Babies in Ballgowns

Happy Wednesday, wombats.

I have been a wee bit absent on account of everything in the Stork house taking place in January:

• Bub turned 34 on the 5th.
• Tomorrow we've been together 9 years (eep).  Don't worry - this involves a slap on the back and a 'good on you for not killing me yet'.
• I turn 31 on the 17th. Vomit.  Is it me or does 32 somehow sound younger than 31?

For his birthday Bub got a few movies, a fancy shmancy sound system for the living room (according to him  it was a tragedy we didn't have this before) and an electric blanket.

This morning as I awoke under the heat of the fabulous new electric blanket, I flashed back to 5th grade sex ed class.  Towards the end, everyone was given an index card to anonymously ask an embarrassing question and pass it to the front for the teacher to answer.  The only question I remember was "What happens when you have a wet dream on an electric blanket?" 

This led to Bub & I attempting to review our sex ed terminology.  Not the silly words like 'embryo' and 'fertilization' but the important ones like 'dirty sanchez' and 'rusty trombone'.  You know, all the shit you'd never want to do in a million years but inexplicably has a brilliant yet disgusting name.

This is what 8 years and 364 days looks like.  This is love, people.

And while we're on the subject of love, and I am in my safe space of no judgement (okay, judge me a little - I do) I should say that I am tickled pink that the Bachelor is back on television.

C'mon, people.  It is the very definition of love.  When Shakespeare wrote of love surely he meant being followed by camera crews.  And getting wasted while dressed like a Miss America contestant. And leaning over many-a-balcony crying and looking thoughtful. And I, for one, believe that his writing would have been so much better if he very inauthentically replaced every other word with the word "journey". And if he referred to every scene location - whether it be a town, a house, a broom closet, or floating on a war torn iceberg - as 'the perfect place to fall in love'.

(Oh and on the subject of sex ed and reality television - fucking becomes innocently making love as long as you do it in a 'fantasy suite').

While I may not like the idea of an impending birthday wherein my neighboring years will officially all be in their 30s, in Bachelor years I believe I am 12 years old.  Nothing is quite as sickly satisfying as seeing a woman with crows feet, frown lines and all the foundation and concealer available in North America get out of a limousine in a bridal gown with the number "25" floating beneath her ridiculously spelled name.

Believe me, as an infertile I understand that some situations are most accurately described as 'journeys'.  I thought that sex minus condom equaled baby, however through my passing years I'm putting more distance between myself and the ridiculous reality of that idea working for some people.  It's a journey.  I get it.  Every time I think I'm getting closer to babyland I find out I'm not even halfway to Mordor and there's 40,000 new terms and creatures with oddly shaped feet I have to learn about before getting there.  I think we can all agree, however, that we need another word - any other word - to describe a process other than 'journey', just to mix it up.  I also think we can all agree that people need to stop singing Journey songs a-cappella.

As Kali and I were watching the premiere and being catty via text message, it occurred to us that this show has been on long enough that there was a point where we could watch it and think "look at these older broads going out and wrangling themselves a husband".  Now it is a mix of women who are clearly pushing 40 and lying about it (honestly if I went on this show, I would say I was 50 - that way people at home would think 'she looks awesome' instead of 'What. Happened.') and babies in ballgowns.

If my daughter were to tell me, at 24 years old, that she was going to go on TV and share a man with 24 other women, I would only approve if this were a business decision as a means to launch her porn career.

Now granted, if you're doing the math, I met Bub when I was 21.. which now seems ludicrously young.  And I married him when I was 24 (!). I take some solace in the fact that I was only drunk in a fancy gown once, and that was on my wedding day.

If you think about it, you could name all reality shows Babies in Ballgowns by default, and for 90% of them it would be a completely accurate description.  The Bachelor, check.

Real Housewives of hell, grown women having 3 year old tantrums while wearing ball gowns, check. (I don't understand this particular brand of person... wherein as a woman your goal is to become a plastic nightmare, and as a man your goal is to become successful enough to reward yourself with a plastic nightmare.  Like a corvette.  Or a fancy toupe. Men, please just wear a hat, drive a nice-enough car and marry a pretty-but-worth-something wife.  Stop the madness).

Or worse, actual Moms wrestling actual babies into actual ballgowns.  Honestly, so much time and energy on my part into wrestling a baby into my uterus and this is what these women are doing with their easily-attained-children.

