Stork's School for the Knocked Up

It. Is. Thursday.

I am nursing an obnoxious, not-going-away headache at home and playing everyone's favorite solitary game of 'hormones, allergies or brain tumor?'  And I'm too afraid to take more than just one Tylenol because of that whole new pesky Tylenol-may-give-ADHD study.

...I ammmmm however exposing my unborn child to the Anna Nicole story as seen through the lens of the Lifetime television for 'no seriously some awful shit happens to' women network. And yes, it is absolutely everything that you are picturing it to be. (Also, every time a pill is mentioned in this movie I am overwhelmed with the desire to be able to take one, which is probably not the message they're shooting for).

Anyhoo.

I feel as though we have some catching up to do... So I'm going to do a bit of info dumping for awhile until we're all caught up.  Just, you know, observations about pregnancy I will likely forget and shit I should have told you months ago.

Requisite disclaimer: I'm happy despite my complaints. I'm also not a scientist or any ist of any kind, I don't think. And blah blah blah every pregnancy is a magical individual snowflake that is as incomparable as leprechauns are to unicorn farts blah blah.

So in no rational, helpful or scientific order - lesson 1 from Storks School for Pregnancy:



Poo vs. Pooh

Naturally, upon finding out that you are pregnant, one of your first obsessions will be spotting your well deserved bump.  You will gleefully start to notice something somewhere between 4 and 10 weeks, depending on your level of insanity because gawdamit you deserve a bump and you can totally see one starting to form! Your clothes even are starting to feel a little bit snug!

Except no. Your bump is shit.

I don't mean shit bump as in inadequate. I mean that literally what you are seeing is a bump made out of shit.

Pooping is a recreational activity that will be going bye-bye fairly early on. You aren't housing a baby so much as a tiny, pea-sized poop-hoarder.  Just like the show Hoarders, really, if your torso was the house,  your baby was the hoarder, and your poop was the giant pile of garbage engulfing everything in smell and stank and awfulness.

You should absolutely take pictures of your tummy-progress because you deserve it.. but yes ma'am, for a long while what we are documenting is your constipation.

I'm a chubster to begin with but I thought for sure by the time I hit, say, 18-20 weeks I would look pregnant. Not so. Between 12 and 22 weeks I just looked like a beer drinker who had hit rock bottom.

And then BOOM - overnight.  BOOOOOOM. One day I wake up - fat fat water rat.  It is so great don't get me wrong, but also disconcerting because clearly you are growing a monster baby. One day I am a chubby girl with a secret, the next I am wedged Pooh-style in a supermarket turnstile and unable to get up off the floor without Bubba channeling his inner crane.

Raise Your Hand if You have ever been Personally Victimized by Regina George.

There's just no way of getting around it - you're going to be pretty mean. Particularly to your significant other. I did not see this coming.

I'm an infertile - I've had hormones up the wazoo for chrissakes and aside from a couple of eventually hilarious meltdowns on said hormones, I was reasonably nice. And any breakdowns were more sad than they were mean.

Enter pregnancy.

I spent the better part of the first three months pathetically mushy and climbing Bubba like a koala bear, and then he'd do something like eat the last bit of fruit I didn't know I wanted and I would want to murder him in the face.

You're being Bugged

Okay I really didn't think about this before I got pregnant - but at some point, she starts to hear. Like a real person. She's like the NSA - she may not have the interest or wherewithal to sort through my information but damnit, she has it.

She started responding to Bub's voice in particular, and suddenly I'm very aware of what a screechy harpy shrew with a megaphone I must sound like from in there... And holy fucking shit balls I'm suddenly aware of how much cursing she must be hearing.

And yes, I know that's a ludicrous concern because it's not like she's really processing what she's hearing... but did you know that babies, once they're born, can recognize and be comforted by lullabies they heard their mother sing while they were still in utero?

Would you like to know what I, no-exaggeration, ask-my-husband, wake up inexplicably singing 3-4 times a week?

WOULD YOU?!  Fine.

(I also give you the super classy Megan Mullally and Nick Offerman version  that I could not figure out how to embed.)

So for those of you keeping score - MY CHILD WILL BE COMFORTED BY RISKAY'S LET ME SMELL YO DICK.


Uterus = Stupid

I live in a weird little Los Angelian world where the fact that a lot of women have drank the fashion koolaid is hella apparent. There are rich women who gleefully brag about spending $300 for jeans (that don't like... clean your house or anything).  Hell, on Melrose there are thriving businesses exclusively dedicated to selling thrift store t-shirt finds for $50+. Due to what I can only assume is a combo of fashion magazines and salon fumes, we are the leaders in idealizing the type of rich where you can afford to be a total fucking moron (goop is a good example of this. I, seriously, want to meet the woman who shops at goop.)

So I should be used to this sort of thing but I still found it shocking - 90% of 'maternity' clothes is an overpriced rip off.  Seriously. They know you're fat and miserable and look increasingly like the actual Mr. Koolaid so they think you'll be desperate enough to drink it.

I'm not falling for it, assholes! I found a couple of dresses I like but I will otherwise gleefully run around naked this summer if I have to! You brought this on yourselves!!!

... I can, however, be talked into an overpriced onesie.

(Source.)

(Source.)

And yes those are absolutely on their way.

