Monday, September 30, 2013

Fat Monster

Hey guys!!!!

Remember how I said I inexplicably had a LOT of energy after the first few days of stims?!?

No shit - like a LOT of energy!  TONS!

Like drive the hour to my RE's office on the one Saturday I didn't need to just to verify an appointment because I'm restless kind of energy!!!!!!

Like, get my husband to take me to breakfast two days in a row and in exchange like the classy brawd that I am, have the "going out of business" style of sex - multiple times - kind of energy!!!!

Did you even know they send COUPONS in the MAIL like, directly to your house?!?  That gives me the buy all the things everywhere kind of energy!!!

Have you even NOTICED the size of hair balls that have attached themselves to my screen door? I bet if I just shimmy up on a table with a swiffer I could TOTALLY de-fur it kind of energy!!!!

What does this SWITCH do?!  How can we have a switch in our own damn house and not know what it does - where-is-our-spirit-of-adventure-we-should-remedy-this-immediately kind of energy!!!

Does ANYONE have a car they need pushed someplace?!  Fairly certain if you're changing continents I can STILL get your car there using only my hands and sheer mental prowess kind of energy!!!!

Seriously, guys, I have tapped into an unlimited amount of inner soul fuel, I can't believe people waste time on blinking!  YOU SHOULD TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THIS!  I am a never ending human crack pipe of constant ener -

Dear Internet Mistresses of Ute,

As I write this, I am in my sixth day of needle captivity. For the first four, I was spry. Confident.  I was beginning to wonder if the hormones were working at all, or if somehow in the last year since our last rendezvous, I had bulked up on so much natural awesome juice and kickass and hair of fuckyeah that my body just refused to bow to the feel bads. 

What was once spritely little energizer bunny is now fat and swollen sea beast.

I am now the Nessie of Los Angeles County, bloated and fat and mysterious popping out only often enough to scare a tourist. The fact that I live 20 minutes inland and have managed to grumpily slither all over solid land without being harpooned makes this all the more impressive.

At this very moment I would equally like to cry, do the entire dance from Bobby Brown's "every little step" video, and eat pizza.  Not good pizza, mind you, but the really shitty oily pizza with the giant nippley pepperonis and grease that you can only get in middle-of-nowhere malls and/or hospital cafeterias. 

I am teetering between moments of mostly unadulterated optimism and happiness, followed by sheer terror/anxiety. Watching me from moment to moment is like watching an alien try to absorb what exactly a clown is or how to feel about it.

I AM A SHE-BEAST SEA-BEAST.  (.... with a propensity for 80s R&B and obese america's truckstop take on Italian Food.)

Please, if I am harpooned, netted, strung up and sold to the Discovery Channel so everyone can stare at my bloated, bloody carcass with horror/wonder on a show titled "WHAT THE FUCK?!?!" someone at least explain to the producers I did it because I wanted a pregnancy test to deviate from it's usual message to me.

Stork the Seacow


Now, I don't mean to scare anyone who hasn't had IVF.  This is number 2 for me.  While it wouldn't make any money as a spa treatment, it aint that bad. I'm just bitching and moaning for the same reason I scream bloody murder if I see a harmless hairball that I briefly mistake for a murderous spider - I'm a creature of theatre, and I like to condense nervous breakdowns to 5 second, gutteral versions.

I may go into further detail about the medications later on in an attempt to be helpful to any newbies to IVF, however for the time being just some observations - some things that I forgot and some things that are just totally fucking different than the last time.

Menapor is partially nuns pee.  Virginal, post-menopausal nuns pee that burns like syphillis going in. IVF last year - it didn't burn me at all, I had you all written off as cray cray.  Thank you to whoever made this drug but I nonetheless must say, Lawdy lawdy, this year I got the piss of a pretty freaking potent nun.  This nun is CRAZY.  CRAZY NUN.  Not as much virginal nun as the nanny from the Omen.

Also, I am NOT a crier.  I repeat:  left to my own devices, I cry about twice a year. Though I have yet to have a good one so far, I have at least once a day fought the urge to just cry some delicious, delicious and totally unnecessary tears.  This morning I was standing in line at the bank, and the thought occurred to me, apropos of nothing, that Eddie from Frasier is probably dead (that's right DEAD.  DEAD DOG) and it took a solid minute of pinching my nose and blinking dramatically to stop myself from weeping.


