Broads, Ladies and Ants.

Happy Wednesday my lovable infertiles.

My other writing and general shenanigans have been getting in the way of being on here.  Bless me interwebs, for I have sinned.  It's been about two weeks since my last blog confession.

This past week, an old friend of mine (old friend of Bub's, actually, I know her through him but I adore her like she was my own) popped up on my Fertilebook newsfeed for the first time in awhile and I pounced on her like a jungle cat.  I sent the usually inquiry as to how she was doing (1 paragraph), she sent me one back telling me how she was doing and asking how I was (1 paragraph) and then I unleashed a novel of vaginal tales upon her (4,976 paragraphs) and hastily followed it up with "I'm sorry my life is full of gay men! Your uterus beckons to me!"

She was, of course, gracious and lovely because she is, in fact, gracious and lovely.  It felt good to get shit out, but afterwards I sat and was a wee bit surprised at myself because this felt like an unplanned and out of the blue enema.  I have spent weeks feeling chicken shit about impending IVF this summer.  To be more specific - chicken shit buried under 1,000 lbs of 'things I have to do before IVF'; some realistic, some the realistic equivalent of acquiring myself a unicorn by July.  So, as is my usual response to being buried under too much emotional rubble, I have sort of accepted the weight of it without actually processing any of it.

It's like the trail of mutant ants that have infested my shower.  They've been there for two weeks and every day when I get in the shower I look at them and think "shit I should really do something about that" and then take my fucking shower and go on about my day without, you know, the doing something about it part. (Sidenote: they seem to be removing hair from my shaver and marching off with it.  Should I disappear, please explain to Dateline that my being dragged away forcefully and made Ant Queen is a plausible theory).

So four things have occurred to me:

1. I've probably been a little absent on here in part because I'm in some sort of weird denial that My Big Chance is coming up this summer;
2. While I'm absolutely-fruitly blessed in the best friend and husband department, my life is currently lacking in the lady-companion department;
3. I should probably get an exterminator and
4. I should take out a page of the ole ant-playbook, because those bitches carry around rubble a gajillion times their size and don't break a sweat.

I feel the need to point out here, and in no way do I mean this in a way to offend or to instigate an argument because you will lose - that my best friend, Mr. T., kicks your best friend's ass.

It is the stuff of Will and Grace - give one of us a charade to act out and the other will get it in under 10 seconds.  It is the stuff of Harry Potter - we communicate much in the cosmic-psychic way of Voldemort and Harry.  Of course in this scenario Voldemort is much more attractive and campily catty rather than evil, and instead of a lightening scar on my forehead I have a birthmark on my thigh that looks like a chocolate chip cookie.

And as far as infertility shenanigans go, there's nothing missing from my ability to talk to him about it on account of me being an innie and him being an outtie. Even in his infinite gayness he has thus far braved two invasive vaginal exams when Bub couldn't be in attendance.  When I had my early miscarriage and was a near-silent disaster for a week, he came over, cleaned my house, and bequeathed me with the perfect miscarriage gifts: a giant stuffed strawberry, "The Passion of the Christ" and "Fame".  If Bub is my heart, then Mr. T is my glittery colon.  There's no Hallmark Holiday for it, sure, but he wades through all my shit bravely and if removed I would cease to function and eventually suffer death by constipation.

But I have exactly one close lady friend in L.A., miss Kali, and that is it.  My other awesome lady friends are spread out in the world. Stork has not found solid, local girlfriends.

I want to make clear that it's not that I hold on to some ridiculous notion that I'm in my 30s and in a big city so therefor I should be living out the plot to Sex and the City.  (Honestly, they should've just called that series "Puns and Posing").

I especially want to make clear that I am not one of those "oh, I don't get along with girls" girls.  You know who I'm talking about.  The ones in college who went on and on about how girls were just 'trouble', how they always felt more at home with the boys. (Which is such bullshit because the butchest tomboy lesbians, when they belong to themselves have lady friends...lovely, lovely lady friends).  I know that when a girl says "I just don't get along with other women!" that there's a 99% chance that she's a rancid cunt (and I'm being liberal, here) and it's a self esteem marker much in the way that making out with a girl for a frat boys viewing pleasure is.  (I'm all for bisexual college experiences, but I'm just talking about the girl that overall does things not for herself but for what others will think of her).

I love women. So it's not a lack of want or need, here.  I want and I need.  I think it's in part due to a lack of local options, but probably even more so my total suckiness at any first date type scenario and my inability to bullshit overall. (Sunny has been my one infertile local date.. we skipped the bullshit and went straight to cervical mucus.)