WHO ARE YOU TO JUDGE ME?!

Okay pencils down, class.  More soon.

The Vagenius Flames of July

And just when you thought you were safe, just when you started to once again breathe easier and go about your day to day business and walk your dog without looking over your shoulder, out from the bushes pops a psychotic bug-eyed stork who pins you to the ground and refuses to let go until she's vomited her entire life upon your peaceful existence.

In other words, hey girl heyyyy. I know I've been absent lately, boo. Girl you know I don't mean it when I disappear like that.  Get over here and let's motorboat our way back to intimacy.  I had a somewhat last-minute visit from my darling Sister-in-Law for two weeks and before that an unfuckingfathomable work load. Forgive me, sugar lips?  If it makes you feel any better I thought about your lovely lady lumps a lot.  No, seriously, and in an even creepier fashion than usual.

And now I go about the business of updating you on the wildly important content of the last month.

1. Speaking of creepy and vomiting all over your peaceful existence, I saw 'The Conjuring'.

Now, if you're too afraid to see it I'll tell you that anything based on a story as told by Lorraine Warren is horseshit.  I love me some paranormal people and one or two I believe, but she's one of the ones where if you flush a toilet in your house she's going to go flapping and squawking out of it yelling "demon!  Deeeemonnnn!"  if that makes you feel any better.

If you would like to see it, but are perhaps too preoccupied or frightened to see it in theatres, let me know and I will come over, wait until you fall asleep, and then hover a few inches over your face with my ridiculously unkempt hair until I can muster up some bloody vomit to bathe you in.  That'll give you the gist.

Oh.  Also - can we all just accept that all dolls are horrifying, definitely come to life at night and should be burned in a great big pile?  I feel like that will solve a lot of problems. K thanks.

(Source).

2.  I was instructed by my Doctor for awhile there to abstain from sex so as to not aggravate Francisco the Asshole Cysto.  Now, as we all know, the instant you are told you HAVE to have sex you are suddenly overwhelmed with narcolepsy and likewise, the instant you are told you CAN'T have sex, you feel as though you have been mainlining raw oysters and Spanish Fly into your veins whilst sitting on top of an unstable dryer. Suddenly Bubba's "Greatest Hits" reel was playing over and over in my head, highlighting his greatest moments in vagenius. 

And wouldn't you know it, that asshat wouldn't go for it?  Try as I might to shimmy everywhere I went and drop a lot of things, he remained unmoved.  Something about sex resulting in wild amounts of painful screaming on my part not being his thing... weirdo.

3.  Speaking of weirdo sexual proclivities, I learned what 'cuckolding' is.

You see, a creepy man who wanted to buy my car (which is not for sale) had my number because I am an idiot. Bubella and I were out for a lovely dinner when creepy man butt dialed me.  Creepy man proceeded to have a conversation with a girl for seven minutes that began something like this:

"I know you want to fuck a lot of other people, I know you do.  I just don't get why I can't be in the room when you're doing it because that would really turn me on".

And then proceeded into further detail.  (and YES I listened for seven minutes in a very nice restaurant.. Who are you to judge me?!?!)

Any particular sexual fetish and I can usually, usually, tilt my head and squint my eyes and see why that would be a turn on for some people.  This one... no.  There is no fathomable cocktail - of booze, prescription meds, roofies, bleach, whatever - that you could give me that would result in anything else other than that girl being buried in my backyard.  (And my dogs have been kind enough to pre-dig the holes, just in case).  My feelings on the subject are best expressed via Madeline Kahn in "Clue".

4.  I spent two weeks in teen town.

I am crazy - NUTS - for my Sister in Law Bubella who is 17. She is a kickass girl who I have known for nine years and she will be one of my closest friends forever.  She's amazing and I can't wait for her to hit 21 so we can booze up the town.  Much more my sister than she is SIL. She is the exception to my rule - the rule being I tend to regard teenagers much in the same way one would a large sweaty woman's used tampon being placed in the middle of your Cobb salad.

But man alive - I could disappear into teen twitter town for hours.  Those bitches be cray-cray.  Everything is life or death, a horrible attempt at being deep, a picture that makes them look like baby prostitutes (you can smell the impostor perfume, I tell you) and/or they've apparently been told that just being aware that marijuana exists is your one way ticket to cooltown so by all means, prove it's existence in your life as much as possible.  Nothing is cooler than trying to look cool, apparently.

Honestly it's an entire post, my discoveries - the one Bubella is not immune to, however, is apparently whenever a teenager talks to their parents they inevitably sound like a sexually frustrated Napoleon Dynamite.

Not that I am always the best influence.  I may or may not, while we were in San Diego, have decided it was an excellent idea for us to go swimming in the hotel fountain which we did.  Mr. T and I also spent a significant amount of time trying to dress her like a baby prostitute in a West Hollywood thrift store.

5. Those of you who watch True Blood - know that I am a psychotic fan, and under no circumstances would I allow my Sunday evening to be interrupted when it comes on.  But good Lord this season is disappointing.  Can we just kill off Sam and Alcide, please, because I could really give a shit less at this point.  (Yes, fine, Alcide is hot - what if instead of him being a character they just had nudey pictures of him run through the credits?)

