#YesAllWomen

Let me preface this by saying I'm not going to make this about guns because that's a whole entry in itself (I will just say I don't understand the 'nothing has to change! everything is perfect!' attitude. This is... perfect? It can't be better?)

Let me preface this by saying I'm not even open to discussing whether or not autism has anything to do with it - because it doesn't. Aspergers can certainly cause a feeling of social isolation, sure. I'm a chubster - if I was in High School right now I could be crucified for it, I could be lonely. If I then went and attacked people, it wouldn't be because I was chubby or because fat was a universal, gelatinous time bomb. (Someone wrote about it here much more eloquently).

Let me also preface this by saying that even though the majority of people who read this blog are probably women, men folk - of course I'm not talking about all of you. If there could be a positive that has come out of this last week it's been seeing how all of the men in my life have responded in horror, and some of them seem even more affected than women.  I'm surrounded by lovelies - but like I read in a brilliant tweet this week: ""UNFAIR! NOT ALL MEN!" Imagine a bowl of M&Ms. 10% of them are poisoned. Go ahead. Eat a handful. Not all M&Ms are poison." (And if your online outlets aren't full of lovelies like mine are, maybe post this which is awesome).

Let me also preface this with a picture of a cat hurling a Shakespearian insult - because some of this may be a trigger for some ladies, so let's just consider the below cat portion the unsafe bit, yes?

(Source.)

We good?

In the event that you don't know and are too embarrassed to ask, to recap: last Friday a man in his early twenties killed six young people in Santa Barbara, CA, before killing himself. He did this after uploading a series of YouTube videos (the last one remains) and a 141 page manifesto explaining why. In short, women were too stupid to realize what a catch he was, he was still a virgin, and other people were living the life that he deserved - and dontchaknow, if just one woman would have said yes to him then he would not have had to have done this. (Let me say that the video is disturbing - I know a girl or two who couldn't handle it, but I found it handleable. Just as a warning.) This inspired horror, discussion of misogyny and women sharing their own experiences with being victimized because of their gender under the hashtag #YesAllWomen.

I have been at times entranced by and at times unable to read stories under #YesAllWomen. There just isn't a girl or woman past a certain age who doesn't have some story 'big'  or 'small' to contribute. There just isn't, and that's no surprise at all - but there is something about having a few days where you're forced to stare at the details, and the sheer number of them. I haven't added any of mine to the mix even though I think volume is important and my Facebook/Twitter accounts seem to be blowing up with them.. so here goes. (When I'm done I'll put up another catty cat pic so you can skip these to avoid triggers).

By the end of 3rd grade I was a B cup. By the end of 4th grade, a handful of boys called me Dolly Parton and eventually kept offering me money to show them. (I'm happy to report none of these boys grew past 5 ft 2 inches - teach you to make fun of puberty, assholes). #YesAllWomen

I was 10? 11? The first time I said no to a boy and he kissed me anyways. It was not the last. I was 14 the first time a guy tried to grope me without a hint of permission. It was not the last. I was 16 the first time I had to forcefully push a drunk guy away from me so he would just stop trying. It was not the last. #YesAllWomen

When I was 13 and living in a foreign country a man followed me for months, wrote me letters, eventually disarmed our alarm system while we were on vacation, stealing my underwear and pictures of me out of frames. #YesAllWomen

I was 16 when a boyfriend pulled my parking break while I was driving on the highway because I wasn't showing him proper respect. #YesAllWomen

I was 17 or 18 when my big boobs & lack of acting like a 'lady' led to a lot of boys in school wrongfully thinking I was a slut. The number of pregnancy rumors were mind boggling (not to mention totally fucking ironic). #YesAllWomen

I was 20 when I got out of my first emotionally abusive relationship. #YesAllWomen

I'd say it's been nearly 20 years since I've gone a day without a little habit designed specifically to avoid rape, it's been 15 years since I've gone a week without a man having an entire conversation with my boobs, and about 10 years since I've gone a week without a man calling me, in a condescending way, 'honey' or 'sweetie'. #YesAllWomen

What makes the idea of sharing and reading all of these stories awesome? Everyone has them. Solidarity. What makes the idea of sharing and reading all of these stories terrible? Everyone has them. Solidarity.