That is probably a dead dog you guys.  A DEAD DOG.  DRESSED AS SANTA, wishing YOU a MERRY CHRISTMAS.  Is he going to have a good Christmas this year?  Is he going to be gifted a giant bone with a red bow on it? Will someone wrestle him into Santa's lap at a Petco for a photo op?  NO BECAUSE HE'S DEAD AND THAT WOULD ALL BE HORRIBLY CREEPY. How can I know something like that and then be expected to do something normal like go to a bank?!  What am I some sort of Mr. Monopoly Money Monacled Monster?!?

Whether I'm exhausted or full of energy, my mouth is working super duper fast and my mouth works pretty damn fast to begin with.  I must be an utterly confusing human to be around.  Yesterday I said to my husband, and I quote, "You NEVER see a hen sitting on her eggs whilst engaging in hardcore sex.  NEVER.  And there's a reason for that!  Oh there's a reason!"

What does that even mean?!?!

ALSO.  Poop is a thing of the past.  I will miss you, poop.  My recollection from last time was that you decided to leave me closer to egg retrieval but this time you have gone above and beyond.  6 days in and I am Lorraine Warren level full of shit.

And speaking of - in addition to decaf anything, I'm officially declaring pants of any kind bull shit.  Not only will they not fit over my bloat but I would like a healthy breeze round my privates thankyouverymuch. Considering starting a fashion line called Sexy Sea Monsters for women going through fertility treatments. It's hard to cram fins and tentacles into a sensible boot cut jean.


Still feeling optimistic.  And happy.  Okay, in the logical part of my brain I am optimistic and happy - there's no pessimism or misery, there's no poor unfortunate soul as I am incredibly fortunate (and it feels good to be doing something to get pregnant.) It's just that the hamster who likes to talk about hen sex gets control of the wheels, occasionally.

Optimistic.  This could work.  This will work.

Just don't look at me in the meantime I'm hideous.

Friday, September 27, 2013

I Value Fuckery

Ferocious Friday, my little pop tarts.

This morning after 2 hours in traffic, I arrive at the laboratory for blood work.  I sit in one of the 50 empty chairs.

After I sit, rather than choose one of the now 49 available chairs, a surly woman with an inexplicably uncovered cup of pee comes and sits directly next to me. 

I look at her buggily.  She is unmoved. I very seriously contemplate licking her neck very gently as we are clearly involved in a very serious relationship now, or just slowly and breathily whispering in her ear "I'm soo... glad.. we're getting..."

We sit together for an awkward two minutes as I attempt to tweet about this in a way that she can't see. We're practically dry humping. I am halfway to pregnant.

She then, gesturing with the pee cup so that I can intimately hear the gentle sloshing, asks me if I had to get a number.  Before I could decide how to answer, a nurse calls her in.  Her name is Mrs. Poonanny.

I can't even discuss it.

Translation: we are now day 3 into IVF #2, the super sci fi edition.  I have made two requests with the universe, one for this to work (obvi) so I'm not out of options, and two, to keep me giggling as long as humanly possible.  Now it's just a matter of egg farming (coocoocachoo) and eating all the things everywhere until I am a jiggly pile of food made flesh.
(Yesterday the BFF and I went on a distraction mission to Target. 4 hours of artful photos ensued.)

(Don't even ask me about what happened with bacon this week. Everyone knows bacon goes good with making eggs.)

As it is nearly impossible to keep everyone's ute straight, a brief synopsis to spare you from guessing and/or looking up:

Bub (the husband - not the above banana) and I have been trying since 2009.  I got PCOS.  I don't ovulate without Clomid. We got problems. 99 problems and a baby aint one.

We get to IVF last year.  I respond well.  Inexplicably, even with ICSI only one out of twelve fertilized (would normally be 70-80%). One gets transferred.  Mother effing chemical pregnancy.

Bub's sperm looked awesome - so did my eggs.  Dr. Kickass had his sperm tested for DNA fragmentation - he was fine.  Dr. Kickass got him enrolled in a study to see if he was missing a protein that tells my eggs his sperm is there in the first place -ding ding ding!  So this time, we're trying to get me to make some more eggs (coocoocachoo, I say!!) and then bypass Bub's deficiency by adding the protein to our dishes.  Weeee!

So same shit, basically, as the usual IVF - injecting me with craziness, egg retrieval, etc. - they're just trying a secret spice this time when everybody finally gets together to cook in the pot.  We're adding nutmeg, if you will.

(My spread).

I am medicated.  I have been injected with nuns pee and the like (true story - look it up). The irony of virginal nuns pee burning like a raging case of the ole syphillis going in is not lost on me.

I am zippy.  Inexplicably, 'has she had the blue Heisenberg shit?' zippy.  Nurse Kickass says this should wear off soon and I should start to feel like bloated walrus carcass any minute now.

