.  (Let's all take a moment to conjure up what breaking up with our first love felt like... I'll wait here while you vomit).

The kid's a little shit.  Definitively.  Not in the 'oh he's just being a teenage boy' way, but also not in the 'oh dear G-d tell her parents or hire a hitman' way.  Whilst we were in San Diego, his shittiness reached a pinnacle and she basically very calmly & maturely said to him "hey can you not be a dickface?" and he said "no ma'am, I cannot".

Not my little sister, asswipe, you must have her confused with someone who doesn't have a sister-in-law who will put dirty tampons in your backpack. I would fly to where you are and chase you in a less dangerous version of Schwarzenegger style - armed with a foam pugil stick and a menacing Austrian accent.  YOU ARE MY LINDA HAMILTON.

She was upset, for sure, but she's a cool customer just like her brother, that Bubella.  For the last week I've been going back and forth between genuine advice and my personal forte, merciless mocking.  For example, he has a wonky eye which she hadn't noticed until I pointed it out ::pats self on back::.  Love is indeed blind, probably from being cross-eyed for so long.




3.  I read a book that I loved so much when I finished it, I went back and read it again.

Easy read (you'll kill it in a day or two), so good particularly if you were a little weird in high school (if you're a reader of my blog and not purely to hate-stalk me, you was a little weird in high school and beyond, honeychild).

Anyhoo - Stork's big book suggestion at this moment in time is "The Perks of Being a Wallflower".  They have turned it into a movie coming out later this year, and I'm trying not to be suspicious despite the fact that the preview doesn't look as comedically dark as the book is and that it stars Emma fucking Watson.  (Yes, I love Harry Potter.  Stay in Harry Potter, Emma.  But can the girl... act?)


4.  In uterine/spooj news, if my long-ago digital OPK had been correct, I am now 2 weeks late for my period and not pregnant.  So G-d only knows when/if I ovulated, or if any of the surprisingly fun, super-quiet "shhhh your sisters in the living room" sex was anything other than purely recreational.

Bubba is getting a (free!  FREE!  Yay for charming Doctors!) spooj test next week to see if the heads of his spermy friends are telling my eggs that they're there (my husband is an introvert - I don't know why it's surprising his sperm would be).  Then he's possibly flying to Boston in the next few months to get the super-fancy-schmancy sperm test that they apparently only do there.

I am presenting this as any good infertile wife would "look!  Everyone wants your sperm!  Everyone!  They can't get enough of it, you man-whore!"



I have much to do in the world of blog-reading, but I am back and ready to crawl right back into your uterus.







Wednesday, August 8, 2012

I am a Carnie Without a Circus

Greetings, my little ovarian cysts!

I am alive.

The rumors of my death and dismemberment have been greatly exaggerated.

I am only dead in the sense that a fat girl is dead after she does Disneyland in 20 bajillion degree heat - which we did yesterday.  I left only slightly hived up (have I ever mentioned a couple of years ago I was ambulanced out of Disney to the most ghetto hospital imaginable?)  I am apparently allergic to tourist filth.  In addition, probably children.



My last week:

1).  I took Bubella to Hollywood Blvd.  Whenever she comes out I do not have 'rules' as we are buddies and I therefor feel no parental instincts towards her other than keeping her out of hospitals while she's here.

Anything resembling a 'rule' is really just a guideline whose sole purpose is to keep her from being sold into prostitution.  Guideline number one is to never make eye contact with anyone wearing a costume.

Fun fact:  Hollywood Blvd is full to the brim with people wearing costumes.  When one sees this, one would of course assume that they're being paid to hang around and get pictures with tourists.  No-no.  These are people doing the usual homeless-hustle, just in a costume.  They are not actually allowed to ask you to tip them, however - which has in the past led me to see such visual gems as Elmo being beheaded, handcuffed, and stuffed cursing into the back of a police cruiser.

Not to say that avoiding eye contact with the feathered and furry will prevent you from seeing unusual things. A picture and a video from our trip:


video



2).  I took her to her first drag brunch.

If you live in or are visiting L.A. and have not been to drag brunch at Hamburger Mary's - go.  Go now.  It is the raunchiest most delectable thing ever.

This past Sunday I took her with Mr. T and a gaggle of gays, and was pleased to see someone there with two four year olds.  They very clearly and fairly explain before the show starts that it's very, very dirty and they do not edit it down for even the smallest of children.

So 15 minutes later when the two adorable preschoolers were standing on a bench waving dollar bills, prepared to plunge them into the cleavage of a 300 lb drag queen, my uterus skipped a beat.  The awesomely plus-sized lady in her cheetah print spandex jumpsuit pointed at the tiny tots, and said very eloquently into her microphone "ya'll mother fuckers know what's up!".

Man, I can't wait to have kids.


3).  She has to read some really awful books before she starts her junior year, and she's here for 3 weeks.  Normally I wouldn't care, but seeing as how I would love to have her for even longer next year, I need her to go home and have her parents say "my, how wildly functional you were under the supervision of the wonderfully adult Stork".

So I went with my instincts, sat on her and read aloud until she was near death and willing to read herself.