Whilst Bub was still on break, to continue the theme of reality tv and us furthering our sex education to new and ludicrous heights, we did catch an old school best of "Real Sex" on HBO.  Oh man.  

How many men and women do you think are out there, who did a ridiculous episode of Real Sex back in the 90s when they were in their 20s, who now live a perfectly beige life and are praying that their spouse never catches a rerun on HBO?

We learned about splooshing, which is basically an orgy involving food.  Sounds sexy, right?  Wrong.  Least sexy thing ever.  Imagine a group of very unattractive people rolling around in hot sauce and eating a wide variety of spiced meats off of each others ginormous retro bushes.

And now that I've typed out the word "splooshing", I literally cannot wait to later check what terms new people used to find my blog.  Bring on the porn comments.

A Weird Little Glimpse into My Marriage

Manly Monday, My Minxy Mom-abees!

Oh - today I am in two places at once, like a magic trick.  I am guest blogging over at Growing Griswolds and inevitably causing her to lose followers - she is amazeballs, USA and you should check her out.  A double dose of me in one day - much like taking a double dose of any drug, you may be delighted or you may die.  I am also over here.  (Magic magic magic magic....)

For those of you who fled the internet over the weekend like some sad abandoned carnival, a few of us had a little pow-wow and decided that today would be the day we would give a bit of a glimpse into the secret world of Men.  Marriage.  Men.

It just seems odd to me that we should know so much about the sperm of our respected partners, and so little about the actual partner himself (or herself) other than silly nicknames like DH, or Z, or Bubba.  And so today is the day to give a little glimpse into our weird little marriages and the ones crazy enough to enter it with us.  If you'd like to join us, by all means add your name in the comment section!

I give you a weird little glimpse into my marriage, and my Bub.

(Flowers from our wedding).

Bubba in Bullets:

• Prior to our meeting, he went to many-a-club with his friends, who have told me that he has been kicked out multiple times for falling asleep in said clubs.  Once, he fell asleep on a speaker, and an employee told him he had to leave because "the tone we're going for is sexy... and this is not sexy."
• He has one main facial expression, which is 'grumpy', and subtle variants of 'grumpy'.  This incidentally makes him very sexy.  
• I pride myself in being able to make people laugh (it's my thing - in exchange for which I have 100  I cannot do), he is by far my favorite person to make do this.  A smirk from him is my comedy high point.
• He is a born musician - can play any instrument.  If you give him a shaver he'll figure out how to make music with it.  This is equal parts impressive and infuriating.
• I guarantee he snores louder than your husband does.  It's like sleeping next to a chainsaw ripping into an angry bear.  I can no longer sleep without this noise.  Equal parts impressive and infuriating.
• He is a professional computer nerd who lords over other computer nerds.  He goes to work in a t-shirt and jeans, and stares at a black screen of programming jibberish.  I like to think he works in an evil tower seeking world domination and  I am thankful he doesn't feel the need to over-explain what he does because it might ruin this image.
• He is half German, primarily raised in Germany.  There is no lingering accent, except for a few mispronounced words ('Q-pon', and my favorite 'rum' instead of 'room') for which I tease him mercilessly.
• The only porn he owned outright when we moved in together was mysteriously Portuguese, and mysteriously without sound.
• If he shaves in the morning, he will have a beard by nightfall that makes him look like he crawled out of the Bible.
• He puts wooden spoons in the dishwasher and his shoes in the dryer.
• Yes, he is my best friend.  Show me the woman who says "I married my 4th best friend, really, but the top 2 were unavailable and the 3rd was gay".