There is no reason for this zippiness. Let's review - I have had a flu shot, hormones, and though I have quit my sleeping medication I have also quit caffeine.  And right now I could push a fucking car.

Apart from that, I have exactly two responses left to my actual husband: either I want to kill him or fuck him. I can't imagine what other purposes he serves as he is either infuriatingly sexy or just infuriating.  So clearly, the hormones are indeed kicking in.  (And speaking of fucking - today is my last day to do that safely.  I am none too thrilled with this news as I am practically a 14 year old boy and I currently have the pimples to prove it).

The BFF (banana-for-fuckssake) is coming over and we are going to walk to Starbucks to get me some bullshit decaf coffee.

(For the record, folks, now that I'm on the good girls list I can officially say decaf, non-smoking, non-anything is bull shit and you know it.  And so help me if you wave a bunch of kale in my face and tell me it solves everything I will wrestle you into a pork-costume and whisper moistly on your neck).

Mostly I'm kind of euphoric, though.

So please, Universe, pretty please, keep me as positive and giggly and enjoying my fuckery/shenanigans as much as humanly possible while I can.

Please, please fellow infertile.. I don't expect you to feel 100% thrilled or hopeful for me, I appreciate whatever you can muster.. But to nominate myself for a little bit of your positivity: this is my last shot.  I am not the girl that gets pregnant on round one of Clomid, I am not the couple that believes they are in the throws of despair after a few months.  I'm the girl that gets on the train, stays on for years, drives well past screwed, passes the time with jokes.  I am the rare occasion, the horror story, that people could genuinely pull out and say "well if she got pregnant, then there's hope".  Let me be hope.

Please, please, Universe, Gawd, Energy, Universal Force, Frida Kahlo and Bill Murray's testes.. It's my time. 

I've had enough.  I've done a pretty good job at staying silly and tapdancing, and 4 years later I'm still Ms. Bojangles over here.  

It's not my time because I deserve it more or less than anyone else.. it's just my time.  That's all. It just is. Time for a new lesson.

And if you nominate me to Mommy, I will reign benevolently and humorously.  I will be sensitive to others, love my kid beyond anyone's wildest expectations and do the absolute best I can - and possibly most importantly, be full of gratitude for every shitty and/or wonderful motherhood experience.

Please universe, don't punish me for a rare show of optimism.

Please, please, please, please.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013


Happy Tuesday, my scrumtrulescent kumquats.

I'm going to get up on my soapbox for a few minutes here.  Don't worry - as soon as I've exorcised this I will happily dismount and return to tap-dancing.

There have been a lot of random incidents, in the last month or so, that have shone a light on vaginas.  Being that this is an infertility blog, on any other day I would be talking about a literal light on a literal vagina - but just today, friends, I mean metaphorically.  What it means to have one and with it, the great power and Spidermanesque responsibility.  The standards to which one is held for being in possession of one. The ethereal and intangible but nonetheless very real owners manual, that the world collectively and constantly edits, expecting you to follow.

I don't think it's a big secret that in many, many, many ways the world wants to pull down your pants, check to see if you're an innie or an outtie, and if you're an innie hand out some pretty serious rules. (Not to say outties don't have rules, some of which are absolutely ridiculous - but historically speaking theirs at worst is a heavy handed pamphlet and ours has the heft of an elephant herd).  Today I would just like to draw your attention to what is arguably half the rule book, which is the dangerous and endlessly discussed topic of our very own sexual power and prowess.

(Source. And sidenote - why don't I own a vagina pillow?!)

First there was Miley Cyrus.  (Not like, first in the world, just the first reason to clog your newsfeed with a picture of a vag pillow so I can vent). Two months ago I couldn't have told you who that was, apart from the fact that I am fairly certain that she was either on a) Dora the Explorer or B) a show about a young girl with schizophrenia.

I know you read about it because the internet imploded and collapsed in on itself like a dying star in response - not since the red wedding on the Titties and Dragon show has their been such a fuss.  I also know I'm about a million years late on this, but this was just the first drop in the vagina-themed bucket as it were.

In the event that you somehow avoided it (how?  HOW?) allow me to sum up.  VMAs happened (wait.. there are still music videos?).  Miley Cyrus performed.  She emerged in a onesie, wagging her tongue and sort of singing.  She then slapped some African American women dressed like teddy bears on the toosh.  Then Robin Thicke came out singing what can only be described as a very catchy rape anthem (the tune of which was heavily... inspired? by Marvin Gaye), Miley stripped down to flesh toned skivvies, and twerked on his crotch before sexually assaulting a foam finger.

