Sunday, June 30, 2013

Pretty Sure I'm a Witch.

Happy Sunday, Witches of the Womb.

I'm thinking we should start some sort of Coven.. or that maybe we're already in one and we should just kick up our alcohol intake, accessories and general spell-casting.

(I mean think about it... we are a group of women who prefer to stick to one another.  We talk herbs, potions, medications, meditations... We're cyclical creatures who throw ourselves at the altar of fertility. I mean, for chrissakes I own at least three fertility amulets and some fertility candles.  We're a Coven, I say.)

In an Ambien haze, I ordered myself some Roald Dahl books because I love them, and for some reason I no longer seemed to own them. (Ambien = Christmas. I order myself gifts, completely forget that I've done so, arrive home to find surprise packages on my front step.  I am my own Santa.)


This weekend it was approximately 10,000 degrees in Los Angeles so I spent the last 48 hours breathing heavily next to a fan, looking at the mess in my house and thinking 'ohhhh, I should probably do something about that but that would require moving' and wishing I had a magic wand.  It's a straight up Tennessee Williams play in my house.  It is hotter than hell and I may have the vapors.

Whilst sweating I re-read Roald Dahl's "The Witches". If you haven't read it (...serrrriously?  I can't even look at you) I'll give you the jist.

There's a secret group of women throughout the world.  They're itchy.  Their feet are uncomfortable. They've inexplicably grown claws.  They regard other people's children in the same way one would dog shit, spend their time trying to lure children and hope to eventually turn them into mice.  They only peel off their masks and itch freely if they're in a room exclusively made up of their fellow witches.

As a child I used to read this book hoping for the downfall of these poor women.  Now I realize these 'witches' are just a rogue pack of misunderstood infertiles hopped up on hormones. And now we're much more dangerous seeing as how since the internet was invented we can find each other by the thousands.


Apart from videos of Corgi's doing basically anything, one of my favorite non-fertility related things on the internet is Humans of New York. I haven't been to New York in years and I obviously don't live there, but honestly... You should follow it on Facebook because it's absolutely fascinating and it is a fantastic, fantastic way to break up all the usual sonogram snipering and "look at what my kids had for lunch!" statuses on Fertilebook.

Basically, this brilliant photographer goes out onto the streets of New York and takes portraits of the people that he finds.  While he's doing so, he usually asks them a question about their life and writes a small 'story' about how they responded.  It sounds simple but it's extraordinary.

This weekend, much to my delight, this photo popped up with the following story:


"What was the saddest moment of your life?"
"Probably when our first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage."
"Had you chosen a name?"
"No. But we were given the remains to bring to a laboratory. And we named the jar. We named it 'Formolin,' which is a derivative of the Spanish word for formaldehyde. We both have a very dark sense of humor. It's how we coped."

And thus I was introduced to my favorite picture/story of HONY, ever, which is a hard thing to accomplish.

For one, I love when there's a storyline outside the world of infertility that has to do with miscarriage.  Two, I am obviously in a camp (as are many of us) where I thoroughly believe that having humor about something awful is absolutely necessary.

What was most fascinating about it - and what ate up a good 45 minutes of my time that would've otherwise just been spent sweating - were the comments. Some of them made me happy, some of them pissed me off and most were in between.  I could not stop reading them.

It's as if someone took a little bit of our secret world, our infertile Coven, broadcast it to a few thousand unsuspecting people, and I got to sit there and watch them respond.  Truly. It was, by pure accident, the best, most honest poll of how the average person would respond if they were a victim of some sort of sorcery that immersed them, fully, into our world for just a moment.

A lot of the comments were lovely condolences.

Some of the comments were plucked straight out of the 'what not to say to someone who's had a miscarriage' textbook.  You know, "Everything happens for a reason!", "It just wasn't meant to be!"; "See everybody?  Don't worry about it, because you'll go on to have your family someday!".  At this point I am totally forgiving of saying things like this because I would probably be saying the same things... Though if someone was newly widowed, I would like to think we would all know not to say "Don't worry!  You'll meet someone in the future and it will make up for it!  Everything happens for a reason!"