A weird glimpse into my marriage:

• Everyday when Bub comes home from work, I have a barrage of pointless questions that I would like him to answer, like, "do you think the cat, because of weight and coloring, thinks she's shamu?" "Do you think there's a guy who got a sperm analysis, who can't cum without shouting and talking dirty to the porno ladies, and made an ass out of himself?" "Why are rubber ducks a thing?" He is a very good sport.
• When he's being too quiet I pinch his nipples and gently slap him.  (He is, decidedly, not a fan of this).
• I can't do dirty talk (I'm more of a dirty listener) so I like to send him one word texts with dirty words.  You know - PENIS.  SEX.  VAJAYJAY.
• Inexplicably when he's in the kitchen, I have to flash him or pull his pants down before going about doing dishes or cooking.  No I don't have OCD - it's not like I think gravity will reverse itself and we'll all go flying if I don't, it's just... what I do in a kitchen.
• On occasion he playfully calls me "bitch" and I playfully call him "mein fuhrer".  I love this, however I'm a little worried we'll accidentally do it in front of someone who will misinterpret, much like I'm afraid I'll accidentally kitchen-flash him when someone is over for a civilized dinner.
• I do not let him leave the house without a kiss and an I love you.  If I don't do this, gravity will reverse itself.
• I cannot fall asleep undrugged if there is a light on in the neighbors house much less my own.  He, on the other hand, loves nothing more than to fall asleep on the couch with all the lights on in the house and the television blaring something inevitably loud and violent.
• We have a box of sex stuff in our closet.  Married 6 years, and while we certainly have the occasional off week we haven't reached that sex-slow-down I've heard so much about.
• While I always thought it was cheesery, I can safely say with absolute certainty I love him more now than I ever did before.  And I was psychotically in love with him pretty much from day one.

Other Manly-Monday participants (and if I somehow left you out - some seemed less committal - lemme know in the comments and I will add you!)

Unexplained Rantings

Follow Every Rainbow

My Life is About the Journey

Expecting to be Expecting

Road2ourbaby

Mommyhood After Fertility Frustration

Sprout

wishinghopingplanning

Iydkmigthtky

Things Couldn't Be Better

My Bum Ovaries
The Future Fords

Cease and Decyst
Tales of a Cautious Optimist
Quest for the Positive
Pretzels and chocolate

I am traveling to the OC today (or as I like to say, behind the orange curtain) so I am gleefully looking forward to coming home this evening and getting my fill-o-gossip.

Plumbing.

Happy Thursday, my little internet geishas!

Despite accepting that there are idiots on this planet that believe body parts are conscious and sentient (ahhh yes... I remember that one time my kidney sat me down for a hot bit of cocoa, and asked me how I felt about her creating a stone, seeing as she was unsure how much I enjoyed all the caffeine I guzzled) I am still having one helluva period.

I have been in a hormone induced funk.  So I've been playing Mario bros.

Anyone else find that whole storyline strangely pornographic?  What are these plumbers doing involved with a princess?  Is she a bored housewife?  While the prince is away is she inventing plumbing problems to get a wee bit of attention?  How many people are aware that she is knee-deep in blue collar Italian workers, not to mention dungeon culture? I don't even want to think about how giant lizards come into play.

It's all very S&M.

Senor Bubba's sperm analysis is on Monday.  He had one, oh, I want to say a year ago. Twas fine.

I made him take pictures of the inside of the room.

In a very-fancy-I-assure-you clinic, the spooj room was just one sad couch that looked like it hadn't been replaced since the mid 1970s (who says you can't pull off a neon print?), a shotty tv and a stack-o-porn.

I don't know why I was expecting something super fancy and secret and a kinky-deserving-of-Mario... I'm fairly certain if you put a man in a hazmat suit, gave him a TV that only broadcast the Teletubbies and invited the local senior citizen center to watch him, he'd still figure out a way to get off.

Which begs the question... What would the lady version of that room look like?

Honestly, our plumbing tests are just no fun.  Tis a cruel world wherein infertility testing for a man involves an orgasm, and for us it involves multiple versions of  everyone's favorite game "how many things can we shove up there?  Could you shoplift a watermelon?"

I'm thinking candles, I'm thinking flowers, I'm thinking wine.

I'm thinking they'd have to hire some man to sit you down and compassionately nod whilst you tell him about your childhood, while he simultaneously greased his own abs.

Everything would be upholstered in Ryan Gosling.  Pictures of him, his flesh, his dirty tissues, whatever.

There would be speakers telling you repeatedly that you are stunning, that men prefer a little junk in the trunk, and that there is nothing sexier than a woman in sweatpants & a tank top with holes in it, eating her weight in chocolate and yelling about senators.

So you there - you there in the funk.  Yes, I'm talking to you.  Don't question me, damnit - either I read your blog or I have sensed you psychically in the ether.