Because everytime him & Sam talk in this storyline that I don't give a shit about, my eyes glaze over and I swear to you all I hear, in angry tones, is:

Alcide: grrrr I have a beard
Sam: me too!
Alcide: Beard
Sam: No but seriously, beard
Alcide: Hey, Sam?  I'd like to talk to you about something... We have beards.

10 minutes out of every mother fucking episode.

6.  I watched Bryan Cranston get his star, which made me feel like a fraud considering I had just finished, less than 24 hours before, getting into a deep philosophical argument with Bub about why I hate Breaking Bad. And I'm the one that got to see him.

7.  Despite our deep, deep, deep fundamental differences in regards to Breaking Bad, Bub and I celebrated our 7th anniversary on the 22nd.  And yes indeed, sex we had. Vagenius reborn.

8. Apparently there's a headless man wanted on the streets of Los Angeles so, you know, keep a look out.

9.  I do not give a shit about the Royal Baby.  Do not. Give. A. Shit. And if from now on I have to spend every childless anniversary listening to what wondrous things he's crapped out of his tiny anus in the last year I will burst into flames Madeline Kahn style.

I mean health, happiness, best of luck but sweet merciful crap.. Really?  I am supposed to give a shit about this?  In 5 gajillion years he may be the head of a country I am not a citizen of.  Quick - everyone start inspecting the vaginas of expectant Moms to try and get a grasp of what fetus will be President when I'm 500 years old.

And spoiler alert - he looks like a grumpy old potato full of shit and tears just like every newborn.  He is a Royal Potato, sure, but a potato nonetheless.

It is, however, making me seriously consider announcing the birth of my child with a 41 gun salute.

10.  This afternoon I absentmindedly took my thyroid pill.  Turns out - not my thyroid pill, but half (HALF I didn't realize) of an Ambien pill. So the rest of my day will be spent thusly:

That video makes me die.

Okay - I think we're all caught up.  I am BACK.

Twitch

This.  Is.  Thursday.

I spent the morning at a Doctor's office who didn't want to see my twat.  (Is it weird that upon entering an eye Doctors office out of habit I undressed and spread eagle immediately?  Somehow he found that weird).  Okay, he might have not seen my nooners but due in equal parts to my dress, static cling and wind, much of Hollywood Blvd did.  Welcome, tourists!

My eye has been consistently twitching for three days now.  No, but seriously - constantly twitching.  In my sleep, even.  In case you missed it I've also had Thriller stuck in my head for going on 8 days.  I haven't quite figured out what the connection is, but there is one.  A few more days and the twitch may evolve into a full blown, out-of-my-control Thriller dance.

So I spent my morning trying to convince him with wild hand gestures and general dramatics that I was clearly suffering some sort of stroke, had a series of undetectable brain tumors and/or that given my brain's choice in musical accompaniment this was the last phase before I'm full on zombie.  He was unmoved.  Something about stress and taking a chill pill in the form of a vitamin.

I purchased a fan as I am at the mercy of an air conditioning repairman who has ordered a part, which, naturally, happens right on the cusp of a heatwave and as there's a giant raging fire east of where I live.  It was the last fan of it's kind, and a woman was about to grab it, but in the vein of Louis CK I gave my best 'I'm taking this fan home, that's what's happening next, you decide if we're going to be on the evening news' look.  Heat makes Stork's plumage and crazy eyes poof out.  I now own a fan.

But look!  A pretty view of Hollywood from the waiting room.

This evening I will be packing whilst watching The Office.  (Yes, I know..... it's been terrible since Steve Carell left.  But if your friend says "I'm about to die a slow, painful death" you do not say "oh, okay, peace out I'd like to remember you as you were".  In the spirit of loyalty you have to watch until the sad, final twitch).

Packing for what, you ask?

Stork is going away with her Mom for the weekend.

My Mom's birthday is May 4th.  My Dad died on her birthday (yes indeed) and it will be ten years ago this Saturday.

If you are in the mood for a wee bit of grief porn, I wrote all about it here.  (You know what I mean by that.. How many times have I watched the sad YouTube videos of women going through IVF with the inevitable Coldplay song on in the background?  Answer:  A million.  Some days it's a good idea to soak in the familiar pain of others, some days it's not.  I'll let you decide what kind of day you're having). 

Suffice it to say my Mom's not a super fan of her birthday anymore.  This year she rented a cabin to get away and announced to me "I can totally go on my own, you know, I'm a big girl".  Right, Mom, I want to be the asshole on Dateline crying and seizing as I explain why I didn't just go with you.

So I am looking forward to a weekend relaxing my eye twitch away with my Mom.  In air conditioning.  Not in 97 degree heat.  I feel sort of bad that Bubba will be stuck here, sweating, taking the dogs out in the heat and enjoying the use of my fan until I get back and rip it from his grubby little hands... but not too bad.  I'm sure he and the animals will enjoy a weekend of being hopped up on pizza and beer and watching space documentaries. 

Wishing you all a loverly weekend free of twitches, unavoidable 80s songs and bad weather.

And PS - check this shit out!  I am just... humbled and honored and definitely buying myself that smoking jacket and monocle.

And PPS - okay so I blogged about that asshat who wrote on huffpo about how awful it was going to be to have twins.  Apparently a dad of twins responded (thank you for pointing it out, S!) My eye already feels less wonky.

And PPSSSSSSS - Okay I blogged some major grievances about my half sister, Summer, who is a pregnant moron.

