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.

Stork's School for Teenagers

It is Thursday.

In other news, my husband was almost attacked yesterday by a used prophylactic.

He was outside taking a smoke break (I know, I know) and noticed a used condom on the ground - someone had apparently the night before been so fiercely turned on by the outside of a techy building that they just had to get it on. (I imagine this is also the sort of person that chronically masturbates to Princess Leia in her gold bikini and jizzes in his pants at 11:59 the night before they release a new version of Call of Duty).  As Bub was walking away a sassy gust of wind came along, hurled the condom into the air, and my love narrowly escaped the world's weirdest cum shot without even the benefit of being wined and dined first.

Now, I am 6 days into a 10 day progesterone regimen.  Imagine he had not been spared from this offending baby baggie and arrived home covered in jizz, saying 'honestly babe, I was minding my own business and was attacked by a rogue condom'.  I am a trusting person, but that would give me pause.  I also happen to believe that a progesterone fueled pause leads to punching.

From a few conversations I have had the past couple of weeks - with my lovely sister in law Bubella, reminiscing about high school with a few people, talking with my perpetually 15 year old half sister, and listening to the batshit antics of a friends' younger sister - I have reached the conclusion that I need to run a school for girls. Or at least release a heavy handed pamphlet.

A few guidelines, ye ladies of 90s origin who are braving the frontlines of teendom, from someone who has gone through it and lived to tell the tale.

(source).

1.  Bad Boys

I understand the attraction to bad or otherwise just mean boys, I do.  As I have stated before my husband perpetually looks like he either wants to fuck me or kill me and I am completely turned on by the resulting confusion.  There are few parts of 'bad boy' that are fine - the look by itself is totally doable, the idea that he stands up for himself and doesn't conform is even more doable.  That's about it.

If he drives 90 mph everywhere he goes (what's sexier than my very real impending death!), makes you feel like shit, or behaves as though giving a shit about anything (including you) is conformity - run, don't walk, away.  This is not badass, this is pitiful.  In 20 years he will be prematurely balding, buying himself Taiwanese hookers on craigslist, and living with either his literal mother or some poor woman who reminds him of her.  

If that's not enough to frighten you, another angle:  A man can drive crazily and treat women like shit, or he can have a big penis.  Ne'er the two shall meet.

2.  Bad Girls

I hate to be the one to ruin an ending for anyone, but that girl that is just a rancid bitch to everyone in High School?  She'll probably still be pretty in 20 years, and she'll probably live in a great big house in exactly the same neighborhood that she lives in now, and that house will be filled with beige furniture and beige little children.  

But while we're on the subject of her probable destiny, I can also with a fair amount of certainty assure you that she'll probably hate herself, her life, have absolutely no real girlfriends to speak of (except for that one and they really hate each other), a secret meth problem, an inability to get through a day without a chardonnay IV and her children will be forced to call the prematurely balding man I previously described "Daddy".  

And you will still be weird - only difference there is that there won't be a freaking day that goes by where you don't thank gawd you are. There's no point in stressing out about trying to please or outdo her now, believe me when I say, you've already won.

3.  Older Boys

If you are 16 and you're dating a 20 year old, you may be inclined to feel slightly puffed up about this.  Good for you, snagged an older dude.  This makes you a super hot commodity!

...unfortunately this also makes this guy super fucking creepy.  Having issues understanding why?  Imagine a 16 year old guy trying to motorboat a 12 year old girl.

Even if you're not dating an older dude.. you've suddenly realized that older men are looking at you now.  You've grown some boobs and the newness of taking them out for a spin in a low cut top and feeling a breeze on your half exposed ass, I mean, the attention is intoxicating.

But for chrissakes, I beg of you, don't feed the pervs.  The grown ass men who are paying attention to you are on par with teenage boys paying attention to an elementary schooler in a bikini.  Sure, I could get myself an ego boost from flashing my boobs at a construction site (I could also feel energized from sticking my tongue in a light socket) this does not make it a good idea.

4. Pictures are Forever

I am super grateful that when I was in High School the internet was a new thing, you have my overwhelming sympathy that you are growing up in a time where half of America would probably walk straight into the mouth of a psychotic mountain lion because they were busy checking Facebook on their smartphones.

When I was in 8th grade AOL became a thing.  I had to sit down at a 40,000 lb computer and wait for 5 minutes while it dialed up to connect (dialed up to connect).  There were approximately 3 people on that thing, all of whom wanted to have cybersex with me.  Teenage girls were, are, and will always be the crack to the internet perv.

The pictures you take of yourself with your new boobs poofed out, bending over in front of the mirror making inexplicable fishlips in drag queen make up - that shit is forever.  You know that embarrassing baby picture of you that you hope nobody ever sees?  It's like if I tattooed that on your face.  When you're 30 and some potential employer or some guy you met on EHarmony is looking you up, they're going to find that picture and think "score!  Lookie here!  She was a baby prostitute - I can practically smell the baby powder!"

It. Is. Creepy.

I know what you're thinking - what's wrong with forever getting attention for my sex appeal?!  Here's what's wrong with it:  it's the wrong, creepy kind from the wrong, creepy people.  It's intoxicating to you right now because it's new - much like going on a roller coaster for the first time is intoxicating and new.  However, if you've been on said roller coaster for 20 freaking years in a row, you will probably want to get off, have a good barf and try a different fucking kind of ride.  Posting your sex pictures online is basically the equivalent of nailing your ass into the seat of a roller coaster because you like it right now.

Princess Leia is now 500 years old and you know what people bring up with her the most?  The fucking gold bikini. Which, by the way, is practically a berka by today's standards.  And that shit is from the 70s.

(Source)

5. Pot Smoker vs. Pot Head

I have zero problem with pot, I live in California it's practically in vending machines.  However, as a PSA I would like to explain the very big difference between a pot smoker and a pot head.

A pot smoker is someone who occasionally smokes pot, like one occasionally has a drink or occasionally gets a pedicure.

A pot head is someone who smokes pot everyday, feels absolutely awesome about doing nothing, stares into the abyss and lives in a cat-pee smelling apartment that is entirely furnished in cardboard and old pizza boxes.  This is not cute.