So I've been trying to write (outside of this blog) about the shootings, the hashtags, the videos, the whole bit for several days now. And I keep getting... stuck. Just utterly constipated.  There is too much, so much, epic amounts of shit and it's not coming out.

I'm having trouble getting it out for two reasons, I think.

One, I'm angry, just like everyone else - but I'm really angry that I'm not more surprised. This should be a fucking shock, and it's not.

Because really... way more than a handful of women were killed, today alone, because a man felt he was owed a substantial piece of her being that she wasn't willing to give.

What's shocking about what Elliott Rodgers did is that it was seemingly random. He seemingly had every advantage in the world. He did it on a larger scale than just one, specific woman. He was so confidently rotten at such a young age and most of all he without hesitation recorded his very clear views on women - he didn't pretend, he didn't edit himself, he didn't wait until he was in the 'proper company' - he just laid it all out there, that's how confident he was in his beliefs. (His beliefs weren't shocking, just his confidence in laying them out).

But the fact that a man sought revenge on women because they wouldn't give him what he perceived he was owed as a man? I have tried, and there's just not one little ounce in me that is shocked. And that fucking pisses me off.

The second and much bigger reason I'm having a hard time writing about it outside of this blog in any lucid, cohesive fashion is because I'm fucking exhausted of the idea of misogyny. I am.

I am angry, yes, but most of all I am EXHAUSTED.

A few points as to why:

It's not my job as a woman to validate a man unless I clearly and expressly apply for that job. This seems to be a continued point of confusion in society.

Another point of confusion: the existence of my or any vagina in proximity to a penis doesn't automatically mean, imply, or infer a gd thing.

It's not anybody's job to be PRETTY. That is not something that anyone has to be.  I have never seen a man in a tabloid magazine with a close up shot of his thighs with red arrows pointing to his cellulite.

Whether it's calling for women to be more modest or calling for women to be sexier (and both are demanded at the same time, at all times) a disgusting amount of what we do to fall on the Madonna Whore scale is being dictated to live up to mens schizophrenic ideals. These ideals are exhausting and not fucking anyones right to demand, and not living up to them certainly doesn't make anyone subhuman.

I'm irritated because there are sites/clubs/forums all dedicated to picking up women and some of them immediately exploded with sentiments 'if only he knew how to pick up women, this would not have happened! He needed our help!'.  HORSESHIT. Let's think that through for a second - because if the difference between a perfectly rational lovely man and a mass murderer is his ability to 'snag poon' then we should all be way, way more afraid than we already are.  (And to the well meaning, rational men - just on principle, if any group or club describes women as 'targets' then skip it.)

I'm beyond pissed that there are grown ass men commenting under this hashtag with such rationalizations as 'I've never been the victim of a catcall, so they don't exist'.

I'm in my 30s and I need some of the younger women to pick up some of the fight, at this point. Some of them totally are and doing better than I ever did. Some of them are fucking exhausting. 'Feminism' is not a bad word. 'Feminist' does not mean 'man hater' or can't hang with the boys anymore. For chrissakes most of my friends are men. It just means that you have equal rights and can do the things that you want - you want to be a CEO? Awesome. You want to be a housewife? Awesome. You want to have lots of sex, no sex, kinky sex? Awesome, awesome, AWESOME. The only thing not so awesome is betraying your own damn self because you're afraid if you don't take your 'rightful' place behind men that they won't like you as much. Just like with any other group of people - equality is not taking anything away from anyone else.

I'm exhausted because it's 2014 and on one end you have society telling girls only whores have sex (which leads to death!) and on the other they're being told if they're not sexy, they're worthless.