Some of them were genuinely freaked out by the dark humor... some of them were even so clueless as to why she would even have her fetus in a jar they were bordering on implying she was involved in some sort of dark magic (seriously people.. just a quick Google search would've answered your question).  I obviously immediately understood the humor (and thought it was brilliant) but seeing how eeked out some people were made me a little self conscious that our world was being shared with 'others'... like the muggles were temporarily being exposed to the darker sides of the Harry Potter world... but I kind of get their response.

You know that saying about boiling frogs?  (No seriously - even from a non-witch standpoint it's totally a saying).

If you stick a frog in a boiling pot of water, it will become panicked and jump right out.  If you stick a frog in a pot full of lukewarm water and slowly turn up the heat, it will stay until it's nice and toasty.

So reading the freaked out comments on the photo is a bit like watching a bunch of frogs being put into our pot, and immediately wanting to jump the hell out.

In 2009, when Bub and I decided to start trying, if I had conceived immediately and had two kids by now... I would probably read something like this and my mouth would drop open.

As it actually is, I laughed out loud.

Until you're hurled into the throws of something unimaginably awful like miscarriage or infertility in general, you have no idea what it feels like... and kudos to the commenters who seemed to grasp it despite their inexperience.  I'm in awe of anyone sensitive enough to be good at the 'if I were this person...' game.

At first reading people upset about her dark humor made me feel naked and gave me an urge to explain... but the more I read the more it morphed into feeling smugly proud of myself. (But don't worry - I did, as a helpful PSA, try to inform people the only appropriate response to someone's loss is "that fucking sucks").

It takes an arsenal of witchcraft to keep yourself afloat in a pot of loss. It's a witches brew of herbs, medication, and the most important ingredient of all, in my opinion, is to have a sense of humor. The end result when done properly out of necessity is supernatural strength. The herb known as chuckle is so vitally important and rare, that it should be sought after the instant it becomes available and in whatever form it's available in.  Every True Witch knows that.

So in the end, seeing the opinions of the average fertile (which we all knew) played out through a casual discussion, sparked by a photo and story on HONY's Facebook page, made me feel pretty good.

Naturally, a lot of these frogs couldn't handle the heat of our pot, and were so absolutely shocked that anyone could not only handle it but handle it with humor.  (If you're going to need the strength to survive a boiling, might as well treat it as much like a jacuzzi as you can, when you can).

As for responding to that story with any level of panic - good for you, mere mortals.  May you never understand what she's talking about.  I, however, do.  The world has tried to burn us a million times, and somehow we still thrive. It requires potions and elixirs and monsters I hope you never have to deal with. Girlfriend may have two adorable kids now, but she is forever a sister in my Coven.

And my fellow bitchy-witches are clever and hilarious.  It's just the kind of strength that requires witchcraft.

Friday, June 28, 2013


Today my blog is a year old.

I can't believe it's been that long, and I also can't believe I hadn't been doing it longer.  Mostly it's my anniversary with you, so a few thank yous are in order.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for commenting.

Thank you for lurking.

Thank you for being pissed when I'm pissed, tickled when I'm tickled, and baffled when I'm baffled.

Thank you for laughing with me.

Thank you for chiming in when I rant.

Thank you for sending good vibes to a stubborn uterus, and rooting for me even when I don't have the energy to.

Thank you for the kind words.  Especially the ones that have told me I would make a decent Mom, the ones that have made me blush about my writing abilities, the ones that said 'nah, girl, you're not crazy, I think that's hilarious too.'

Thank you for letting me rant and rave, blaspheme, use the F word a record number of times, feel sorry for myself, find the humor in the usually humorless, and not hold back.

Thank you for being receptive and supportive in every blogpost, whether it's serious or simply arguing my case in the Ryan Reynolds vs. Ryan Gosling debate (which may, despite it's total lack of depth, be my favorite post ever mostly for the insane comments).  (And I  forgive you if you side on Reynolds... mostly).

Thank you to the people who started reading from the beginning, thank you to the ones who just started, and thank you to everyone in between.

On day one minute one of blog writing, I was in a rough spot and starting this blog helped me drag my ass out of it. 