All of the post-25 year old Pot heads I know are basically some version of this:

6. Sexy Sexy Sex
While we're on the subject of things some people wouldn't approve of but I'm okay with, let's talk about sex baby.  I would never in a million years tell a teenager to not have sex - if it feels like the right thing to do at the right time, do it.  (But wear a fucking condom).

I will say that that girl who is trying to uber impress you by telling you she's already slept with 10 guys and has orgasms just from wearing tight jeans is full of shit.  If you're trying to figure out how to have fantastic sex for gawds sake ask questions and try figuring it out with some humility. Porn is useless.  I repeat - if you are a girl, porn as far as an instructional manual is concerned is useless.  Aforementioned full of shit girlfriend has probably gleamed most of her knowledge from said porn, and will probably be 45 and still have no idea where her clitoris is.

So sure, have sex.  But if you're running around asking everyone you meet to bang you on the end like a stubborn ketchup bottle, knock that shit off.  It doesn't lead to hotness it leads to herpes.

7.  Joining Groups
It's completely cliche but for gawds sake be your fucking self.  There will be places that you fit in, groups that you identify with.  I'm still a hippie and a theatre nerd, but buying into any one label entirely - whether it be goth, popular girl, punk, hippie, theatre nerd, roadkill enthusiast - just to buy into a label so you have some platform to judge other people off of... It's no different than hurling on a cheerleading uniform not because you like cheerleading but because you feel like it gives you some exclusivity and the right to be a bitch.  Retain some freaking contradiction and texture, that'll be what makes you interesting.


8.  Teenagedom is a Survivable Condition
It's going to be over soon, a faint memory, I promise.  Shit that seems like a really, really big deal one day you will more than likely never remember 5 years from now.  Promise promise.



Have I missed anything?  I feel better now.

Oh - in case you aren't feeling super old just by reading this post, fun fact:  Kurt Cobain's daughter is now old enough to drink.  #MindBlown


  

The Fears of an Insane Person

You there, Lurker.

Yes you.

I fully support you hiding in the bushes with vaseline and a pair of binoculars. I do.  I dig weird.  But I'm really nice, I promise.  If you're going to be in my bush reading about my bush consider this just me coming out and making sure you're not in need of lemonade or a cookie.

As they say in Beetlejuice - Are you gross in there? Is it all night of the living dead in there? Are you covered in blood and puss?

Or do you, like me, have issues with the functioning of your puss?

REVEAL YOURSELVES.  Let's be friends.

And then you can go scurrying back into the bush from whence you came without a peep from me... for awhile.  I am hella friendly, ya'll.  I can sense you out in the ether.

Let's get full on apeshit out of our minds coocoo for a second and consider that it is possible, possible, that I could be pregnant three months from now.  Possible.  For a moment let's throw out all that blaspheming hopelessness I was feeling on Monday and consider that a possibility.

(Source: Brilliant fucking post you should all read).

First let me say, I will obviously be stoked beyond belief.  (And you should still come hang out with me in the interspace, even ye who lurk, because let's face it more so than a blog about infertility this has been, and will continue to be, mostly the unrelated ramblings of an insane person).  If pregnancy means that I will grow a 40 lb hunchback, start shitting out of my fingertips and grow a full on billy goat beard, I will be stoked about it beyond belief.  Beyond belief.  Not one whine out of me once I hit that 3 month mark.

That being said, I would like to share some of my more ridiculous fears about parenting/pregnancy because again, this blog is mostly the ramblings of a madwoman and if I don't ramble to you... who then?  Innocents on the street?

1. I am not afraid of having an autistic child or the like (Bub has a touch of the ole' aspergers - no relation to asparagus in case you were wondering).  What I am worried about is that I will somehow raise... oh gawd.. an asshole.  

Do not misinterpret - I will love that asshole.  But what if, despite my best efforts, he never tips waitresses, takes 40 items into the express line at the grocery store, and when he's done with a coffee just chucks his freaking cup out of his car window because he believes the apocalypse is imminent anyhow?  What if Bub's brains and my dancing bear charm converge into some supervillain asshole that aspires to marry very old rich women and upon moving in 'forgets' to install the no-slip appliques on the shower floor?

2.  Equally important: Bub's hair grows straight up like a pineapple, and if left up to nature alone, my hair is a giant, curly afro. (Fuck, even after straightening it if someone exhales within a mile of me in a moist enough fashion, my hair will widen to ten times the size of my head).  What if these two things combine and we create a son that looks like the lost member of Kid'n'Play?  Or worse - what if we create a daughter that looks like the lost member of Kid'n'Play?

3.  I have a high pain tolerance, I do.  I have had kidney stones, I have had cysts, I have broken things.  Ask anyone who knows me - much like Gloria from Modern Family if I dislocate my shoulder I will pop it back in myself and continue on with my day.  I, however, am so afraid of natural labor.  And please oh please, do not point me in the direction of a video where a woman in dreads makes sexual noises and releases her child into her home-assembled hot tub.  That just makes me more afraid. I will not be swayed by Ricky Lake's nipples. I pretty much feel like a lone wolf, here, in that I would like to be numb from the ears down.  I can't even fathom Bub being in the room with me as I barely want to be in the room with me.  My feelings on the subject are best expressed by Amy Poehler a-la-baby mama:

But what if that's wrong?  What if as a result of not chewing through my own cord and making everyone homemade placenta shampoo, my kid grows up to own a motel, wear my clothes, stuff my corpse in a corner and continue to have very aggressive conversations with me despite my death?

4. This is completely ridiculous, yes... But I am 7,000 lbs as it is.  What if after pregnancy, I am permanently 14,000 lbs and have to go the rest of my life looking like an eastern European woman who should clearly be professionally competing in the shotpot?

5. I am a person who has vomited maybe 5 times in her entire life (this includes my stint as a baby).  My earliest childhood memory is of going down my plastic slide, vomiting, and then being so frightened by the vomit that I ran to my Mother and made her come explain to me what it is.  I have absolutely no idea what it feels like to vomit.  What if, as a newly pregnant person with no previous experience in sensing an oncoming barf, without warning I just find myself opening my mouth and vomiting all over myself at inopportune times? I open my mouth to order at Chipotle, I vomit.  I open my mouth to thank someone for opening a door, I vomit.  I go on stage to accept an Oscar when they finally recognize stupidity as a category, I vomit. Can you appreciate that I will never be able to go to a restaurant ever?