4).  I stuffed her into her first corset at Frederick's of Hollywood.  Very important lesson for all women, which I only learned a few years ago: corsets are the slutty equivalent of a magic wand.  I may not be much of a looker usually, but stick me in one and I am Jessica Fucking Rabbit.


5).  We played beauty shop, as one does with a younger sister.

What started out very innocently as a 15 minute 'let's highlight your assets' affair turned into 2 hours of  using the entire contents of my "I love Kermit the Frog" lunchbox (that doubles as a super sophisticated make up case), laughing hysterically and whispering "I'm just going to do something subtle.. SUBTLE...".

I give you, Bubella:


And perhaps you can't tell because of the angle and my drawing skills, but on her forehead is a vulva with wings.

ANYHOO.

In uterine news my positive ovulation test (a digital! et tu?) from a few weeks back was apparently a filthy whorish liar.  I would have gotten my period on Saturday if it had been accurate - it is now Wednesday, and no sign of the evil bitch except for mind numbing cramps (which have been going on for 2 weeks).

Took a pregnancy test yesterday - nada.  And the only possible symptom I could read into if I really, really stretched it was yesterday smelling dog hair and cheezits everywhere I went.  In reality, it's entirely possible that the few magical spots in Disneyland not smelling of churros may indeed smell like dog on cracker.

I MISS YOU.  Do not forget me whilst I am running around like a lunatic.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Stork Teaches Today's Youth

Greetings, my voluptuous temptresses!

I am in tourist mode.

I do not understand people who live in a city and are too cool for touristy stuff.  If you can no longer get yourself excited about where you're living and geek out about it a bit, time to move, I say.

Let me say that while the lovely Bubella is visiting I may be slightly negligent in blog commenting.

Let me also state - very, very clearly - that I love reading blogs.  More than I love writing. And I will therefor make up for this afterwards with creepy vengeance.

I like being disgustingly involved in your lives.  It's my favorite.  If I could, I would crawl up your vag with you, flashlight in hand, try to pinpoint what the problem is and perhaps call a mechanic or an exorcist.

I can hear my lurkers pulling the corners of their blanket of shadows more tightly around them... Do not be afraid. I will be friends with your nooners. As G-d is my witness, I will work my way into your uterus-heart.  Do not resist my charms.  (This is sounding dangerously close to blog rape, but I stand by it.  I stand by it, damnit!)


Keeping in mind that Bubella is 16 years old, some thoughts on topics of conversation should you find yourself with access to a teenager:


1).  Spread your infertile misery by unnecessarily teaching them about cervical mucus.

The idea of a cervix was a complete mystery to me prior to TTC.  Knew the word, yes, and that at some point when giving birth it had to dilate (perhaps it had something to do with my eye?) but in the sex-ed world if it didn't help me get off I didn't have any particular interest.

No one ever said "oh you have this thing at the top of your vagina that looks like the head of a penis. It's constantly dancing around and vomiting like some weird uncle at a wedding who's had a bit too much to drink".

What good is it knowing this if you can't actually make a baby?  Would not have been able to answer that question a couple of days ago.

But this just in - it's super fun to tell a teenager about it being as descriptive as possible.  Teenager turns into Teenager-Turtle and their head slowly disappears into their shirt.

Oh and if they happen to have a picture on their phone of their favorite vanilla cream filled cookie, make sure to point out that it in fact looks like a leaky cervix.

On the subject of cervix fascination, if you are in any way easily grossed out, do not click here.  If you are riveted by this strange drunken bit of flesh at the top of your vagina, click here.


2).  That Chris Farley exists.

Yes indeedy do, there are people on this planet who are practically adults who were still messing themselves in diapers when he died.  Sign me up for AARP and pass me a glass of prune juice, I am old.

I think we can all agree that no one should be roaming around this planet without having seen Chris Farley dancing a-la-Chippendales.




3).  I thank my lucky stars that my awesome sauce sister-in-law has fantastico taste in music (a devout Beatles fan, she is).  With that being said, even though I clear Bubella of any Bieber-guilt,  I feel as though we should all collectively agree to start spreading the word that Justin Bieber is not a teenage boy, but clearly just a grown ass lesbian.

And then point them in the direction of this awesomeness.




4).  Try to work into the conversation that your husband (in this case, her brother) has a 3D camera and can she guess what the first thing was that he wanted to take a picture of?


5).  Within 24 hours, make them watch 'Requiem for a Dream', go on an awesome (seriously you have to do this - done it a million times and it never gets old, it's my official suggestion for the Infertility Field Trip) tour about grisly Hollywood deaths, and make them go through a Scientology-sponsored museum.  Oh, and then maybe politely ask if as a result of the last 24 hours they are thinking of weeping softly to themselves and cutting.



Oh, I've had her for 2 days.

And yes I want to be in charge of another human being - why do you ask?

I must say I normally disagree wholeheartedly with Whitney Houston and instead of marveling that the children are our future often find myself thinking "G-d help us all when these little shits are in charge".  Bubella restores my faith.

Best sister-in-law ever = STORK.