Never in my wildest dreams did I think anyone would want to read the sometimes uterine-related rants of a mad woman (but mostly just the unrelated ramblings of a mad woman). Through this blog and finding others, I've virtually met so many wonderful people (and a few in real life) and for that I am so thankful.

Thank you for letting me into your lives and for being a part of mine.  You have been more helpful and inspiring than I could ever communicate, and you all should know by now I have a tiny, mechanical, untouchable robot heart. This is quite the feat. 

The fertility blog world is just one, giant, wonderfully loving monster that existed long before me and I'm thankful it has tolerated my tiny, insignificant ass for this long and in such a receptive way. 

So happy anniversary to us.  If you lived any closer, I'd be taking you out for a steak dinner and giving you the really, really good sex tonight.

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Fangs and Feathers

Greetings, People of Webdom!

I had my first ever acupuncture appointment this morning.  Pause for reaction.

My friend Kali, who is a psychotic ball of the kind of hummingbird energy that is normally reserved for people in the throws of a crack meltdown, started going a few weeks ago to control her stress level.  The day after she came slithering into my house and melted onto a chair proclaiming she was a different person.

It should also be noted that Kali has a severe needle phobia. I can safely say as a witness that most of us would do better dumping a bucket of spiders over our heads, and she's somehow totally cool with the acupuncture poke.

I emailed the lady that de-stressed her for an article for Fertility Authority, and ended up emailing her back & forth just regarding general shenanigans because she was awesome.  SO I went in today.  It was cray cray.

While my body can be super lazy (thank you, dead thyroid) my brain never shuts the fuck up.  It would be counter intuitive for me to believe that someone shoving a needle in my forehead would cause me to relax, but that's what happened.  I am a convert.  If you're in L.A. and looking to give it a try - girlfriend's info is in the Fertility Authority article.

I did not think I could outdo the initial discovery that needles not containing heroin could be hella relaxin' - but I did.  They had a wall of old ass photos as well as magazines, and as a result of looking at the room at just the right angle, I discovered Michael Cera is a vampire, ladies and gents.  This completely explains his skin tone and inability to complete puberty.  My acupuncturist helped me take the photo - you heard it here first.

The cray cray needles also helped me return to my usual self a little bit.

I do not do well on birth control.  All the heavy duty IVF drugs, I'm fine - give me a wee bit of Progesterone or birth control and I turn into a she-beast of the netherworld.

I have what you would call a 'quick wit'. I'm a very, very mellow person (I do not sweat the small stuff) however if you put me on something that makes me sweat the small stuff... 'Quick wit' works against me and becomes 'razor tongue'.  I'm basically a domesticated rattlesnake - it takes a lot to poke me, but when I'm poked I bite.  Hard. A couple of times this week my mouth/hands worked faster than I would have liked them to, and at least one person got bit.  I felt terrible about it afterwards, so I'm thrilled to pieces that a delightful woman armed with needles and an ability to deal with my saying "I have a needle in my fucking face! What am I doing?!" has helped.

Enough of that - on to lose some followers.

This morning, as per usual, I groggily rolled over and dicked around on my phone in bed.  Turns out that quite literally, I woke up in a better state and world in general than the one I went to sleep in.

DOMA and Prop 8 were turned over, and I am so happy that I could explode into an epic mushroom cloud of glitter and feathers and unicorn farts.

DOMA - the Defense of Marriage Act - was a federal law barring the U.S. Federal government from recognizing gay marriages legalized by states.  So yesterday, when it stood, even if you had been legally married elsewhere, you couldn't leave your spouse money or assets in your will without that spouse having to pay huge inheritance taxes. You couldn't jointly file taxes, receive social security benefits as a couple or tax breaks for workplace health coverage. If you were a legal citizen, you couldn't sponsor your spouse for a green card. (An example of that would be this heartbreaking video over here).  Today, hallelujah, you can do all these things.

Prop 8 was the horrendous bill my usually much more progressive state voted on, not allowing gay marriage. As a result of being ruled unconstitutional, California couples should be able to be married here within 25 days.