The super short version - two kids of somewhat laughable stars from the 90s performed.  The one that looked like a hyper sexualized Zack Morris/Susan Powder hybrid got freaky on the creepy old man dressed like Beetlejuice.  The end.

In case you somehow (again - HOW?) missed it - here it is:

Lines were drawn - of the non-blurry variety.

On one side, you have people shouting about how it's a disgrace that a young woman would behave in such a way. On the other, people shouting about how judging her is a step back for the women's movement.

Drop two in the vagina bucket - in addition to the endless facebook rants and news coverage, I came across this little ditty.  It's a Mom's response to the twerking Miley Cyrus (and to young women in general).  It's worth a read - some of you will love it, some of you will hate it.  Me?  I get where she's coming from and she seems to be dealing with internet backlash with a pretty good deal of grace but no, not a fan.  (In case you're wanting to read - I also came across this response to it on Huffpo).

So here are just a few of my jumbled, well-intentioned thoughts on what the discussion seems to be lately which is namely women's sexuality, particularly when it comes to young women and the 'rules' we're trying to impart on them.

The bullshit we start shoveling women starts young, and one thing contradicts the next.

Don't attempt to be sexy - if you attempt to be sexy, you're asking for it and that's just not right!  Oh, but also we're going to need you to be 5 lbs above organ failure and operating shoes that were designed to gauruntee you're a hunchback by the time you're 40.

Also, men can't control themselves!  Women of the world alone are in charge of whether or not they look at you like a sex object. You're not in charge of whether you tolerate them doing that, but whether or not they even do it in the first place! You have actual magic powers, and can fix troubled men!

Oh, and even though they're animals that absolutely can't control themselves - you're going to want to walk a few steps behind them because though they are all powerful, they're also very very fragile that way. 

But you know, speak up for yourself!  Not if it in any way compromises coming off like a lady (you don't want to be called a feminazi, do you?) but you know.. sometimes!  We're not exactly sure when, per say, but we'll immediately let you know when you've gone too far!

Check out these porn stars!  This is what men covet! Some big boobs, some hefty make-up... But also, your virginity is something to guard with your life.  Sex can be no fun until your married!  It doesn't mean anything, and it's something you should regret if you do it!

Sex can be fun!  In sex ed class, we're going to gloss over that whole clitoris part it's merely decorative.  Also in porn, we're going to gloss over any rational use of the clitoris as it's merely decorative.

There totes aren't any double standards in the adult world!  Totally!  Those endless apropos-of-nothing ads you get on Facebook suggesting you shrink your belly fat or what products to use in order to bag a man are in no way because you're a girl.  Unrelated, please don't ask your male friends what their ads are like.

Love yourself!  Be yourself!  Of course this only applies to you if you fit within my personal gold standard of what a woman looks like and acts like... If not I'm going to need you to look at your body like you would that of a retired umpire and you're going to need to loathe yourself until you earn it.  (And PS - it's totally beautiful to be yourself, but we're gonna photoshop the hell out of already gorgeous women so that they can be.... even more themselves....)


So I don't know where we get off being shocked that the young women of the world have elected a pixie haired girl twerking in a onesie as their current role model.  Was it really any worse than what you see anywhere else?  At least it was... at face value. There was no unspoken but very obvious meaning - it was just laid out there, which is really the only thing people were upset about.  And it pissed/pisses me off that Billy Ray Cyrus' kid is being used as a statement on feminism in one way or another, but this is where we're at, kids.  We can be grossed out all we want but we made her.

For me, it was like when kids perform a skit at a birthday party.  You sit, you watch, you smirk, you're uncomfortable.  And in this scenario the kids were naked. I get that she's 20 (she's 20, ya'll) but it was like a little kids' impersonation of being sexy.  Someone made the comparison to Madonna rolling around in a wedding dress to like a Virgin.. No.  Disagree.  Of all the sexual things Madonna has done - girlfriend owned it. It was hers, no apologies. This was like a kid hopped up on sugar popping out and saying "hey guys!  This is what you want from me, right?"

And I get it.. I remember.  One day you're 12 - already full to the brim of of these bullshit ideas about the narrow, centimeter wide view on what a sexy woman is, but you're still a little kid so you're just waiting to be suited up and put in the game.  Then one day out of the blue you sprout some boobs and men are giving you attention.  Suddenly you have the power that people have been preparing you for your whole damn life - so the response is "someone wants to objectify me?  Awesome!  Finally!  Where can I bend over?"