I'm pissed because fucking purity balls exist, where a girls' entire value is tied up to her virginity. Her entire. value. And it's her Fathers to keep until he can hand it over to her husband (I don't even have words for how creepy that is - and yet somehow, I think we would all feel the cootie vibe if it were Mother's protecting their sons' junk). As someone pointed out on Twitter - even Elizabeth Smart thinks the way we talk to girls about sex is bull shit.

Not to mention we still have proms where male chaperones are given the job of making sure the girls aren't 'too enticing'. (It's bothersome that ANY chaperone has to do this, really, unless someone shows up nekkid - but there's something particularly grotesque about asking grown men to review whether young girls are boner proof.)

We've all come up with these ridiculous, convoluted, contradictory rules for women in society and that's all we're teaching the boys, too! Rules for women! There is far less emphasis on the 'handbook to being a man' then there is the day in, day out 'role of a woman' bombardment. FAR LESS.

I think, maybe most of all, I'm pissed and exhausted because I'm going to have to actively teach my daughter how not to get raped or abused. It's 2014 and she's going to have to, just like every woman before her, learn a daily habit or two or ten designed exclusively to keep from being attacked. She HAS to learn those things. Do boys have to learn how not to be a threat in the first place, or can they skip that to avoid awkward conversations?

So worst of all, what really gets me, is in addition to teaching her how to avoid rape I'm going to have to teach her how to teach boys. More times than I care to think about, that will be her unapplied for, unasked for and completely unfair job, just like it's been all of ours. And when she doesn't do it 'right', when the results are less than perfect, it's a crapshoot whether or not society will blame her for her lack of teaching skills, her skirt length for lack of clear boundaries or the boy.

So while she's learning all that, what do boys have to do? Play ball?

Stork's School for the Knocked Up

It. Is. Thursday.

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

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

Anyhoo.

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

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

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



Poo vs. Pooh

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

Except no. Your bump is shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter pregnancy.

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

You're being Bugged

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

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

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

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

WOULD YOU?!  Fine.

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

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


Uterus = Stupid

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

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

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

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

(Source.)

(Source.)

And yes those are absolutely on their way.

WHO ARE YOU TO JUDGE ME?!

Okay pencils down, class.  More soon.

Frozen: The Potion of Despair

Happy Friday, my ferocious Follicle Farmers.

As it has been awhile, a brief synopsis of what has happened in case you need a refresher.

IVF #2 was in October.  Day after retrieval, Bub and I have zero fertilize.  (In the event that you're new, my favorite albeit possibly least helpful way of explaining our problem is here. And if anyone other than me gets why I titled that post 'Tybalt' I'm pretty sure we're soulmates). Two days after retrieval, MIRACLE surprise knock-me-over-with-a-feather two badass embryos. Since they were late-late bloomers, my lining wasn't ideal for them, so the plan became to freeze them and switch to FET in November if they made it to day 5 blastocysts which was highly unlikely.  And THEN THEY MADE IT.

Everyone remember in Princess Bride, when Wesley is retelling being captured on a ship... and every freaking day his captor says 'Good night, Wesley, I'll most likely kill you in the morning'.  That whole week was like THAT. 'Good night, Stork, sweet dreams - most likely they'll be dead in the morning.'

At any rate, on the 25th La Bamba and Heisenberg are being transferred.  I can't be sure as like most infertiles I avoid children's movies like the plague, but judging by the movie posters I'm fairly certain my story has been optioned and set to be released the same week as my Transfer.

Oh hey, so you're wondering what you should be thankful about for Thanksgiving?  Here goes: THAT YOU'RE NOT MY HUSBAND.

I realize it has been quiet over here in Storktown but that's only because of my very real, and very slow descent into hormonal madness.

Okay fine - so I normally dress like Helena Bonham Carter and what comes out of my mouth is usually a heavy dose of sarcasm, HOWEVER... I am really quite nice and positive and my experience with the ledge usually revolves around talking people away from it not approaching it my damn self. In short: I am a robot. Typically speaking, though I really truly understand the reasoning behind tears or being coocoo (because I have the same reasons)... When I see outwardly, hugely emotional people my first NANO second response before hugging is usually side eye because that whole feeling-things-fully doesn't come easy to me.