And wouldn't you know it, I woke up in a world with more equal rights and somehow - amazing! - my heterosexual marriage still seems to be intact.  Bubba didn't disappear into thin air, our marriage license wasn't made void, our house didn't burst into flames or whatever the fuck else was supposed to happen.

If any change did occur? My marriage is better this morning because it's not being soiled and shat upon by being used as a platform to discriminate against others.  It's not being used as an arguing point for pure fucking evil - it's a little bit more mine and a little less political tool.

As always, I'm genuinely disgusted by the arguments against it.  My Mom is 100,000% Mexican and my Dad was white - had they been born a smidge earlier than they were, it would've been illegal for them to marry.  And back then people were holding up Bible verses and shouting about how it was the beginning of the end, too.

If you're that worried about the sex life of two consenting adults that have nothing to do with you, I really, really don't think you're screwing correctly. Maybe instead of typing angry Facebook statuses you should be using your hands to google "what is a clitoris?"

As grossed out as I am by any of the arguments there is one that tickles me.. The bestiality argument - that's my favorite!

First of all, we should all be concerned that so many 'happily married' heteros jump so quickly to man-on-chicken sex.  It's alarming.

Second of all - I totes agree with this argument!  Everyone knows that women's suffrage led to an epidemic of hamsters voting.

Some people are claiming they are upset because since Prop 8 was overturned, obviously the state of California just doesn't care about voting anymore.

First, we should never have the right to vote on whether or not another human being should have equal rights simply because we disagree with them.  It shouldn't have been put up to a vote in the first place - as reiterated today, it's an infringement on our constitutional rights. There's nothing in our constitution that says I or anyone is a second class citizen, and other people get to vote on whether or not I have a right to be married to Bub.  If we get to vote on who gets to be married based on who's sex life grosses me out?  A lot of heteros are being voted off of sex island.

Second, if we left the matter of equal rights up to the general population, if we sat around waiting for people to come to a majority agreement on whether people not like them are in fact people at all, a big part of this country would still be using separate water fountains.  I'm sorry it's taking some people a long time to figure out that someone unlike them still gets to have the rights that they enjoy - you take all the time in the world you need to figure that out, it is your right as a citizen to be a bigot, but we're just going to go ahead and afford people rights in the meantime.

And by the way, I dislike bigots on account of their opinions - not their race, religion, sex or sexual orientation.  If we're going to dislike people, we should give them the opportunity to be an asshole, first (and asshole is an equal opportunity employer). If someone tried to strip an asshole of their basic rights?  I'd also be rioting.

Isn't the opposition usually full of people who do not want government poking their noses in everyone's business?  Just so I have the priorities straight... Soooo, government should let me die of a treatable disease because to concern themselves would be meddling, but yes, absolutely, get in my bedroom and tell me who I should be sleeping with and/or falling in love with. Totes.

On a personal note?  The main argument against gay marriage made in legal cases is that they don't procreate.

Fuck off.

Neither can I.  How long do I get to try before my marriage is considered null and void?  (And as a sidenote, I really think the 'uptick' in homosexuality is probably mother nature's way of balancing out the fact that there are morons who think that despite depleted resources they should be churning out as many babies as nature allows.).

I know I'm not religious.. but no.  Do not hold up verses as an excuse to make decisions about the personal lives of others.  If you think it's wrong - don't marry someone of the same sex.  Simple as that.  And unless you have never had a haircut, don't believe in autopsies, are free of tattoos and/or have sold your daughter for a certain number of cows (and made sure to eat all your sacrifices within 3 days), don't even bring it up.  Do not.

And how flimsy does your marriage have to be to think that it's less sacred if someone else is married too?  Spend your time worrying about your own marriage, please.


I'm happy today.

Happy that my marriage is being used a little less to discriminate against my friends, happy that justice is slowly and surely prevailing, happy that people are closer to being treated equally because they are equal. Whether you're a delightful gay, a feather shitting unicorn, a bigot or a carnie with man hands - you should have the same basic human rights.

The people that are a little better than others?  It's not because of race, it's not because of sex, it's not because of sexual orientation - it's because of their capability to love.

Try siding with love sometime, you'll be less miserable.  Take it from a domesticated rattlesnake.