6.  My house... My house.  I bought a nice house next to an awesome elementary school.  Had it not been for the previous owners decorative choices, we would never have been able to afford a house of this size in this neighborhood.

In short, the 70s were a very important decade to the previous owners.  Carpeted floors, wood on the walls, wallpaper that was made from a clowns nightmare.  We've been here three years and even though we've done a lot, holy gawd is there a lot to do.  I have a room - an entire room I shit you not - that is just boxes of my husbands' inexplicable cords.  If tomorrow the apocalypse comes we won't have any food or water but we will be able to plug in all things everywhere and still have plenty leftover to hang ourselves with (I swear to Christ those cords breed when I'm not looking.. The room looks like a very special techy episode of Hoarders). When/if the time comes, this cord room will become the nursery.

I am not known for my deep interest in manual labor or my incredible coordination in all things domestic.  And holy gawd there's another fear - no fucking way is my kid going to have neat hair (obviously), the best cookies at the bake sale or a wonderfully colorful chore chart.  Will you take a look at the cake I tried to bake Bub for his birthday?!?!?  I am clearly headed for my own cooking show.

But sweet baby Jesus, the house... I am going to go batshit insane trying to get it together in just a few months - gawd help everyone if I go through a typical nesting phase.  I at least love my husband enough to admit that nesting for me is going to be mostly supervisory - me sitting in a chair, looking menacing in my 14,000 lb shotpot body and commanding everyone around me to do things.

I fear everyday when Bub comes home from work he's going to open the door and be greeted by me and Mr. T, like so:

Frankly it's miracle enough he's not greeted like that now and my ute is empty minus a couple of cysts.

Oh gawd.

It's normal, right?  Normal?

Mind you if all of the above is true, I promise promise promise I will still be the happiest shot-potting Catherine O'Hara/Mrs. Bates hybrid the world has ever seen.

I just figure that if (yay hope!) I actually do get pregnant, it's best to get these fears out of the way now... Right?

Love me still.  Please.  I'll bake you one of my pretty cakes.

On Keeping a Gay Husband

Happy Thursday, interwebs of the internally challenged.

My week has been like a Baz Luhrmann movie full of color and general shenanigans, which is precisely what I needed to follow last weekend.  Sunday made me a wee bit sad as I already admitted, and so this week my gay husband and I have been on a mission to cheer up.

(For new people:  Bub is actual husband, Mr. T is the best friend, aka gay husband).

As you may or may not know I spend most of my week sitting in my pajamas, which inevitably include tank tops with holes around the nipples, and writing.  When I am not doing this, the gay-husband Mr. T and I like to play Real Housewives of Los Angeles or on a particularly sassy day as was Tuesday, Real Housewives of Disneyland.

We are like twins who have developed our own shorthand language.  If we spend more than an hour together, we always end up convulsing into inexplicable fits of hysterical laughter over nothing.  I do not recommend spending more than an hour with us.

When you take our little freakshow to Disneyland, we are so much worse.  Sometimes we don't even make it to the actual park before someone is convulsing and threatening to pee on something.  Case and point, Mr. T was in the backseat on the way there on Tuesday, and he was complaining about the arctic level of air conditioning that I enjoy.  Half hour outside of the park we had already started laughing.  Mr. T prepared to text Bub to let him know that he would be peeing in the backseat of our new car, but no need to fret, because of the temperature it would just be a frozen pee cube.

At some point in the day, we always end up talking to each other exclusively in our LA voice - it's like if a gay man and a snotty valley girl taught a child to talk, and that childs tongue had been stung by bees...Also if that child demanded at every restaurant to know if their kale was organic, demanded to know how many calories she would be consuming if she rode Pirates of the Caribbean, demanded to know if the fat ghosts on Haunted Mansion had ever tried the cayenne pepper cleanse, demanded to know if tourists from the midwest lived in any proximity to the middle east.

We also decided that the day called for me to have many hairdo changes.  Throughout the day I had braids, a side pony, pigtails, and a Mormon updo (which led to me asking the attendant on haunted mansion if she was confident the ghosts had all accepted Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior).

Suffice it to say, we usually go alone.

On Tuesday my closest local lady friend Ms. Kali braved it, bless her heart. I do not believe she knew what she was getting into. At first she was adult supervision, and then she threw her hands in the air and decided to join the circus.  (She even got herself a circus themed pair of ears).

Still on our cheer-up mission, today Mr. T and I went to see The Great Gatsby. We both psychotically love Baz Luhrmann with a disconcerting ferocity.  (He's the Director of the to die for Leo version of Romeo + Juliet, and though I usually disapprove of movie musicals on principal, the amazing Moulin Rouge!).

I will try not to ruin this for anybody (but seriously guys?  Didn't even read it in High School?) so I'll give you the jist.  Leo is in a love triangle with Carey Mulligan and another actor (where Carey Mulligan is the desired object...) Tobey Maguire is the cousin of Carey's and friend to both men, and the narrator.

Now, I never understood lusting after the Leo of the Titanic era, but the R&J Leo, yes ma'am.  I'll take two.  To this day when I watch that movie I am capable of muting my usually cynical heart ( why don't they just run away?), wholeheartedly investing myself in their love for one another and wanting to bathe my fully naked body in Hawaiian shirts, spurs, and Leo's floppy bangs.  Leo's gayness has never stopped me before from believing him as a straight man.

Oh, I believe Leo is gay. Right?  I mean... he's gay. I'll give you a moment if you would like to adjust to the shock of it and come back.

.......

So since Mr. T had already seen Gatsby prior to today and had already expressed to me that there was no way to walk out of the movie without thinking that Leo & Tobey have at one point or another slept together. I remained skeptical.

The movie was great, it was great.  But as per usual Mr. T is right, and watching Tobey and Leo make faces at each other is a bit like watching Ms. Jolie and Mr. Pitt in "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" when they were allegedly totes platonic.

The irony being that I think if Leo were just out and gay, he could play straight without any squinting or head tilting from anyone...but he is now lining his closet with the red-faced alcohol bloat of a never-ending shame spiral, and the apparent insistence for an uneven snookie like orange splotch of bronzer on his chin.  Cue head tilting.