You tell me if I'm being bananas here, please, but I think even the ladies who live here (why haven't we met? Let's make out and not for the benefit of a frat) will agree that we have a higher percentage of women who are not full of friendship in frivolity because they're just so fucking full of shit.

Every Los Angelian is pretending to be something - it's an entire city founded upon playing pretend.  I'm fancy, I'm rich, I'm somebody, I'm best friends with ::name drop::.  When two women meet there's usually earrings, cocktails and adding 7 u's to the word cute (which you will be expected to use liberally) involved.  And I don't know how to participate in that kind of a conversation, nor do I know how to have a meaningful friendship that starts out that way.

I think it has a lot to do with the broad to lady scale.  Much like I don't believe anyone falls 100% to one side of the sexuality scale, I don't believe a woman falls 100% to the broad or lady side.  Every broad has an inner lady and ever lady has an inner broad.  And I think, for the most part, while we all lean to one side or the other, most women are fairly close to the middle.

But not really here.

Here the L.A. lady is revered (think of a traditional 'lady', but with a spray tan, boobs, and the ability to portray 'rich somebody', true or not).  You are expected to be one, or do your damndest to fake it.  And in a city of absolute extremes, wherein pretty much everything you encounter is going to be Loved or Hated, such is the reaction to a broad like me.  I am either hated, or on rare occasion absolutely loved.  I am not tepid.  If I'm not for you than I am 100% not for you, and if I am we're going to be great friends. I am the girlfriend equivalent of sushi.

(So the pay off is actually quite nice, my frustration is just that it's hard to find.. I know, I know.. what isn't.)

I don't really know how to lie or bullshit.  I curse.  If PJ's or flip fops are in any way an option I will always select that option. When something is awful or beautiful, I say it.  I don't pretend to have my shit together when it's not, and I'm much more interested in what a girl is like when she's comfy at home saying what she actually feels than when she's wearing high heels in a bar, telling me how nice so and so from True Blood is in real life (apropos of nothing) and asking if the fact that I write means I can cast her in something.  (No.... No.   I'm an unfancy 5 ft 2 chubby lady whose outfit cost less than $40, so the only thing I can really cast is a ginormous shadow... so...... No.)

And let's not forget the issue of kids.  Los Angelian women my age seem to fit into one of two categories.  One, their entire life had no meaning prior to their children, their ability to procreate defines them and most of your interactions will revolve around you looking through their IPhone photos and putting the appropriate number of u's in your "cute!"s.  Two, they regard children much in the same way they would a stranger walking into their house and taking a giant dump in the middle of their bed.

And I, the Mystic Infertile, have a hard time fitting into either one of those categories.

My roundabout point to this vent is that I'm very glad you exist. Prior to blogging my only online experience with women seemed to be Fertilebook, where everyone loves to sonogram sniper me. I'm happy that even if it's online, there's a whole lot of honest vaginas out there doing their thing.  Whether it's because of the anonymity or the fact that we've all seen the dog and pony show and are just too exhausted to bullshit, I love that when I need a woman of substance in my life apart from my Mother, there you all are.  Kicking ass and taking names no matter where you are in the baby race.  Being honest.  Being ladies when it's called upon but much to my delight, mostly being broads.  I have so much respect for you my verbose self can't even put it into words.  When I disappear in an attempt to bullshit myself and marvel at the strength of ants, I miss you.  You who most of whom I haven't even met. You are what makes me want to stop bullshitting myself and marvel at our own ant-like abilities.

Whether I'm currently being a grumpy old fart or not, it's just nice to know that there's a little corner of the world I can retreat to with like-minded, bullshit free women, where everything isn't just a sour slap in the vagina.

This is my 100th post, and I don't even know how silly Stork of early 2012 was managing before this blog.  Love to you all.

ALSO.  Sort of on point in regards to that particular brand of college aged women with an inability to get themselves good girlfriends but mostly because it makes me die of happiness.... As a 100th post gift, I give you the video that made me laugh for about 20 minutes straight like a lunatic.

Do not watch it at work or in a church pew or some strange place, Sam I Am..  DO watch it if you haven't seen it and are in a semi private setting.  DO IT.

And holy gawd now I can embed this.  It may very well be a toss up between this and my wedding day in the contest of BEST THING EVER.  I do not know what would come in second, it's too hard.

I'm pretty much inconsolable about the fact that I didn't coin the phrase 'cunt punt'.

You're welcome.  You're just... welcome.