Thursday, June 20, 2013

The Artistry of My Uterus

Greetings, my lovely warrior-wombed.

Yes I've been a terrible writer and reader the last week.  Explanation forthcoming.

I am now the proud Mother of an ovarian cyst.  I'm calling him Francisco the asshole Cysto, and you should all be expecting glossy, glitter shitting announcements in your mail any day now, with his picture, his measurements scrawled out in cursive and information on his registry.  In my adult baby-shower victim life I have bought 90 gajillion nonsensical, brightly colored plastic toys and baby contraptions with vomit-inducing names that no human being actually needs that get more horrifying with time.  ('Here!  Buy me a robot that pre-chews food and spits it into my mouth before I spit it into the mouth of Jayden/Aiden/Kayden/Santaclausaden!  Baby birding is made so much easier!  It's called a Sparklezzzzz and it's only $200! $50 extra if you want a monkey painted on the side!')

I think at this point Francisco the asshole Cysto warrants some gifts.  He likes Quentin Tarantino movies, environmentally friendly sports cars and Vodka.  He told me so.

I did 10 days of progesterone to get a period.  A week after I stopped, no period so I went in for an ultrasound and Bub came since it was early.  (Sidenote: am I the only person who enjoys passing the time at the RE's by trying to find the craziest name on the wall of baby announcements?  I have bad eyes but I swear this last time one was named Sasquatch.)

Cyst.  Francisco has been churning out a shit ton of estrogen (I think my level was 500?) so that's probably why I feel all weird.  I like to think the pain is coming from his inevitable genetically-gifted tap dancing genius.

Spent the weekend trying to work whilst Francisco practiced for some international break dancing competition (he's going pro, ya'll, I can feel it).  Weekend I was okay with some run of the mill Vicodin, by Monday it would've been more pleasant had someone just dumped a giant bucket of fire ants over my head so I ended up in the ER.  I had a date with their dildocam, but on the plus side they gave me a shot in the butt which was glorious.

Tuesday morning back at the RE's - my RE wasn't there but I saw a rogue team of kind fill ins. Francisco, despite birth control (HA!) had grown a wee bit, but they're still confident he'll boogie on out on his own. They thought what may have happened on Monday is that my ovary twisted a bit, and has since untwisted itself.  I'm basically down, trying to work, and taking a pain pill when I need it.  Since Tuesday I started bleeding (despite the BC) which actually has made me feel better.  I am downgrading my status from 'death imminent' to run of the mill 'fucking gross'.

So for those of you keeping score, I have had 3 dates with dildocam in the last week.  I went to a dermatologist last week and no joke, upon entering the exam room started taking off my dress out of habit.

It's hard to keep your shit together when you're constantly being flirted with from across the room by this saucy, unstoppable minx.  Although after 3 dates in a week he is getting clingy.

So that's where I've been.  I will be doing the rounds and updating this weekend (and hopefully getting the million pounds of work done that I'm being crushed under).

On a positive note - if you have missed me, there are places I've been cheating on you with where you can totes come find me.

First of all I'm now occasionally blogging over at  This is my blog page, and as an example this is my super helpful post about the importance of being stocked up on Vodka on parent-centered holidays.  Come vist me!  I'm lonely!

Second, I'm writing articles for their L.A. page. (If you have any suggestions/requests for what I should write a helpful/informative article on, please please tell me.  I have to write a lot of them and could use the brainstorming session.  I totes get to interview RE's for some of them, so if there's anything you ever wanted a Doctor to talk about...)

Unrelated, but perhaps most important.. Everyone remember my sister-in-law, Bubella?  She is seventeen, unbelievably awesome, and a spectacular - and I mean this, I am artist picky and she was born gifted - artist.

She is, by far, the most gifted photographer I have ever met - and I'm in the position to know several professional photographers twice her age. The walls in my house are almost entirely decorated with her work.

She has put up an Etsy page.  I am wildly supportive of this because making art (and my opinion photography in particular) is absolutely what she was born to do.  So if you want to support young artists (who are a dying breed), to know what to get Francisco, or just want to do me a solid while I'm hopped up on Estrogen and swelling to 10 times my usual size like a life raft - Visit.  Buy.  Tweet.  Share in a blog post. If you do any of those things, please let me know so I can come up with a creative way of thanking you.