Now that I'm home and plucking 40 lbs of popcorn out of my bra, I am developing a deep respect for Carey Mulligan's acting chops. She is essentially having to play not only the lone taco, but the deeply desired taco in a sea of bratwurst lovers at Oktoberfest. Give that girl an Oscar.

I wanted to reach into the screen and tell Daisy (her character) 'dude.. You can totally have two husbands with far less drama if you just make sure that your gay husband knows he's gay, okay?  I'm here in the dark with my gay husband and no one's going to get butt hurt over it'.

I say this because, as evidenced in my every day life and particularly this week, having a spare gay-husband is absolutely invaluable.  And he doesn't get me into sticky situations, he unsticks me from myself.

(Yes that actually happened at Disneyland, and after he satiated his catty bitch and took a picture, Mr. T, in fact, unstuck me).

This week I read the amazing post on depression that I'm sure you've all seen.  The author illustrates how she spent a year in a deep depression, and what started to snap her out of it wasn't her many concerned loved ones or even her own desire to.  She was one day crying on the floor of her kitchen (as you do) and happened to notice a single piece of shriveled corn stuck under her fridge.  Something about the sheer absurdity of that threw her into a hysterical laughing fit for the first time in a year and she started to come to.

Bub is my soulmate, my partner, my one true love, my lover, my world.  Mr. T is my friend-mate, my long lost twin, my shriveled piece of corn.

We both have our husbands and obviously a way different kind of love for them then we do for each other, but I'm his spare husband and he is mine.  I would die if I didn't have Bub, I would cease to see vivid Luhrmannesque colors if I didn't have Mr. T.

If I were to create a gift basket to all new infertiles full of shit that they would need, it would be full of pee sticks, instructions on how to block people on Facebook, some tequila and their very own Mr. T.

You absolutely need your husband or wife on this road (unless you don't in which case may I say, you're a badass) to go through it with you, but I really wish everyone had someone on the outside of the situation to gripe about it with you.

With Bub, right or wrong, I don't always tell him when something tiny upsets me about the uppity world of fertiles, because frankly I don't want to bring him down with me if I don't have to.  Mr. T is on the outside.

If I get sonogram snipered, he can tell me that that girl sucks balls and always has.

If at Disneyland I fantasize about renting an empty stroller just so that I can hit the back of fertiles heels to see how they like it, he doesn't see anything wrong with this plan and may even encourage it.

He can remind me that the Moms we see on Facebook are mostly completely fucking miserable.  Maybe they even have a secret meth problem.

He can correct me with certainty when my 'whens' become 'ifs'.

He can put my hair in a mormon updo because some days require a lot of hairdos.

It's an embarrassment of riches, having my two husbands.  One that makes it hard to feel too sorry for myself, even just a few days after Mother's Day.  I'm lucky.  I have a team to unstick me when I've stuck myself to the kitchen floor.

So my suggestion to Carey Mulligan's Daisy is for gawds sake, if you're going to have a spare husband make sure he's gay and he knows it.  Far less drama.  You might not get a movie out of it but you'd certainly get a good time at Disney.

Bystanders

Happy Wednesday, warrior-wombed.

I am, yet again, at the mercy of the a/c man.  Today is the day he will come and make my breezy dreams finally come true.  That's one trip for diagnosing, one trip for removing giant hunk of metal treason, one trip for replacing.  Did I mention because of conflicting accents that I can't understand a word he's saying, and he can't understand a word that I'm saying?  If this were housewife porn we'd be off to a very rough start.  And seeing as how a giant tumbleweed of dog hair just blew past me I can safely say I would be the world's worst housewife, so no porn angle is a little limiting.

I'm sure everyone is aware of what's happened in Ohio on Monday, but seeing as how I can't be sure how much coverage this is getting outside of the U.S., I'll give you the jist.

Three women in Ohio went missing, separately, 10 years ago - two were minors and one was 20.  On Monday evening, a man was outside of his house and heard a woman screaming next door.  Upon further inspection he saw that it was a young woman holding a child, trying to escape his neighbors house.  So that man, Charles Ramsey, broke down the door and called 911.  He thought he was intervening in a domestic abuse incident, and it turns out he was helping to free three women - and a resulting toddler - from the captivity they'd been held in for ten years by three brothers.

First, let's all take a minute and think about what a freaking miracle at the end of horror this is.  Horror because I think this sort of thing happens a lot more than we think it does.  Horror because we can only imagine what those women have gone through.  Miracle because when I hear about someone going missing for ten days, that dark part in the back of my head thinks 'what are the chances they're still alive?'.  These women resurfaced after ten years, and just a few miles from where they went missing.

Second, can someone buy this man a beer?  Free McDonalds for life?  A pony?  Something?

If you've watched or read interviews with this man, he is definitely rough around the edges.  So naturally, seeing as he's a black man combined with the fact that he's not pretentious, some of the interwebs is making fun of him and saying he's going to be the next Antoine Dodson (of 'hide you kids, hide yo wife' fame).

(Sidenote:  Antoin Dodson has now renounced his homosexuality.  I have no words... Hide your wives?)

Ummm, no.

This man was a bystander that sprung into action.  It would have been the much easier, much more popular route to take to simply go inside and 'mind his own business'.  Thinking it was just going to be an instance of domestic abuse - which is famously ignored a lot of times - he got involved.  He helped the woman before he even had time to think how it would affect him.  If part of his brain wondered if right behind the girl there was going to be an angry man with a gun, and I'm sure it did, he didn't listen to it and a lot of people would have.

And now that he knows what he did was not just the 'typical' domestic abuse incident in a bad neighborhood?  He doesn't even want the reward.

No one should give a shit about how he 'presents himself' and just be figuring out how to present him with a round of drinks, and pray for neighbors this good.

When I lived on the east coast, I volunteered with a rape response organization.  We dealt with women directly after their assault, and accompanied them to the hospital.  From my experience with that I can tell you that it is frightening how often someone has the opportunity to intervene, call 911 - do something - and doesn't do it out of fear. In the self-defense classes we used to teach, one of the first things taught is if you're in trouble to yell "fire!" because "help!" people have a tendency to ignore.