Dear You,

Tis a shitty shitty thing that we are both members of the terrible club that knocks you down repeatedly before you can get knocked up.  (It's very chumbawamba of us).

You're just going to have to conjure up all the best bits of all the women that you used to be, because it's going to take all of them to stay afloat.

You are an amazing, kick ass woman - and you know I don't like people on the whole, so my vote counts twice.  I have never met/read a huge idiot who had a genuine problem with getting pregnant - but how many idiots do we know that got pregnant easily?

When it happens - and it will - you'll be putting one up on the scoreboard of awesome people in a time when we're losing dramatically to awful people.  Because you've been a Mother to that kid looooong before it was conceived, and love is never something you're going to have to work for.

When you're angry/frustrated/just done with your uterus, and you're thinking that you are disappointing everyone - yourself, your husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/plumber, your pain in the ass mother-in-law - and are thinking you may not end up with a child at all, know this:  should you never procreate, all those people (including myself) will have considered themselves lucky to have known a kick-ass, fascinating and vibrant warrior woman that makes up for those boring assholes down the street with 10 children.

Now send me your secrets, asshats.

Love,
Stork

The Do-Him List. Also, Go Cheer Someone Up.

Happy Tuesday, my lovely lady lumps.

So Monday was a bit shit.

I spent most of the day going through and paying all the bills from IVF in June.  Millions of trees had to die so that I could get countless copies of essentially the same message:

Dear Jenny,
We are sorry that your month long journey into a uterine abyss did not result in a baby, however we sincerely hope that someone is breastfeeding you, as you will never be able to afford store bought food ever again ever.  You owe eleventy million dollars. It's due yesterday.
Kisses!
-The Medical Community

And then, kids, and THEN, I'm on the phone with my Mom complaining about said bills, when the doorbell rang.  Could it be my neighbor who is clearly digging graves in his backyard? (Who is, by the way, still...digging...)!  No. Worse.

Strange Lady: Hi
Stork: Hi....
Strange Lady: I talked to your husband earlier about coming to pick up your crib?
Stupid: No.  You really didn't.  You must have the wrong house.
Spawn of Lucifer:  Whoops.

Also, though I got a positive digital opk last.. Wednesday?  I never had the O pains that I usually do, so I'm thinking it must have been a bust.  Oh well, gratuitous sex.


So let's cheer ourselves up with a game, shall we?

Five people, dead or alive, that are at the top of your "do him/her" list.  Go.  Don't think.  Trust your instincts.

Mine:

1.  Bill Murray
Shut your filthy whorish mouth.  I don't care if he's approaching 500 years old, this man has literally never said anything that didn't make me laugh out loud.  If he had been the one to call me and tell me that only one of my eggs fertilized, I may have fallen off my couch laughing.

2.  River Phoenix
He was my first love.  Never have I ever seen a man so pretty and yet miraculously heterosexual in my life.  When I was 11 and learned he had died I would've been less upset if someone told me Santa Claus had been castrated and shot.

3.  Angelina Jolie
Don't pretend she's not on your list.  And I'm not talking about do-gooder, Mom to a small tribe Angelina, I'm talking old school wearing blood around her neck and talking about knives Angelina.  Gimme.

4.  Ryan Gosling
Okay, it's a little boring and obvious but who are we kidding.  My hairdresser and I on Friday had a heated debate about Gosling vs Reynolds, who I find hideous.  Can you not tell just by looking at him that he's a smug asshole?  Seriously.  So beige.  Gosling, I feel, before any love making would improvise some poetry about your eyes, feed you some sort of exotic fruit hybrid whilst simultaneously greasing his own abs.

5.  Eric from True Blood
No, not the actor, just Eric.  I want him pissy, mean and wanting to eat me (interpret that as you will).  One of my biggest irrational fears, living here, is that I run into him somewhere in the daylight and discover that he's a delightful human being.  No thank you.



Alright.  Gimme.  Let's hear yours.


******This just in.

This is lo.  She is wonderfully funny and one of my favorite sisters in shittiness.

She is 13 days into her post-IVF 2ww and hasn't had a positive pee stick.. Yet.  As someone who recently traveled to CooCooVille post-IVF, I support any and all activities that involve going to her blog and cheering her on.  Nude tribal dances on behalf of her ovaries are encouraged.  (And yes, when you are having a particularly rough moment I may shamelessly point people in your direction without your permission.  Bite me.)