It's her first venture out into the world with her stuff.  I would love for her to gain some confidence about it.  And more to the point, girlfriend is brilliant.

Random poll - is there anything more degrading than having to explain your joke to people, or the fact that you're joking?

Okay fine, I realize there are worse things, but as far as the usual social interactions go it's about as close to water boarding me as you can get.

Fat girl that I am, despite feeling and looking like death I ventured out to Chipotle yesterday to paw at the door at 10:30 when they opened.  I was second in line (oh the injustice) behind a man in a suit.

This was disconcerting in the first place, because the 10:30 AM Chipotle culture tends to be like-minded individuals who are ready to get high on the magic which is pico de gallo and wearing yoga pants not to work out but because after they eat they're going to need to be wearing something that provides a stretch.

They were playing a TLC song in the restaurant, and when grumpy suit man got to the cash register he scowled, and said "I don't think this kind of music is appropriate for Chipotle" with a weird level of hostility.

You should know that I am of course in the habit of volunteering myself to get into weird conversations with strangers before I have any time to assess whether or not it's a terrible idea. My particular brand of artistry seems to be getting involved in shenanigans, wise or no.

So I said "Aww, I love 90s rap and R&B.  My Indian name is Running Man".

Now before I write out what he said next, I need you to appreciate that my response came out almost BEFORE he finished answering the question, it is my stock answer for anyone forming this sort of question, regardless of topic.  He looked at me with a scowl, and we had the following interaction:

Grumpy Suit:  You think the plight of the American Indian is Funny -
Me:  YES.

::he blinks at me in horror for an awkward few seconds::

Me:  Seriously dude?  It's 10:30 - it's a little early for the plight of the American Indian.

Why do I get myself into these situations.

Of course I don't think the plight of the American Indian is funny.  Every Thanksgiving I put up a wanted poster of Christopher Columbus. Weirdly enough I'm about a quarter Native American.

But sweet merciful crap - the few times people have tried to 'shame' me by using some version of the phrase "so you think .... is funny?' the answer is and will always be YES.  Yes I do.  Asshat.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Ghosts and Fairy Tales

It's Tuesday and my period is now, officially, a week late.

Not "oooh you could be pregnant!" late but "you took your last progesterone pill how long ago??" late.

I am a bloated seamonster of a life raft.  If you were capsized off the shore of Malibu with 7 of your friends, I could easily seat all of you on my monstrous body and dog paddle you to safety.

If it doesn't arrive soon, when it does come out I will be able to fully reenact the elevator scene from the Shining using only my vagina. The role of sad, twitchy, horrified, tormented Danny will be played by my husband.


My favorite character on True Blood is a medium.  I've been re-watching my DVDs in preparation for it's return on Sunday, and just saw a whole mess of episodes involving ghosts.

It's funny - no matter who you are or what your beliefs are, you are undoubtedly an expert in the rules of theoretical ghost.

Many-a-time we have all smugly shook our heads at a ghost in a movie or in a book, and thought "dude, you're not the same person anymore, and you're holding on because of a problem that no longer matters and that you can't do anything about. If you just let go you'd be way less hostile and see that there are good things in store for you - everybody knows that, ya Jerk."

So lately I've been wondering at what point in my infertility am I officially a ghost that's holding onto a life that just doesn't exist.

In many ways, I am absolutely already a ghost of the person I once was. There was a time where Knocked up was funny, and not a freaking Greek tragedy.  There was a time when I thought that ultimately, always, the universe's scale would eventually tip in favor of fair. There was a time I wasn't in a total panic that I would hit a certain age, and my personal tragedies would be something so obvious and tangible as being childless that I would constantly have to explain it.  Or at least be aware of floating, unspoken questions.

When I'm being optimistic and determined to plod forward, I don't know if I'm being a woman with an admirable amount of humor and hope, or if I'm some haggard looking, depraved, see-through version of myself that's holding onto something that just doesn't want me and missing out on the things that do.