And really, when things like this happen and you hear a story of someone being heroic, it's an opportunity to ask yourself and really think about what you would do. And be inspired to be a Badass free of Bullshit like the ridiculously charming Mr. Charles Ramsey.

(This one did give me an inappropriate chuckle, though...)

While we're on the subject I need some guidance, and ye whose lack of functioning wombs have been replaced with wild amounts of wisdom, will hopefully be able to help me figure things out.

On Monday I wrote about munchausen by internet, wherein a person keeps a fake blog for attention, usually full of horrible tragedy and unbelievable miracles.  The last two days my time usually reserved for dicking around the internet and watching cats behave cat-like has been replaced by gobbling up information on this phenomenon.

Here's the thing... At what point do you intervene with a blogger?  When do you go from being a reader to being a bystander?

If you come across a blog where a person is claiming to harm themselves or to be in some kind of situation where they're being harmed or harmful, is there really a difference between passing that blog by and passing by a similar person in real life?

Normally, when a story or concept gets me playing the 'what would I do?' game I'm pretty good at it.  I'm not a woman who waffles (though I do love me some waffles).  I know with a good deal of certainty that in the fight, flight or freeze scenario whether it's on my own behalf or someone else's, I fight.

But until the last couple of days, all of those scenarios involve something happening right in front of me, live and in HD.  Adding the internet to the situation throws me completely off.

If a woman was in front of me and making claims - however outlandish - of being beaten, tormented, abused or victimized, whether it be by herself or by others, my thought process would be what do to do help her, not whether or not I should.

If I came across a blog where the woman was making the same claims... this is where I get stuck.  If she's not asking for money, do you just leave her to it?

Even if you know the claims being made are more than likely untrue... what if you're right?  Girlfriend still needs help, and even if you walked away you don't know that other people won't become emotionally or financially invested.  Or worse - what if you're wrong?  I can't help but think that at that point you have now, albeit in the comfort of your own home wearing pajamas,  become the asshole on the news who walks past a woman passed out on the street.

Is there a difference between seeing something like that online and just quietly stepping away from the blog, and seeing something like that in real life and walking past it?  And if there is a difference, help me - what is it?

I think that the bright cornea-burning computer screen somehow takes the edge off of remembering that on the other side of what you're reading there are real people.  The security of being invisible as you pass through people's lives makes a whole lot of things possible.  It makes it possible for us to ignore things that we don't like, to make fun of people like Charles Ramsey, to look at the facebook pictures of that dick ex boyfriend you had in high school.

If you removed the computer aspect from people, very few would be able to walk by a woman screaming 'help I'm being abused! Pay attention to me!' even if you were pretty sure she was lying.  No one would have the balls to mock a guy who just did something completely heroic.  You would not be in your ex boyfriends bushes with binoculars (...hopefully not).

The internet gives us permission to do a lot of things, and I am mostly cool with that.  If someone's blog bugs me, I don't read it.  The unfollow button may be the greatest thing to happen to the internet since someone figured out how to upload videos of cats.

But in the online world, at what point does ignoring something make you complicit?  What's the line a blogger's toe would have to go over to make you want to figure out how to intervene?  And then, do tell, if you do find a blogger who is making outlandish claims and you find yourself wondering whether it's worse if she's lying or telling the truth, if you did want to do something... what exactly would that something be?

I'm thinking of the example (and subsequent blog) I read online, where a woman faked her cancer blog. Claimed she was dying, had been abused, had had suicidal thoughts.  The people who reached out and tried to help were screwed, because she was a fake.  The people that ignored it let those other people be screwed.  So what would have been the happy middle solution?  Would there have been one?

I in no way shape or form would want to go trampling in someone's life without permission.  Violation of privacy is a disgusting feeling, and I think we can all agree my specialty is more in the realm of inappropriate jokes.  I also know, however, that in real life I never want to be the person who regrets not doing something because it was 'none of my business'.  Does that translate to online though?  I don't know.  And how does the online world make it seem like it's really none of your business, even though I think we can agree part of the purpose of blogging is to have people read it?

The last couple of days of thinking about these things and all I've come up with is that if you throw in a computer into any given situation, I will freeze... and I'm not a freezer, ya'll, I'm a fighter.  Just tell me how.

Munchausen by Internet

Good morning, sunshines!

I sincerely hope your cinco de mayo has not transformed itself, this morning, into a cinco de uh-oh.  Fun fact from a former resident of Mexico:  no one celebrates or gives a shit about it there.  Cinco de Mayo is basically Mexican St. Patrick's day - just replace the leprechauns with donkeys in sombreros.... nonetheless I am in support of any holiday where animals wear hats and nachos are encouraged.

The weekend in the mountains with my Mom was hella relaxing, ya'll.  Thanks for all the loverly wishes - seeing as it's a day to both celebrate my Mom's birthday and mourn the fact that my Dad passed 10 years ago, it's a bit weird and tricky, and every year we sort of blindly grasp at how exactly to feel about it.  A game of pin the emotion on the sombrero wearing donkey, if you will.

I'm happy to report that pretty views, unbelievably fat squirrels, wine and the potential to get eaten by a large bear helped ease it quite a bit.  Be jealous:

Today I would like to talk about something weird and disgusting.  Either you're going to pass by this entry and think 'well that's weird', or if you're like me, one of those people that has to gawk at the accident on the side of the road, you're about to disappear into the internet for about 4 hours feeling equally intrigued and nauseous. Soooo yeah... I'm about to weirden up your day.

A few months ago I read this article.  Don't worry, I'll give you the jist, but holy shit me read it when you get the chance.

A lovely lady was diagnosed with breast cancer, and felt isolated and in need of support about her diagnosis.  She turned to blogging and, as you do, found ladies that were in her exact same position.  She also, without trying, found multiple people who were faking cancer, and blogging about it to get sympathy.

There are several examples of it in the article, but there was one that bit me on the ass harder than the rest.  A young woman in Texas made a tumblr blog about having AIDS and cancer when she was, in fact, perfectly healthy physically.  She went as far as to shave her head, fake seizures in videos, order feeding tubes and wheelchairs off of Amazon, receive hundreds of gifts from well wishers, etc.  She even conned some friends into changing her adult diapers.  (Let's all pause for a moment and let that sink in...).  Even though the article uses pseudonyms, it didn't take a lot of snooping to find the real blog.  When one of her friends found out what she was doing, she broke into the account and changed the password so that the blogger couldn't take down what she had done.