A recap for new people - I'm adopted, I've met this girl in person once, our relationship is limited to messages and texts. She just left her husband at five months pregnant on account of his not putting ultrasound pictures on his facebook page.  Ahh, mature love.

So now she appears to be on some creepy app whose sole purpose is to find and then casually hook up with strangers.  Like grindr for straight people and with less nipples. Mind you, half of the photos in her 'mom to be' album are all pictures of her boobs (I know what you're thinking.. "oh she must mean accentuated boobs when she's showing off her belly".  NOPE.  Just her boobs) so it's not altogether surprising that these are, in fact, being used as a hook up profile picture.

How do I know all of this, you ask?  Well, every time she looks at the profile of some skeezy guy on this skeezy app, it apparently broadcasts the activity and profile to all her facebook friends including me.  So, for example, on my facebook newsfeed there is a picture of some clown with no teeth and it reads "Summer is checking out the hook up profile of Skeezy McGee".

If there is a gawd in heaven I have to believe this is unbeknownst to her.  So.. do I tell her?  Or is it more polite to pretend like it's not happening? Subquestion... How exactly do I word this without sounding judgmental?  Because that will be a struggle. Also can't fathom how awkward it would be if she in fact knows and doesn't care.

Also, at what point in arranging a random hook up with a random stranger do you slip in that you're five months pregnant and five days separated? Is that covered in baby books?

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.

Acting

Happy day before food-death, Americans!

And greetings, ICLWers!

Me in bullets:

• Been with Bubba for 9 years, married for six.
• Condom laziness followed by actual trying in 2009.
• 9-10 rounds of clomid, 1 IVF, 1 chemical pregnancy.
• While I have my occasional moment of introspection, and certainly have sad eggs, this is mostly a place for shenanigans.
• ::jazz hands::

I was a vegetarian before I met Bub.  Let me rephrase - I was a vegetarian who loved the taste of meat before I met Bub.  Then one day I casually ate some beef and broccoli and it was all over after that.  Within a week of dating him I was hooked on Bub-meat and meat in general.

This morning - 

Bub:  Any bets on which turkey gets the Presidential pardon?  Your choices are cobbler or gobbler.  I'm going with gobbler.

Me: I'll take cobbler.... Wait.. what happens to the other turkey?

Bub: Pause... maybe they both get to live but the one who wins gets a medal or something.

Me:  That's it after tomorrow I'm not eating meat.

Bub:  Oh... gawd.

Here's the thing.  Bub loves meat (that sounds like an excellent title for a gay porn).  Plus he can't mess around with his diet too much because, in the words of Wilford Brimley, he's got the type 1 diabeeeetus.

Secondly, our exposure to non meat eaters the last few years has been limited to Vegans, let's say... 5 vegans.  So one of those vegans is delightful, knows how to cook and knows what they're talking about.  I would eat their food, I would eat it so hard.

The other 4 we were exposed to a few days into their vegan decision, and have to sit there for ten minutes while they grill waiters under hot lights and then end up sulking and picking at bread.  Additionally, if you ask them about their decision they don't seem to have any answers and this being Los Angeles it comes off like a socially acceptable way to be anorexic.

Plus, unfortunately, our vegan exposure has always inevitably wound up with someone holding a giant bag of kale like it was their last bit of crack, trying to convince us that it's just as good as bacon.  Discredited.

So vegan for me, I think, is out.  I buy the million dollar eggs that are free range/grain fed and I feel pretty good about that.  I also don't drink a whole lot of milk and I don't wear leather as I am not a Persian socialite or 1970s rock god.

But I am sick of watching movies where an animal dies, diving to cover my dogs ears and then telling her afterwards that that animal is an acting animal.. they are tickled pink to have had this role, and are in a bar right now getting laid strictly because of it.  Inevitably my dog looks at me and says "but.. you eat those kinds of animals". Damn that dog and her retorts.

So lots to think about.... after Thanksgiving.

(10 points if you know who that is... he makes me tinkle laughing.  TINKLE).

I have had the same car since I started driving.  She is a 1997 honda civic, and her name is Towanda the Honda, and she has been the acting queen of my motor safety for 15 years.  Her skin is pealing, she shakes if you turn the not-really-functioning ac on, she is full of trash, she can only play a song on my ipod for 30 seconds at a time, and her rear says "honk if you're cute, bark if you're ugly". Oh how I have loved her.

Bub had to drive her yesterday so I could get his car serviced - but don't worry, I warned him to watch out on his way home for women flying out of nowhere onto the hood of the car as Towanda is the ultimate pussy magnet.  It's a real liability.

She is dying, friends.  I had it verified by the car doctor on Monday, and today when I took her for a wee spin her check engine light went on.  Her next and final ride with me will be to my mechanic's to be stripped and sold for parts like a common street whore.  Mentally writing her eulogy as we speak.

In other news - as I was waiting at the mechanics for two hours yesterday staring at the ceiling and enjoying the smell of manly musk, I realized I have fooled around with one of the cast members of American Horror Story and teenage 'dated' him for a few weeks. I had this revelation, had Bub check online for the one fact I knew about him that is odd, and it was him.  I have love letters from him either buried somewhere in my house or my mothers garage.  (If this peaks your interest - message me.. I can't believe it).  If I was a crueler person I could make money on ebay, I tell you.

