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 FertilityAuthority.com.  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.