So when I found the blog a few months ago, I disappeared into it and read it from start to finish.  It is, suffice it to say, super disturbing... But if you're like me and want to look, I suggest reading from the beginning.  So click at your own risk.

Part of me wanted to write about it a few months ago, but I couldn't really find words.  Then yesterday this lovely lady (wanna find blogs you have mysteriously missed?  Join twitter) tweeted the article and after we started talking about it I was re-inspired to maybe open up the discussion on this sort of thing.

Soo... it's a completely icky thing to think about, I know.  I don't even like typing it, but my thinking that our little infertile corner is and will remain to be completely immune to this sort of thing, is probably me being optimistic and naive.  I mean, this is the internet. In regards to any other subject I logically understand that a good percentage of it is full of shit, and if there are 100 blogs about lady troubles one of those is going to be written by a bored, slightly disturbed middle aged man.  And yet somehow in regards to our type of blogging, I would still be shocked to find out that someone was full of doo doo.

For the record, I'm not really a blog unfollower.  Once I follow, I follow.  I think in a year I may have unfollowed twice and both were because the blogs turned into 99% religion and 1% infertility (with a religious twist).  It was just too much for me, and I didn't see a scenario where I would read with excitement and/or have a helpful comment, and probably more so I unfollowed because if they really started reading me back they would inevitably start a petition to have me burnt at the stake.  That's been the extent of my having to step back from any blogs that I read.

I have, however, had a few moments of the internet where I never engaged with an infertile at all because something struck me as off.

A long time ago, I happened to be perusing new blogs at Mr. T's house and happened to come across the blog of a pregnant infertile.  I read a little, and something about her story struck me in my gut as wrong and I couldn't really put my finger on it.  Then she posted a picture of herself 6 months pregnant, and I showed it to Mr. T and asked "does this look right to you?" and he said "that's not pregnant, that's just fat". That may sound judgey - keep in mind I'm a chubby girl, and my chubby assessment was that he was right.  Feed me a steak, give me an hour, I could recreate it myself.

I used to be a regular on one of the more popular trying to conceive forums.  Now, these are hugely helpful websites, especially this one... but more than once there was a girl who was very obviously full of shit, or whose sole purpose was apparently to stir shit up online.  (I can't, ya'll... I'm too exhausted for shenanigans.  My feeling is that if you find yourself using the word 'drama' on a regular basis, you're probably the cause of it).

And of the few times people have seemed not-quite-infertile in forums, I don't think it's a case of someone telling a lie to the internet - she believes she's infertile.  When I was an active user, every few months there would be a case of someone having recurring chemical pregnancies, and a gang of frustrated infertiles would whip themselves into a frenzy telling her it was impossible.  I had a 100% verified chemical pregnancy from IVF -  100% verified because they were monitoring me so closely.  I typically call it an early miscarriage because for a few days there I had the medical community's permission to be happy.  We can save the argument for another day, but it doesn't matter to me if a girl can actually prove to me that she's had a chemical pregnancy... I know that some people have had a ton of them, and some who believe they've had ten have never had one.  As someone who has definitely had one, I take no offense to the idea that she might be wrong if it's real to her.  And if it does irritate me, I just leave her to more understanding people.

My response on the very few occasions where a blogger or forum user (when I was one) seems fishy is to just not engage with that person or take a step back.  I have yet to be invested in someone and think 'wow this person is full of shit'.  I suppose if someone had a lot of people emotionally invested - and definitely if they had anyone financially invested - and I had proof that they were full of crap, I would say something.  As ballsy as I tend to be, though, part of me would hesitate in rounding up the pitchforks.

Why, you ask?

One, the easiest way to tell if someone is doing the whole munchausen by internet thing is if they fall victim to a series of tragedies... however a good percentage of infertiles, including  myself, have fallen victim to a series of tragedies - when it rains and all that.  I am a person whose history has some outlandishness to it.  I'm adopted and half of that story is coocoo.  The day I found out I had to have IVF, I came home and my cat died.  My Dad died on my Moms birthday, for chrissakes. Gawd knows some of us have recurring miscarriages and that is quite literally a series of tragedies.

Two, I would be hesitant to round up the townsfolk and battering rams unless I had more than just my gut feeling, because I'm not sure what I would do if someone said to me "I don't believe you are who you say you are!  Prove you're infertile!"  I mean, honestly... If someone were to leave that as a comment to this very blog post I'd be like... "Umm.. Dude, I dunno how to make you feel better about it... Come to Los Angeles armed with sperm, try to impregnate me, watch the ensuing meltdown?".  Seeing as I am infertile, I would be hap-hap-happy for someone to find a way to prove to me that I'm not one.  My entire infertile existence at the moment is dedicated to finding someone who can find a way to prove that I'm not one.  Make me a liar, Doctors!

Three, it's just sad.  Don't get me wrong it's totally fucking disturbing, but it's also... just sad.  I'm not sure how you go about dealing with someone in that kind of dramatic mental state without doing more damage.

Four, and this is going to sound wussy... I have stumbled across once or twice a blog where people are in love with the blogger, and I don't get it, it's just not for me.  It would never occur to me to stand up on a soapbox and say "hey, why are you all kissing this girls ass? Explain it to me". I just don't read it.  So if I just had a feeling in my gut about someone, I would be hesitant to stand up on my internet soapbox and say "hey guys, why are you all believing this?  Explain it to me." Mostly because I wouldn't want to be pitchforked myself (this is all assuming there's no request for 'donations' or anything.  I'll let people hate me for a few minutes if there's a possibility of saving them money).

From my disappearing into hours of reading about Munchausen by Internet, I've gathered a few things that make me feel a wee bit more confident about the possibility of a day when I'll have to ignore my hesitations.