The ever so brief forays I've had into teenworld, it creeps me out.  Fish lips, smooshing things together, bending over.  Honestly it creeps. me. out.  It's only now dawning on me watching my teenager sister-in-law or seeing a 36 year old man willingly rub his crotch against the backside of Miley Cyrus how creepy the whole older-man on younger-woman attention thing was.

That being said, I would never dream of telling a 16 year old they can't be sexy.  Gurrrl, wear the (reasonably) low cut top.  These are the twins' good years.  Do whatever it is that makes you feel sexy - the only very true cliche I'll offer you is that if the comments and oggles of strangers is the only thing that makes you feel sexy, that's not being sexy.. that's being a giant, gaping wound you're inviting everyone else to fill as they see fit.

What upsets me about the Moms response to teenage girls (as lovely as it's attempting to be) is that it's condescending, judgey, directly contradicts itself and is putting the entire blame of this situation in the hands of women.

Lady, you should know better.  And what you're describing wanting for your sons isn't a woman or a marriage with a woman it's a toothpaste commercial.  And I can't even describe the creepy crawlies that ravage my body at the idea of a middle aged woman inspecting her sons' facebook friends to see if they're all wearing bras.

With allll of this bickering about how we want our younger girls to be - it's not just a statement on how we want them to view themselves, it's how we want them to view men.

We're sending out the message, far and wide, that they're unstoppable barely human creatures that can't control themselves, but also one of your main goals should be to be coveted by them.  We want you right outside the lions cage dangling a piece of meat - too little it won't have any interest, too much you'll be eaten.  

If you're not sexy enough - then no man will ever want you, and PS that's the only way to attain any value in this life.  If you're too sexy - then no man will ever want you, because you're damaged goods.  Madonna or Whore.  These are your choices.

I turn my nose up at anything that says to a woman or girl "if you do this, you are asking for it". If you give a girl the impression that she's entirely responsible for every harmless, teenage boy boner that she causes - what is she going to think if gawd forbid she's ever attacked by someone?  I mean, if you're responsible for a harmless boy crush, surely if you're smited with something horrible that's your responsibility too.  Your lack of a bra was the unstoppable catalyst that caused a teenage boy to lust after you - what did you do to cause someone to force themselves on you?

Every adult woman on this planet does something every day to not be attacked by a man.  Every. Day. It's so ingrained in us that a lot of us don't even think about it anymore - it's like breathing.  You check the backseat of your car before you get in, you don't linger outside the grocery store for too long, if you're going somewhere at night you make sure to let people know where you're going and when you'll be there. And no matter what you do or don't do, if you're attacked by someone who 'can't control' himself, then it is utterly and completely not your fault.

As for regular, non-monstrous men?

I refuse to believe that  we have to surmise that the downside of posing in your skivvies on Facebook is that you're going to cause some uncontrollable physical reaction in a boy.  The downside is how you're viewing your damn self, or that your self esteem is dependent on what others think. 

Men/boys have equal responsibility here.  

By getting online with your teenage sons and judging the pictures of teenage girls to deem who's worthy - how do you not understand that you're teaching your boys to look at pictures of girls and deem who's worthy.

How on Earth is our response to watching a 36 year old man (singing about a girl needing a little convincing to get freaky, no less) grind up on a 20 year old kid to pity him as he and his marriage have clearly been victimized?

There is no equivalent word to slut or whore to call a man.  There isn't.  He's just an asshole, or just working with his good ole' man DNA, or lured by the unstoppable siren song of tempting vixens.  There's no word that implies 'hey, you should feel ashamed of yourself for what you're choosing to do or not do with your genitals'.  Women have hundreds of these words.

And what really gets me - this rant, other internet rants, all of us bickering or having opinions on this isn't going to do shit.  You know why?  Because young women don't give a shit about us bickering.  And why should they?  We completely contradict ourselves.

 So while I'm irritated that of all people Miley Cyrus (couldn't we at least have made it someone who can sing?) is the example here... We birthed her.   Ladies and gentlemen, we have spent years haphazardly mishmashing shit together in some pretentious, we-know-what-we're-doing formula to try to mold young women and what you've just witnessed is the musical manifestation of what we've Frankensteined together.  Miley Cyrus gyrating with grown men, teddy bears and the piece-de-resistance, a foam finger.  She's interpreted our cues fairly accurately if you ask me, down to the letter.  A kid in her panties running around trying to figure out what she should or shouldn't hump next.

As culturally irrelevant as we may feel beyond the age of 25 - we're still the ones in charge.  We're the producers of TV shows, we're the publishers of magazines, the writers of articles, the ones that have been teaching these girls what's what forever.

This is their expression of what we've taught them.

::Returns to tap dancing::