I've never been one for fairy tales, but my body is starting to feel like the troll under the bridge between Childless and Mother.  No matter what attitude, medication or comedy I bring to it, it is dissatisfied and won't let me cross.  There is obviously, at some point, some intangible shift that happens.  One minute I'm a tap-dancing example of hope on that bridge, but at some point I'll be a petulant child who's wasting time, unable to back away from rejection with some of her dignity intact.  

At what point does hope become blind stubbornness?  Does giving up on a fairy tale happy ending show grace and maturity, or the soul of a quitter?

I'm assuming sometimes there's a point where you have to look the troll in the eye and say, "screw you, if the other side of the bridge doesn't want me, I'm going to rock the shit out of this side".  I wish there was a way to not feel guilty about contemplating that point, like I will inadvertently curse myself like a fabled witch just for thinking it.  I wish there was some way to know when that point is, and to assure myself that it's not coming soon.

I genuinely don't know what or where the difference is between being a woman who is determined to right a wrong in her life, and being a stubborn ghost mourning a life that just doesn't exist, fighting the inevitable and missing out on the possibilities in the process.  Or maybe it's me, being reborn into my life when I give up the ghost of a life that will never happen.


Okay, so I'm a little uncharacteristically gloomy due to hormones. Just because it happens to coincide with my grandparents 69th wedding anniversary, it occurred to me that today it's been a year since my last egg retrieval. I have been listening to far too much Velvet Underground and John Lennon's "God" on repeat for any sane person.

On the upside, I tickle myself?

I was running out the door to go to an appointment, and a religious solicitor caught me by my car.  By my car.  I said "I am in a hurry.  Also, I just believe in me...  Well, Yoko and me."

They were not so tickled.

Thursday, June 6, 2013

Bullshit Woman Pressures

This is Thursday.

I finished my last of 10 progesterone pills on Monday, and still no sign of the cackling Queen of Caca known as Aunt Flo.  (Worst. Party guest. Ever.  Shows up when you don't want her, no sign of her when you do.) If she's not here by tomorrow Bubba is going to have to creatively bang on the end of me like a stubborn ketchup bottle or smoke the bitch out with some sage.

On the upside, my skin looks terrible and they've stopped selling my pore minimizing face wash - so if any of you have any loose change or spare keys, feel free to store them in my face.

... Okay so I may or may not have a serious case of PMS.  Myself and the giant bag of kettle chips I've been inhaling, spitting and frothing all over the place today, remain mum.

If I did have PMS, I may be inclined to warn you that this post will inevitably contain some of my more 'colorful' language capabilities (and they're pretty colorful to begin with). If this offends your ladylike sensibilities (I can't think of one person this describes, but I'll throw it out there anyway) I will leave you with a picture of cookie monster.  Come back a post from now when I'm not hopped up on hormones, sodium and sweets.

(Source that you should be following on Facebook).

We good?

Okay.  Speaking of Facebook, I just posted this as my current status:

"Women of the world: Get married in your early 20s, pop out many babies in your late 20s, and when you've done those things, quickly back away into the shadows, and accept your irrelevance with grace. Skipping a step, doing them out of order or deviating from this plan in any way is to cunt punt Mother Nature."

Why the hostility, you ask?  Why post the phrase 'cunt punt' on a page that my 87 year old grandmother has access to?  Most importantly, why interrupt the flow of hysteria fueled statuses that have been happening over the last week, because apparently something heinous happened on the Tits, Swords and Dragons show otherwise known as Game of Thrones?

Because somehow until today, I have missed this lovely Ad Campaign that's going on. Oh, and here's the accompanying picture to the ad:


Basically it's an ad campaign sponsored by First Response to remind women that their biological clock is ticking.  Because, you know, they need a reminder. 

Now I know that we as Ladies of Infertility are much more likely to get pissed off about this.  Seeing an ad with a photoshopped elderly woman pregnant (just a friendly reminder, ya'll!) is like being hooked up to a chemo machine and having someone come in with a megaphone and shout "HEY - you have cancer!  You should probably do something about that!"  But I'm not even coming at this from an infertile angle, this pisses me the fuck off as a woman.