One, if the person is full of doo-doo their series of tragedies will be incredibly outlandish and unrelated to each other.  And more than likely, it will happen at a time when someone else in their online circle is going through something real that may steal the spotlight from them for awhile.  There will be dramatic twists and turns, etc.  It won't just be that they got a flat tire, it will be that they got a flat tire because they had a seizure behind the wheel after swerving to stop themselves from hitting big foot. And most important, it'll happen a lot... Not just one dramatic thing a year, or a series of totally related dramatic things, but unrelated dramatic things happening to them all.. the.. time.

Two, the stories that they tell are usually fairly easily disproved with a wee bit of research.  My big point here is by all means if you have a gut feeling about someone, do some research.. but be armed with proof before you go dismantling someone.

Three, they are mentally disturbed.  We're supposed to respond firm and gentle with the purpose of getting the victims out of the situation, not with the purpose of harassing the perpetrator for initiating it.

Four, if you find a person like this more than likely their followers are going to be pissed with you at first if you're the one to hold up some proof.. Who wants to initially believe that someone would do something like that?  You'd be doing it not to build a gang and light torches, but to save some people time and energy once they've had time to process their initial response.  Personally if I was convinced enough of someone's falsehood, I would probably just privately email someone else in our community that I trusted, to have them verify to me that I wasn't being batshit before I went about trying to handle the situation.

So I've only had a few gut feelings about a few people in my entire online infertile experience... I've lucked out. So begins my internal discussion and my questions to you, what exactly are we supposed to do when this happens?  Has this ever happened to you?

The darling Rachel had the idea that maybe we should blog about this... Let me know if you do.  I'm just thinking maybe we should have the discussion, as icky as it is.

Sidenote:  I love me some catfish.  That show freaks me out and intrigues me to the point where if I watch too much of it I turn to Bubba, who I met partially on the internet, for reassurances that he's not in fact a portly middle aged man with a wife.

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?

Equal

Greetings blogosphere!

Yes I have been weirdly absent.  There is not going to be any giving up on this blog, so if you're worried I'm going to be one of those ones that fizzles before it dies, it's not gonna happen.  Stick with me I'm coming back slowly but surely, I am I am.

The simplest way to explain it is that I've just been focusing on getting my body and head right.. To be around pregnancy, sure, but mostly to stop totally numbing myself out to infertility altogether.  I would like to not be totally numb and ignore it, and I would also not like to feel every last little thing about it all the time so that it's consuming my whole world, if that makes sense.  And as of late it feels like it's one of those things with no middle ground which for me at least does not make good writing - but I'm approaching middle ground, finally. Methinks.  Hopefully writing it out doesn't jinx it.

But I miss you.  I'm gonna start putting in an effort again because it's weird to not have my free internet therapy. And it's weird because mostly I miss you for all the not fertility related things... It's nice to have people to talk nonsense with and know confidently in the back of my head that no, seriously, if I have a bad day... she gets it.

What have you missed?

1. I have decided to enhance my grocery shopping lists when Bub goes to the store so he doesn't inexplicably come home with none of the items I have asked for, but all the hot sauce in the greater valley.

2.  I've felt weirdly tired and kind of out of it for a few weeks, and then frustrated because going to the gym 3-6 times a week has resulted in exactly the same amount of weight loss that I accomplished when my exercise consisted of running for the remote from couch to coffee table to turn off the sad-animal commercials.  A quick jaunt to the ER on Tuesday from some pain - turns out I have a kidney infection!

3.  Bub went to south by southwest for a few days, where in addition to having music they have some sort of nerd summit that he went to for work.  I feel like I have heard the phrase south by southwest before in passing, but didn't really know what it was and am delighted to report back that it is not, as originally suspected, the name of some cowboy themed whore house (I may or may not have inspected him for glitter upon his return).

4.  I am positively delighted by how many people on my newsfeed have changed their profile pictures to this little gem in the last couple of days:

In case you are living under a rock, or are far cooler and with more self control than I and therefor NOT dancing with the devil known as Fertilebook, people (particularly straight ones) have been changing it to this sassy little equal sign, or one of it's even sassier variants like this -

or this -

in response to the US Supreme Court hearing going on right now about whether to turn over Prop 8 here in California, or possibly whether or not denying gays the right to marry is unconstitutional in the whole country

Ya'll know, unless you're new to me in which case we should get it out of the way now mayhaps, this is a particularly important issue to me. I suppose everyone has at least one issue that they're particularly passionate about, this is mine (and a lot of other peoples... Even ones who don't give a shit about politics, usually).

I freely admit that I do not have the patience to argue about this one, anymore.  It's ludicrous.

Louis C.K. does this great bit about how it had to suck being Abraham Lincoln because when he was arguing with people who were for slavery, he had to approach it like he could totally see why they felt that way. You know, "oh yeah, it's totally awesome that you have people working in the fields for no money or fair treatment, don't get me wrong, but, you know, there's this other side to it...."

I admittedly could not be that person about this.

All my other liberal mindedness I will happily discuss with you, disagree with you, and try to get it from other perspectives.

Not this one.

To me it's not 'liberal' or 'conservative', it's right and it's wrong (as evidenced by the many, many, many conservatives on my newsfeed who strongly disagree with me about everything else and still have this badboy as their profile picture).  It's discrimination, fear and hate vs. acknowledging other people don't have to be like you, love and acceptance.

If you are against spouses of the same sex, then don't get yourself one.  (Although lawdy lawdy could I use a wife).  Much like 50+ years ago if the idea of marrying someone outside of your race icked you out, excellent, you don't have to.

Also, to be clear, I would also like to state for the record that this is not a downward spiral to people marrying chickens.  No I'm not an atheist, I don't agree with everything that he says (though I do enjoy him) and I openly admit that he's kind of an asshole, but my feelings on this particular argument can be summed up with this lovely quote:

Bubs and my favorite argument is, of course, that marriage is for procreation.  So by that logic our marriage is null and void, as is all those cool cats who choose to not have children, or those that get married post-menopause.  (By this argument do my grandparents have to divorce?  After menopause are you just supposed to say 'see ya' and move to your very own cat-and-porcelain-figurine filled apartment?  This is unclear).

I also believe that this is mostly - mostly! - because gay sex 'icks' a lot of people out.  (Again... then don't have it.  Although I think maybe you're just not watching the right porn).