Also, this is Doping For Baby.  Also full of awesome-sauce, also a shitty-day.  I encourage good vibes.

For you, lovely lo, as you have revealed below what can only be described as an extremely odd fancy for Patrick Stewart.  My cat judges you.

Seeeecret Sunday

Happy Sunday, my Darling Sugar Muffins!

Did I tell you I have a group of friends that inexplicably call me sugar muffin?  Alas, this is not my secret.

Put on your Sunday's best and a crazily feathered church hat, it's Secret Sunday.

I will start us off.  Today, as we're all popping our secret cherry (Secret Cherry would be a great all girl band name, but I digress) I will happily take credit for my secret.  When I throw in something a little more awful, I may decide to blend in with the crowd.  Here goes.

I once vomited in a girl's hair out of anger.

What?  Yes.  Shit just got real.

For the record, I am not a vomiter.  Have maybe vomited 10 times in my life. In fact, my earliest and most vivid childhood memory was going down a plastic slide in my room, hitting my tummy on the floor, vomiting, and being so terrified because I didn't know what the hell it was. Didn't even vomit as a baby.

Twas 1998, at the Tibetan Freedom Concert in D.C.  It was glorious, minus all those people being struck by lightning (my one memory of our now departed Beastie Boy was him getting on stage and imploring everyone to get the fuck out) and the puke incident.

There were two stages in a ginormous stadium.  I was innocently standing towards the front of one of these stages at a moment where no one was playing, both stages were being set up, and I had lost track of who was to perform where.  There was a crowd, but everyone was pretty quiet and had a decent amount of personal space.  I was behind two very calm young ladies bedazzled with black clothing, an alarming number of holes in their faces and the air of desperation one can only associate with desperately trying to be cool.

In about 10 seconds, 3 things happened:

1.  Radiohead walked out & started playing "Karma Police".
2. Everyone started pushing.
3. The holey-faces lost all of their cool-airs and morphed into matching psychotic tweens in such a way that can only be described as "Bieberesque".

Me no likey getting pushed.  Suddenly everyone is so close that if someone 30 feet away from me sneezes, 400 people get shoved to the ground by the sheer force.  If I let out a gentle fart, I would knock down the person behind me.  I'm 5 foot 2 -  I instantly know I am in trouble, and am now sinking in a sea of people where I will inevitably drown.

Holey faced girls are now jumping up and down, flailing their arms about in a muppety fashion, like Jesus has just personally arrived in a Pentacostal Church.  Looking for an out, I see a security person on the sidelines 5 feet away who is motioning for me to get to him.  As I'm staring at him bugeyed and silently plea "help me!" one of the holey faced girls elbows me in my stomach.  Hard.

Mind you, never in my life have I really been able to vomit even when I'm nauseous.  If I tried to make myself throw up, I would probably fail.  But as G-d is my witness, in this one moment, I thought "I'm going to vomit on that chick".

I threw up in her hair.  Anger vomit.

I then grabbed her by the back of said hair, and as her knees began to buckle I put my foot on the back of her knee, and propelled myself using the hair-vomit-knee combo.  I flew into the arms of the security guard who quickly said "that was awesome" and then carried me out.

It has been 14 years since this happened and while I love Radiohead,  to this day every now and again "Karma Police" makes me nauseous.

And now the amazing made-me-die secrets of others:

From Rosy Red:
Who doesn't have a "got caught having sex" story to tell? Well, here's mine. I was having hot sexy-sex with my boyfriend in college late one night (in the living room) while we thought his roommate was out for the night. We were both naked, (and I note this because the older I get it seems the less clothes I take off. But you know, when I was a hot college chick, the clothes never stayed on.) Any-koot, I was on top when his roommate comes urgently out of his room for a drink. I had never seen my boyfriend move so fast. He flipped me over to cover me with his own bare naked arse, and we waited for his roommate to leave, trying to quiet our panting breaths. I couldn't see anything, but the next thing we both heard was him smack against the wall and react, "oh, that's a wall!" I think he figured out what was going on and didn't want to turn on the light. My embarrassment was lightened...a little.