Tomorrow we in American Infertiles will sit down, count our blessings, stuff our faces, and try to act as though we are happier than we actually are.  Our holiday portrayals could win Oscars, I tell you.

If you need a giggle to prepare for your performance, I give you... Stefon.  (Seriously, if you have no idea what this is look up "saturday night live stefon" - always makes this funny-snob CACKLE.)

Sunny vs. Sinister

Happy Saturday, my little swashbucklers!

You should be jealous of me right now.  What?  Yes you should.  Last night I had a blind date.  No no, not the Ashley Madison kind, the infertile kind.

I got to meet Sunny from Cease and Decyst.  BOOM.  Drink it in.

I imagine when meeting someone off the interwebs a part of you wonders if

1. this is in fact going to be a middle-aged serial killer or
2. just want to share with you that if you simply donated $10,000 to their pyramid and believed wholeheartedly in the spiritual enlightenment of a bald man passing out flowers on Hollywood Blvd, you, too, could be a member of their cult get pregnant.

So it is with my delight that I can officially put my Storkiest Stamp of approval on Miss Sunny, who could not be more awesome if she tried.  She is of a Rockstar status in the mind of Stork and I would genuinely pursue her as a friend with creepy zeal whether or not we had shittiness in common (and we do, which makes it even more awesome).

I now highly recommend overlooking any of the above mentioned fears in getting together with a local infertile and doing it.  It is fucking liberating to be in the presence of someone who is equally pissed off about the very existence of children whilst simultaneously scheming how to create one.

We ate at a cute little 50's diner that I had never been to and discussed, among other things, porn, jerking off into a cup and let's face it, the greatest series of all time, To Catch a Predator.  (And if you are unfamiliar with that series, do yourself a favor and tune into MSNBC on a Sunday - which seems to be sex predator Sunday - it will either be documentaries on sex slaves or reruns of the aforementioned awesomeness).

Then, and I take full credit/blame for this, we wedged ourselves among hoards of teenagers (a healthy reminder - try as we might to get babies, everyone fucking sucks at that age with few exceptions) and saw Sinister.  My darling, brave Sunny was frightened during the previews... I of course took the high road and hid behind a popcorn bag.

Ahh, and for those of you who do not want to see this movie I'll sum it up for you (without any major spoilers).

1. Happy family moves into house.
2. Man wears sweater with suede elbow patches.
3. Sidenote - the post-Uma years have not been kind to Mr. Ethan Hawke.
4. Man finds movies of murders.
5. Man still wears sweater.
6. Shit gets bananas.
7. No.. seriously... weeks go by and he's still in this sweater.

Let me again make my case for those of you who don't like horror movies - in short, the moral of all horror movies is that nothing good can come of having children easily.  It's basically an open invitation for demons, little girl ghosts, and your possible dismemberment. (Also, in this instance, the moral would also be to do your laundry every once in awhile).

ANYHOO.

I adore her, be jealous of me, go read her if you're not already because I don't know what you could possibly otherwise be doing with your life.

And I will mention this again when it's not the weekend and more people are reading - but we're going to plan an outing for anyone remotely local and infertile, probably next month.  Something infertile friendly, like dinner and drag queens.

And now, a-la writing prompts, a little something about my Grandmother.

How do I describe her.... She is like, the elderly female Mexican version of Ron Swanson if you took away his hunting and woodwork.

She is both no-nonsense, and absolutely ludicrous.

Some Grandma facts:

• She calls my Grandpa "viejo" (old man) and will tell anyone that will listen that he drives her insane.
• Despite approaching 90, she still rides the scary rides at Disneyland and calls those who don't 'a bunch of chickens'.
• She was visiting us once when I was 9 and I got a very bad splinter on the bottom of my foot.  She spent an hour removing it - with a butcher knife - and told me 'not to be such a chicken'.
• Until recently she made menudo (no not the boy band, a mexican soup which is the end-all be-all cure for hangovers) every Sunday for our entire family. And there are a lot of us.  We like to mate. Mexican rabbits, I say.
• She will feed you whether or not you're hungry and take it as a personal attack if you don't eat.  Also?  That part that you don't eat - that's the best part.
• She once lost her glasses for a few days, accused everyone in the family of treason, and then discovered they were in a salad bowl in the fridge.
• One of her favorite words is shit.

Yes indeed folks, this is the stock I come from.  I want to be her when I'm an old lady.

Tomorrow I am posting the list of participants and questions for Mondays video!  Last chance - don't be a bunch of chickens.

May your Saturday be heavy on the Sunny and light on the Sinister.

Zombie Apocalypse

It is WEDNESDAY.

The rumors of my death and dismemberment have been greatly exaggerated - I've just been an unusually busy Stork.

Those outside of L.A. may or may not be familiar with the term "carmageddon".

Cars are to L.A. what pedestrians are to NYC.  If you want to travel two blocks, you hop on a highway.  To make some repairs, they shut down the 405 to the 101 this weekend - essentially the two highways everyone here takes.  They did this last year for a weekend, too - you go back and forth between thinking it's not going to be a big deal, and then assuming it's going to be an all out zombie apocalypse and you should be stocked up on can goods and whittling broom handles.  Plus, I live on basically the one available beach access road left.