1. If we get to vote on who gets to be married based on who having sex disgusts us, there are going to be a whole mess of straight people I'm voting off of sex island.
2. I'm not particularly into S&M but I don't lurk in front of courthouses with a sign that says 'G-D HATES GAGS'.

Also, I don't understand the need to get up in everybody's crotch anyone.  Aside from all human beings being safe please, concerning yourself with how other people are doing it I'm gonna assume that you're not doing it right.  I have orgasms on a regular basis and I'm pleased as punch that other people are having them.

And as I said on Facebook this morning, I do not understand how hard that last bit is to get.  I have trained my corgi to not go sniffing around other people's crotches.  My corgi.

I realize it's most unfortunately a one-step-at-a-time thing, but I have to say as an adoptee.... Had I gotten stuck in the system, there's not one fucking part of me - not one little nucleus of a cell - that would've thought 'sure I'm in foster care and I feel unloved and unwanted, but thank G-d I'm not in the home of a loving lesbian or gay couple'.

And of course, the mother of all arguments, this will take something away from your marriage.

::sigh::

Here's my bottom line.  I am happily married.  Infertility is a bitch don't get me wrong, but I am deliriously, happily married.  I am so lucky.  I am lucky to have found Bub, as there are people far better than me who have not found their Bub yet.  I am so lucky, and there's not one part of me that wants anyone who gets that lucky to be denied the right to say 'husband' or 'wife', because it's awesome.. and it's hard enough finding them in the first place.

But I was delighted to see all of those equal signs go up (and they're still up).  I'm a total cynic - you know this - but I think it at the very least makes a nice, quiet, simple statement, without having to argue, that you're behind people that you love, or people that you don't even know but who are blessed to be IN love. (Love is a blessing that I have, and I do not own the exclusive rights to... It does not make me the authority on other people's right or lackthereof to have the same thing that I have.).  People who I honestly didn't think prior to a couple of days ago would have even been for marriage equality.  It makes my grinchy heart swell.

And if they decide that denying people the right to marry is against the law ("no!  We were wrong when we discriminated before, but this time...") then please blame straight people, they're the ones that keep having the gay ones.

March Forth

Greetings, cyber vixens.

I have had a weird week.

As you know, I have been dragging my fat ass to the gym with the darling best friend and gay husband, Mr. T.  We have been engaging in dance classes as with music blaring I am much more easily distracted and crowds are far less likely to hear me shouting about sweat not being worth it without at least the potential of an orgasm.

On Thursday we had a sub teacher at one such dance class, a delightful little pixie we'll call Rick.  He bounced around the room to excellent music and yelled at us the perfect bitchy amount.

Needless to say we immediately decided we were going to adopt him, I would carry him around in a papoose and our family would pose for NoH8 ads.  We befriended him after class with our step dancing and general awesomeness.  Mr. T dragged me into a WalMart (where I saw a man and his very large dog in matching top hats) to get matching florescent workout ensembles (we're ironing letters on to t-shirts that say F_G and H_G).  Then Rick invited us to meet him at a super snazzy workout class that evening in Beverly Hills.

With Richard Simmons.


As my 80s time machine is still in it's most preliminary of phases, I was not anticipating my day ending in exhaustion and a lovely conversation with one Mr. Richard Simmons, however, it did.

On the way there, as we were belting out our version of Man in the Mirror in my car to which we know exactly four words, we imagined that Mr. RS would be as he seems on TV... Emotional, sensitive.  A nice slow work out where mayhaps he would tearfully ask me for my fatgirl story.

Not so, my friends.

It was fantastical, and amazing, and completely fucking exhausting.

He stands on a soapbox in front of the class.  He yells at you.  He turns down the music to occasionally say fuck.  There is a dance off (during which, never fear, I dirty danced with Mr. Simmons in front of 40 people) he makes men take their shirts off and dance around. Some highlights:

"It may seem more attractive to go home and shove pizza up your ass but that is not what we're doing tonight!"

"If you don't get your shit together I'm shutting all the doors and we're playing Anne Frank!"

In short, (and oh I assure you the shortiest of bedazzled shorts) it was like working out under the tyrannical thumb of the most charming pixiesque glitternazi the world has ever known.

You know you want to visit me just so I can take you with me.

Unrelated:  I have seen maybe 2 commercials in the past week that have pissed me inexplicably off.

Best example, a toothpaste commercial that to paraphrase says 'he could be your soulmate, your husband, father of your children... but first you must get him to say hello to you'.

Maybe this is a roid/PMS/glitter rage talking, but lately there seems to be a plethora of 'bag that man' commercials which me no likey.

Ladies, if you're looking to snag a man and are wondering what product to purchase, look no further.  Do as I did and simply buy a giant butterfly net and lurk in the trees until someone you like walks under them.  I believe Mr. Simmons would agree.

Forgive the sweat and total negligence in regards to my fat girl angles.

So, today is March 4th.

In some parallel universe wherein my IVF did not result in an early miscarriage, today would've been my due date.

I have been mostly numb about this with the exception of about 5 tearful moments yesterday wherein my asshole ipod shuffled onto Kate Bush's "this woman's work".

Because I'm not living in that parallel universe, am I?  I'm not.  Today's the day Bub's working late, my Mom came up and we had a lovely lunch, and I'm throwing some shit in a crockpot and watching a bunch of ridiculous women in cocktail dresses yell at each other on a bachelor special.  That's March 4th, 2013.

Don't take my flippant attitude for lack of being rightly pissed off and/or sad about it, I have been.  Plenty.  I had my moment yesterday and teared up about it, I've had my days of being torn up about it and wondering why.  In the last nine months I have had days where I did not want to get out of bed, where the highest hope I had for myself was becoming a particularly emotion-pinching episode of Hoarders. But there are a lot of realities that I wish were true that just aren't, this one was just uber important and just got a little closer to being so... though not much.

Maybe it's because I've been doing things to my body to hopefully better prep me, maybe it's just because I'm bored with being depressed (finally), maybe it's because I'm continually trying to remind myself even when I don't like it that days that start out feeling like balls can end with me laughing about Mr. T trying to keep his balls in neon shorts.  You never know how the story is going to end, do you?  So I'm choosing to march forth from March fourth.

Hopefully in plenty of florescents and glitter.