From an Anonymoose:
I actually pit people against each other at work rather frequently and then sit back and watch the train wreck in front of me.  I love watching the fights that ensue!  I don't make anything up, but I use the knowledge that I have to cause problems.  Maybe it is because otherwise work is pretty boring so I need some entertainment??  Maybe I am a drama queen at heart??  I just can't help myself, though! 


From The Porcupine:
When I was 6 years old, I did a big poo in a potty. Then I stuck all sorts of Barbie doll accessories in it, like tennis racquets, golf clubs, shoes etc. It looked like a porcupine.


From EmHart (who is now a personal hero):
I used to be a life model, for about three years at various places, and I absolutely loved doing it and I would love to get back into it again.


From B:
I love picking my nose because I feel like I'm saving the environment by not wasting tissues.  But I ALWAYS wash my hands after and always do it in the privacy of my home!  I never touch anything without washing them!!   Although one time I did wipe one on someone's back who made me really mad when they weren't looking but I felt really guilty after.


From an Anonymouse:
I do not enjoy anal sex because whenever it comes out it makes me feel like I'm taking a poo.




AMAZING.


I am making this a weekly thing. This is my new Church. Therefor, if you do not become a member I will show up at your door when you least expect it, perky and carrying pamphlets. Drink the koolaid.


When you think of something to share, send me an email and I will add it the following Sunday.


Purge yourself, much like a short girl at an overcrowded concert.

Sex is the New Black

Good day my fellow ovary challenged.

How was your weekend, awesome?  Awesome.

I spent my weekend in my pajamas, minus a couple of trips to Chipotle.  Bub is doing some sidework doing web stuff for a plastic surgery place, and some mail they sent him went to our neighbors who promptly brought it over.  Did I mention he was on the couch with his dingaling out when they came to our front window? Oh, it was.  And they're new.  So far they know the following about us:

1. Names
2. Dingaling
3. We appear to be getting some sort of plastic surgery.

Luna (giant puppy) tried to kill a baby bird and took a dump on our bathroom rug.  Phoebe (corgi) is finally looking less troubled by the ongoing firework noises.  They're both rescues - Phoebe I'm fairly certain was plucked out of the ghetto somewhere, judging by her response to said fireworks.  I'm not sure if she was a crip or a blood, but in the movie montage of her life, I'm fairly certain Coolio's "Gangsta's paradise" plays in the background at some point.  Just sayin'.

And that's what's new in the house of Stupid.

Oh, and Bub found me a clueless looking stork to replace my picture of pelicans (that I took at Santa Monica pier of a man who literally fished out of the water, and then fed fish to said pelicans.  Amazing.)

What?  YES.

So here I was, trying to think of things to be thankful for in relation to IVF, other than the fact that it exists.  And then it occurred to me - SEX.  Yes. Sex, ladies and gentleman, S-E-X.

I am blessed with a high sex drive to begin with.  (I know, I know.. I'm like that girl who's 95 lbs, looks at your flub and says "OMG I wish I could gain weight like you" and you want to blink, turn to her, and swallow her whole without chewing... But I said I was going to be honest in here, so there it is).

However, when I was harboring under the delusion that I ovulated, or even when I did ovulate with Clomid, I did not enjoy the horny and horned little Jenny on my shoulder that shouted "I don't give a rats ass that he's late, exhausted, and you are bloated like a life-raft, do it, do it NOW you wee harlot".. (Did I mention horny Jenny is also a pirate?)

The beauty part about being at the last stop on the crazy train, aka IVF, is that you're pretty confident that no one is going to get knocked up unless there's at least half a dozen people in lab coats in the room.  (Admittedly, knowing what I know now, I would've been a bigger whore in high school).

So sex can, yet again, be totally recreational.  Mission: give me some of your best swimmers and then I'll stare into the abyss with my legs in the air for 30 minutes becomes Mission:  if I put my legs in the air I wonder if that'll give me a better orgasm.  

Gone are the days where one has to say "watch porn if you have to, we're going in 10 minutes" or worry about anything that involves mucus.  

Adios, BBT thermometer, the only digital things I will be inserting into myself will have been purchased at Hustler.

If I were single and devoid of morals, I would get a bumper sticker that said "barren and disease free".

Sound the trumpets, bust out the costumes and strange vibrating purple things, sex can be fun again.  And I don't have to involve a half a dozen people in lab coats unless I'm feeling really saucy.