It wasn't that bad - but I had to travel.  My life since we last spoke - 

Thursday evening went swimmingly - I was alone, rather enjoyed it, feel somewhat like a ninja warrior for not being too chicken.

Friday I had to drive down to the OC for my sister's 40th.  It was T-5 hours to carmageddon, and what is normally a 60-90 minute drive took me 3 1/2 hours as everyone was fleeing the city like cockroaches in the night.

Family party (babies babies everywhere there are babies), trying to be sociable with my sister's friends who were surprisingly lovely, dropping drunk sister off at rich friend's house for continuation of party. (Rich as in house, guest house, second guest house - hilarious trying to get my shitty car out the motion detecting gate).

Leave close to midnight for LAX, unable to take my usual highways, pick up Bub.  Maneuver through beaches and canyons to get home at 2 AM ( was convinced we were headed towards death-by-deer).  Dogs furious. 

Sleep all day Saturday.  Discover on Sunday that I need to do a psychotic clean, as house smells like old potatoes and we haven't had potatoes in weeks.  Clean, remove trunks of Halloween decorations from garage (which is a death trap), verify trunks are free of raccoon, put decorations up (including horrifying zombie woman on front porch).

Monday, wake up at ass crack of dawn as it is Mr. T's birthday and we go to Disney every year.  Arrive at Disney at 10 AM full of coffee and optimism.  Purchase fabulous lacey ears with a feathered top hat.  Marvel at the fact that all previous years we've had to wear sweatshirts - as apparently, this year, they moved the park from Anaheim to the surface of the sun, or just decided to hell with the theme park altogether let's make it a Disney themed sweat lodge.  Sweat off half of my body weight, discover they have jacked up the annual pass prices ($267 big ones, happy birthday Mr. T) had all around good albeit very hot time.

Get home Monday evening exhausted and full of hives (I'm telling you, it's entirely possible I'm allergic to children) forget that I put zombie woman on my front porch, scare the crap out of myself.  (Screaming, shaky hands, near fall... if you were a nosey neighbor peeping out your window at that moment my insanity would be confirmed as it would have appeared I was having a passionate argument with a mannequin).

Tuesday morning wake up to realize I have pulled a muscle in my rib cage (how, I don't know - I'm refusing to believe it was the zombie woman) and that jaw is clicking.  Who knew I even had muscles at the top of my rib cage?  The only thing I can think that they do is hold up my boobs.  Admittedly this is a difficult job, but as far as job assignment goes I don't see why they're complaining now or ever - compared to my colon they are doing the Lord's work.  Spend all day trying to figure out how to write while laying flat.

This morning, wake up, find that sleeping for 8 hours has eased the rib pain, but my jaw is worse.  Make impromptu trip to see dentist (again in O.C. - I'm a huge chicken and know my dentist personally, so that's where I go) and discover that I have somehow completely dislocated my jaw (again) without realizing it.  Listen to the disbelief at my pain tolerance, happily take prescription for pain medication, drive home.

As an amends for my absence, I'm gonna reveal myself in a picture.  A picture of Mr. T. & I, my gay husband (the straight one's a little camera shy), on the tram at Disney. Enjoy, because I will soon be replacing it with a picture of an angry uterus (when your chubby it's best if all forms of nudity are brief).

That's Stork.  Am I what you pictured? I'm curious because most of you I have no idea what you look like - but I've developed very clear cartoons of you in my head based on your personalities.  Wondering how reality stacks up.

So, this evening I'm going to watch the debates and enjoy not cooking, and then tomorrow I am doing nothing but individually crawling up into your uteruses to make up for my absence. You should feel the presence of ridiculous in your lady bits around noon PST tomorrow.

I did skim my newsfeed this morning - a few awesome gals that could use some good vibes:

WTW - who had some poor fertilization (been there - it's just as fun as it sounds). Hugs and love and good vibes encouraged.

Road2ourbaby - she's fine, but she had a bit of a scare with pregnancy/bleeding.  Good vibes encouraged.

SLESE1014 - My loverly friend found out her FET didn't work and is blue.  Internet forehead kisses encouraged.
B - her cat passed away (in the middle of IVF, no less).  Good furry vibes encouraged.

(Anybody else need cheering up while we're on the subject?)

So what's the drinking game for the evening - take a drink every time someone says "jobs"?  "Deficit"?  Or is that a suicide mission?

Strike

Greetings, my little temptresses!

My uterus, in case you were wondering, is doing nothing.  She's not approaching a period, I don't think she ovulated - she is fucking useless.  I dunno if she's been watching "Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo" and has decided that procreation is for suckers ( yes indeed, folks, I have only seen clips but I still marvel at the fact that those people can spawn).  Maybe she's taken a page out of the NFL and is assuming that while she's on holiday waiting for me to throw more money at her I have a bumbling temporary.  (PS - I could give a shit less about football.  Can someone come up with an unfootball me app for Facebook?  K thanks).

Whatever she's doing, she's useless.  U-S-E-L-E-S-S. I am trapped in an emotional prison with her. She is my prison wife.  I  have to cater to her every whim because she's protecting me from an even worse form of prison (which is hard to imagine), and yet I'm simultaneously whittling the end of my toothbrush in hopes that an opportunity will arise where I can just shank the bitch.