I am well aware that it's important for a woman to have information on her fertility when she wants it - I think we can all agree that there is an amplitude of information available on the internet for when someone goes looking for it.  And please, show me a woman who has reached adulthood without the understanding that fertility is finite and is for the first time really going to understand it as a result of seeing this ad.  Nope.  Not for one second was that a scenario discussed in it's creation - the only possible outcomes discussed for this ad were whatever PC terms are being used for pressure and guilt.

I don't have a problem with the "take charge of your fertility" angle.  I have a problem with using scare-tactics to make your point.  I don't need a wrinkled pregnant woman to remind me that fertility is finite.

Speaking as a pro-choice woman, I can safely say that we would all be outraged if there was an ad featuring a very young pregnant woman with the tagline "Abortion: Something to consider at a certain age!". 

I am really just sick to death of is articles, ads, billboards, magazines, tv shows, etc. etc. etc. telling me what the fuck being a woman is and what the hell I should be worrying about.

When you're little, you have to like pink.  And princesses.

When you're a teenager, you should really start to panic about staying thin and dumbing down for the boys (you want to make them feel comfortable, after all).

When you're a legal adult, you should really start to hypersexualize yourself.  (But you know, not too much because then you're asking for it).

Early 20s, bag that man.  (There is a ton of wonderful info on this in aforementioned media, by the way, but may I suggest doing what I did and just hanging out in a tree with a very large butterfly net waiting for the one you want to walk under it).

Mid 20s, get married.  Fairytale wedding, preferably.  If you've reached your wedding day and you're not in debt, on Xanex nor have you bullied your fiance and attendants into performing a coreographed dance number, you've done something wrong.

Late 20s, pop out as many babies as humanly possible.  And start to cover your shit up because now that you're practically elderly, nobody wants to see that.

By early 30s you should be a cheerio dispensing, breastfeeding, baked good producing sexless ball of awful.  You should be a Carrie Bradshaw meets Martha Stewart monster, and if you can't manage that, by all means get yourself a pill or a wine problem. Or eat a lot of kale.  Kale solves everything.

Mid 30s to early 40s, you should have recovered from the previous description, have washboard abs, a thigh gap and be readily able to prove to anyone that 40 is the new 12.  If you don't accomplish that I'm sorry to say, any problems in your marriage are your fault.

Beyond 40s?  Step back quietly into the shadows, accept irrelevance, don't be seen or heard, and wait to die with a smile on your face unless you are Helen Mirren.

And as I said, skipping any steps in this plan, doing them sloppily, doing them out of order or gawd forbid deviating from it entirely means you are less than a woman... and you should probably be panicking because that next step is just getting closer.

Believe me I get that other people get pressure.  Being an honorary member of the gay man mafia of Los Angeles I can assure you boys are fed a bunch of horseshit about having to do things a certain way to be considered "men".  And heaven help you if you're a lesbian - the media pressure on women does not advocate a deep seeded love for Home Depot.

But it's not quite the same for men, is it?  I've met 40 year old men who casually mention that they'd like to get married someday and/or have children.  Casually mention it. There's not the same built-in, lifelong panic going on where they've been constantly thinking for 15 years "if you want this you're going to have to do it YESTERDAY".

So fuck this horseshit.

I already know I can't bake a pie, I've never had any interest in pink or fairytales and I sure as shit don't need anyone suggesting to me that I should start panicking about my fertility. I'm well aware that whether or not anyone likes it, making a family is no longer a simple or straight forward line.  For anyone.  For me as an infertile, for men, for the LGBT community, for sea monkeys, carnies, certainly the Starks on the Dragons & Titties show and even for perfectly fertile 35 year old women who just aren't there yet.  It's no one's fucking business to pressure you about where you are or should be in family building.

Much like people who blindly ask married couples "sooo.. when are you having kids?", people who imply "you're not getting any younger!" whether it be in words, ads, spelled out on some fucking beach somewhere or through carefully coreographed hand gestures should be brought out into the street and shot.

I can't believe anyone sat in a room and thought "you know what?  Women need more pressure about performing their womanly duties" and yet people keep sitting in rooms and deciding that we do.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm about to violently dismember a cauliflower for dinner... and my husband is going to eat it whether he likes it or not.