I am not dead, I am more... undead.
It would seem - and I'm sure every last friggin one of you could've related to this statement at one point or another - that the entire universe is pregnant. I don't know what happened in November or December... my theory is that in several counties in the U.S. and possibly internationally there was some sort of sperm spill into the water system, and once I have any proof towards this I plan on donning a low cut shirt and fussing about in front of television cameras Erin Brokovich style.
While I am ecstatic for some and indifferent to most (c'mon people, you can relate) I have found it best to use my power of invisibility as of late rather than hone my acting skills. I'm in survival mode. It is the Walking Dead all up in here only instead of zombies I'm trapped in a prison of my own making to avoid herds of pregnant women, and frankly I'm praying they'll infect me but all they fucking do is bite.
(How much do I love that show.. Let me count the ways).
I am ever-so briefly in Walking Dead mode, yes, but I am coming back slowly but surely, promise promise.
Though, as I said, I am using my cloak of invisibility rather than my acting skills, I did in fact deliver such a performance recently that I am sure if Daniel Day Lewis hadn't come out with Lincoln this year, I would be dominating the Oscars this weekend and weeping in front of a camera in a ballgown in a much more dignified fashion than anyone on the Bachelor.
(Seriously - Daniel Day Lewis wins all, I say. Best actor, best picture, best foreign documentary, best performance by a man in a top hat).
As you may recall I am adopted. I have a half brother on my maternal side that I am close to and understand, and a half sister on my paternal side that I don't particularly... get. We'll call her Summer. I love her, do not get me wrong, I do. I flew her out a few years ago, we had an excellent time, but mostly our relationship has been limited to the occasional email or comment on Facebook and I think that's about as far as we're destined to go.
Girlfriend is 24 years old, has been married for less than a year (as far as I can tell, they were cheating, breaking up and making up riiiight up until the wedding. This is her third engagement, so I waited until she had been married for a month before sending a gift this time.) She is somewhat familiar with my struggles, wildly immature, and told me she was pregnant by sending me a picture of her positive pee stick.
A few things before I say things that are going to sound wildly snotty. You all know I'm a bleeding heart liberal. I also, for the record, am in one of those financial brackets where part of my taxes will be going to people who have less. I am hap-hap-happy to do that, I'm pretty sure whoever your religious idol is wanted people to have... food. And Summer is one of those people that has no money. None. The biological Father we both share ditched her, her Mother, left her with some impoverished and very elderly grandparents, girlfriend has nothing. No. Thing. This is genuinely one of those people that when they get help, needs it.
Here's where I get snotty.
She found out she was pregnant 2 weeks ago via a very very positive at home pregnancy test. She has no insurance, was shocked that a Doctor wouldn't see her, can't afford a bus ticket or a taxi ride to a planned parenthood. Still hasn't been to a Doctor, but apparently a case worker for the state is going to see that she sees one soon.
The financial plan for taking care of this kid is foodstamps and welfare. Again, this kid would starve to death and have absolutely nothing if it weren't for this little net. This kid is fucked with or without the foodstamps, but thank G-d it will have that. We are talking about a woman who has cardboard furniture and doesn't have the maturity or the fucking know how to spend money on things that you can't smoke.
This baby was planned. PLANNED. Personally I try to keep my nose 100% out of people's reproductive organs because I sure as shit don't like other people's noses in mine. But fuck me sideways with a crossbow, seriously?!? I feel as though if you're 24, you've been married a few months, have absolutely no money or insurance, that maybe planning one isn't the smartest thing to do.
But I have done my bit. I have said "Oh yay I'm going to be an Aunt... sort of". It is exhausting to even mutter that in an email. Exhausting.
On a positive note, Bubba flunked the super shnazy sperm test and I had a summit with Doctor Kickass about it. He is meeting with the embryologist tonight (!) to discuss who they need to wrangle in in California to get this shit done, and then we're off to the races.
Only I'm going to wait until June, methinks. I need to quit sugar (in the process of it - see above grumpy cat) and yesterday Mr. T and I went to the gym. (No shit first time I typed that it came out gymp).
I am running a couple of miles a day on a sweaty disgusting treadmill. I will not be trying to convince you that endorphins are better than heroin, I will not be shoveling kale happily into my mouth by the pound telling you it's just as good as bacon, nor will I be exclaiming how refreshing and awesome exercise is.
I just want to be clear... It's awful. It's sweaty and disgusting. I can't fathom how any gym is a pick up place as it is just a breeding ground for awful smells and douchebaggery. I do not understand the enjoyment of exercise unless it is in the physical pursuit of an orgasm (which I shouted repeatedly at Mr. T whilst treadmilling.... thankfully he does not embarrass).
But I'm gonna do this shit anyway so I'm healthier for IVF go time and so that I look less like the lovechild of Mr. Kool Aid and Rodney Dangerfield. This way, when I actually do get pregnant ( and I will, damnit) in order to weigh me they won't have to tear down a wall to my house and ask the entire town for assistance in heaving me onto a large mammal scale.
I am slowly coming back. Sweaty and pissed, but coming back. Love to all.