I drove Bub to the airport this morning for a wee business trip.  This is my first night alone in.. years & years.    I am a brave lady about many things but never quite mastered the house-alone-at-night form of bravery, so I'm looking forward to testing my womanly strength.  I calmed myself for the impending evening by purchasing a very cute 40's looking dress, and was lulled by a saleswoman's complimentary Persian voice into buying a dress where my sizable bazoos hang out for the world to see.  Womanly strength + bazoos = I am practically Erin Brokovich.

I am occasionally going to partake in the Barren Librarian's That's Me Thursdays.

Basically wherein one lists 3 things about themselves that has absolutely nothing to do with infertility.  Here goes.

1.)  My house is the epicenter of Halloween.  I live 2 houses down from an elementary school, and in a straight, grid-like neighborhood at the bottom of many many many very very hilly suburban streets where you would only let your child trick-or-treat if you wanted to kill said child.  Last year I spent $100 on candy to hand out, and ran out after 90 minutes.  The first year we were here it was on a weekend - and I stopped counting the trick or treaters but I'm fairly certain it reached a thousand.  Seriously, don't visit me on Halloween because you will run a kid over.  Not good for infertile karma.

2.) I have very, very large eyes.  You may be thinking "oh how lovely" - FALSE.  They are mostly unsettling.  Between that and the indescribable essence of Stork, I am an invitation for all local crazies to strike up a conversation.  On the way to the airport this morning at 4 AM, I stopped for gas and a drunk man talked to me about all the dew on my car, I had to apologize to Bub for the delay because when I am half asleep I'm somehow hyper magnetized.  When I went shopping, a man who was trying to return hand lotion because, and I quote, "it was cursed", decided to tell me about his woeful tale.

If you are within a block of me, you will think I'm making eyes at you. If I am in a dead sleep, you will think I'm making eyes at you.  If you are the lone space man who happens to be orbiting over my neighborhood in your saucer, you will think I'm making eyes at you.

3.)  If I pass a pair of cozy socks in any store, they will strike me as the coziest socks that ever were and I must take them home.

And I am dreadfully dreadfully behind on EmHart's September photo challenge.  I have many pictures!  So many.  Prepare to be bombarded this weekend.  A few submissions:


Myth
Throw a few people in here and it will look like NY.  Nope.  Paramount Studios here in L.A., and all just fronts.  Fairly certain if I hurled my fat ass hard enough at one of these buildings I could put a dent in it.

New
My 40s looking purchase from today... I'm gonna need you to get a few drinks in me to show you the bazooms one.

Roald Dahl

I'm slightly cheating here and giving you a pic I've had for awhile.. but damnit if I didn't try for a half of an hour the other day to get a picture of this damn dog still and in her pig costume.... but I give you Luna, my own personal BFG.

Cozy/Peace

The thing that makes me most peaceful is being in my own house, chilling out with Bubbaloo and the animals.  This is Phoebe striking her coziest pose (and I said on my homies page - don't be fooled, she'll cut a bitch).

Now.  Who's going to come over so we can hang out in footsie pajamas and ward off the boogie man?

Sidenote:  I am disabling the comment verification thing because I am blind & it can drive me crazy (if you have it, know how much I adore your blog if I comment because it's a good 5 minutes of squinting and cursing the heavens to get to you).

Strike up the porn.

Sleeping with and Mourning Celebrities

Wicked Wednesday my witchy wombats!

So, Monday I had sort of a rough trip down to see my Grandparents - my normally very feisty Gma isn't doing so great.  She had a bit of a fall a few weeks ago and now seems a trifle bit confused (and not in the usual charming way) so that got the wheels turning a bit.

And then, on the 90 minute trip home my car, who in car-years is as about as old as my Grandma, kept getting butt-raped by SUVs.  Let me assure you I am not a slow driver, though I have my limits - on the open highway, I do 80 maybe 85.  If 85 is to slow for you in the stop-and-start L.A. traffic, then I hope you have an eject button and a parachute.

And may I point out that under any other circumstance people would know that tailgating is inappropriate. For example, if I were in a bar and slightly apprehensive, nervous, and a little cautious, nothing would give me confidence quite like a stranger angrily pressing their front side against my backside.

So imagine my delight when I arrived home and had a package from the fantastic little sister-in-law, Bubella. I tell you - being adopted, if you count the biologicals and the sister-in-law, I technically have 4 siblings (sidenote - any of them could legally marry each other) and oddly enough she is by far the one I'm closest to and have the most in common with.  It's as though G-d/Zeus/Bea Arthur said "not only will I give you a soulmate, I will give you a sister-mate that he'll bring you".  So this brightened my day up significantly:

Yes folks, it is a button that says "I slept with John Lennon", and you should absolutely think of me any time someone says hooker. 

So now I am left with the task of coming up with a small, inappropriate gift for a badass 16 year old girl.  Seriously contemplated sending her her first vibrator, but am terrified that her parents would be greeted from a long day at work by a vibrating package.  So any thoughts/suggestions are appreciated.

This button is also honey-colored, which was one of my overdue photo prompts from the lovely EmHart, who I wish was a hooker.

On the subject of photo prompts and odd shopping excursions, today Mr. T and I went to lunch and then stopped off at a Marshalls.  (Mr. T's surgery has left him temporarily mute, and it was an odd experience having people look at me as though I had a heart of gold for having a deaf/mute friend.  And possibly also thinking that that was the only type of friend that can stand me).  

I am trying to make over my living room with some light touches.  I bought some candles that will make it smell like autumn, and I am done, d-o-n-e with the throw pillows I normally have on my couch.  They're from the upper part of the rainbow (my least favorite color scheme) and have taken a beating from the fur-chidlren.  So I bought some new ones today (which are in part, blue, my other missing photo prompt).

Now I don't want my couch-pillows to look like bed-pillows, but I would like them to say "sit and watch tv, or have a nap, or get it on with the Bettie Page like vixen who obviously lives here".  Thoughts?

And last but not least, I am left with the 'morning' prompt.  Now the aforementioned seriously-name-your-price EmHart mentioned the other day that as I clean to Harry Belafonte, she cleans to Michael Jackson.

Fast forward to this afternoon, and I'm going through old photos on my computer to clear up some space.  Back in 2009, when Mr. Jackson passed away, Bubba and I lived very close to "the Jackson Compound" (why do they call it this?  Are they planning some sort of revolt?).  So the morning after he died we walked over to their street to see the mourning... So I give you some pictures I took, that are taking up space on my hard drive.

The end of their street:

I've seen large press events in my life, but never like this - 

This is to the side of their driveway - can't even tell you how many people were in the little neighborhood.  Presumably those are Jacksons pulling up in the black SUV...

The front of their driveway -

Makeshift memorial in front of their fence -

Mourners on one side, press on the other.  Genuinely felt bad for Jackson neighbors -

May your neighborhood be free and your beds full of celebrities.

Fire

Super Saturday, my swashbuckling spermophiles!

Warning:  Do not continue to read this entry if you are easily infuriated.  No seriously, don't.  I'm going to throw the Secret Sunday entry on top of this one by tomorrow so you don't have to have a look-see if you don't want one.

It's cool we'll wait here while you click elsewhere.

No worries.

Okay I think they're gone.

So Sunday's prompt in the fabulous EmHart's photo challenge is "Fire".

When I finished my first photo entry earlier, I had a quick glance at what tomorrow's would be, and came up totally empty on what to post for "Fire".  No ideas.  A lighter?  Chit chat and write I can do all day - for instance I am completely terrified of fire, and am half convinced I must have been burnt at the stake in a past life - but taking a photo that has any significance to me in that department is a bit of a challenge.

It is Saturday as I write this (originally thought I'd post this timed for tomorrow - but eh, screw it) and I have spent all day not feeling so hot and watching anything and everything on Netflix streaming that is not baby or happy-family related.

I finished Insidious, and followed up with a documentary on a 'church' in Kansas here in the US.  I was watching this documentary, and there was a woman talking on it, and I thought "hold the phones - I've seeeen that woman before, haven't I?"

Yes indeed, I have.

(For the record - particularly with my shortage, I have never... eaten a child).

Most of you will probably read this and think "ohhh, I've heard of them before, didn't know the name" or instantly know who I'm talking about.  So forgive me if I'm giving you too much information here.

There is an elderly gentleman in Kansas, who is a pastor and therefor started a 'church' with some very, very extreme beliefs. He has a very large family, and they make up for most of the churches members.  They believe that gays are destroying the country, and that G-d is punishing us for being accepting of them by way of killing soldiers, 9/11 - basically anything bad that has ever happened here is punishment for that.  They protest everything - most disgustingly soldier's funerals (not that it matters, but this is whether the soldier is heterosexual or not).  Of course they have the right to say whatever they want, but unfortunately from winning lawsuits defending that exact right they have the money and means to go wherever they want in the country and protest.  If you'd like more info, by all means, google west.boro baptist church.

(And the documentary is called "Fall from Grace" and is full to the brim of delightful pastors & churchgoers who say lovely things and totally rip this church apart, so it keeps the blood down from a boil to a steady simmer).

Let me also make clear, particularly for foreign friends, that if you're an American, whether you're a churchgoer or an atheist, a gay rights activist or someone who thinks marriage is 'traditional', you are, undoubtedly, disgusted by these people.  I have never met a single person, regardless of beliefs, who isn't.

So where did I see this woman?

Ahhh yes, she was holding a sign that said I was going to burn in the fiery pits of hell (you know, for living here).

And so then I thought - aha!  My prompt is fire, and I think that maybe ( and hopefully, at that) I've seen them live and in HD  because I live here, and people from other parts of the country/world have not.  So I'm going to share my photos of awful.

In 2009 Kali and I (she who I'm forcing to see a scary movie tomorrow) had an adventure to the Academy Awards.

Every year at the Oscars, the real show is the few blocks around them.  It's a friggin madhouse.  People protesting things, people in costumes, tourists, cops, helicopters - it's a circus.  But these particular people come every year.  Every. Year.

2009 also happened to be the year that Sean Penn won the Oscar for Milk and in his speech referenced these signs of hate that he had to pass (as did everyone) to get in.

A few more pics of these signs of hate:

(I'd like to point out to the left, a woman wearing the flag as a diaper, and to the right, part of a group of small children forced to participate).

 (This girl is braaaaaave).

And the speech Mr. Penn gave referencing these people:

(Skip to maybe 5:45)

No words.