(Source.)

I have previously 'lucked out' in the hormone department - I don't seem to have had the 'usual' response to anything side effect wise, and so I've happily lived as the woman who could give you hope that you wouldn't either.  With Clomid, all it did was make me euphoric when I took it, and then after a painful O would be a teensy bit more sensitive than usual.  With all the IVF shots - no, not my favorite but really they just gave me a shit ton of energy and an ability to eat all the things.

In case you're keeping score, after LB & H get put back in on the 25th and I begin the PIO shots (which I anticipate not being fun, don't worry) I will have gotten the full tour, the full tilt boogie tour, of infertility drugs.  Just all of them.  All of them... All of them. Prior to this month, I would have been the prime candidate for you, before you start a new treatment, to calm you in full confidence with 'okay it's not fun, but it's not that bad'.

NOW I AM HERE TO SCARE THE BEJEEZUS OUT OF YOU.

Lupron, which I have been on for 3 weeks as of today, is devil juice.  DEVIL JUICE.

Surely you've read or at least seen all the Harry Potter's - if not I don't even have time to address your psychological issues in one post as I can barely handle mine.  At one point, Dumbledore and Harry go adventuring into a crazy ass cave, and Dumbledore has to continuously drink some seriously poison shit out of a bowl and he says to Harry beforehand, 'no matter what happens, no matter how crazy I get - you have to keep spoon feeding it to me'.

As further proof that you should absolutely re-read these books every few years because you learn something new everytime, this is potion is CLEARLY Lupron, Dumbledore is CLEARLY trying to get pregnant and Harry is CLEARLY the unwitting partner who's a little disenchanted he can't just jizz somewhere and call it a day.

Moral of the story, as I have always suspected based on his prescription glasses and scar that he claims is from a dog bite: my husband is Harry Potter and thanks to drugs I can now grow a beard like Dumbledore.

Day one and day two, I breezed through with a slight headache and the general high of doing something that felt pro-active.

Then my brain froze. Generally speaking in my life when I've been depressed it's been 'about' something. This was about nothing.  My emotional dick went limp, all my happy thoughts went bye-bye, Tinkerbell died and I couldn't wait to see her fall to the ground so I could squish her because basically she's a glorified bug.

For two weeks, clean clothes seemed far less important and I started to resemble some sort of living blanket. Curious of all curiosities, Bub can in one second be my favorite person in the world who I want to weep over with love to seeming like an unwanted debt collector spritzed in onions and shit perfume.  I reached my 30s without having any acne experience, and now I look like a 13 year old boy who has been sleeping facedown in pizza grease and chronically masturbating (yes, ladies and gentleman, the rumors are true - I am Sasha Fierce).

The transformation was slow and thorough. Optimistic and determined - bitch who's just biding time - multiple personalities -DEATH INCARNATE.

(Source.)

(Source.)

(source.)

(Source.)

Thankfully, I got to start taking estrogen last week so I am... better.

My brain has started to produce it's usual insane curiosities (like - do doll people and bronies hate each other? Discuss) so I'm taking that as a sign of thaw. My shenanigans shall slowly return.

Initially my transfer was going to be around the 20-22, but as of this morning it is set for the 25th.   On the downside, that's a few extra days of Lupron not to mention this month has gone by at a snails pace.

On the bigger upside, it'll put extra days between cigarettes and embryos (refer to Girl Interrupted picture) and it'll give me one extra weekend for me and Mr. T to greet my husband, like so, at the door everyday regarding shit that has to be done in this house pre-baby.

I whine to exorcise it a bit and because you are my troops.  I am, however, above all things super grateful and super excited and would do this 10,000 more times if it would give me a shot.

But my husband is a fucking saint.

Tybalt.

Stork and Bub are married.

Stork and Bub are wildly compatible people, the only shocking difference is volume level.  He is very introverted, and I am.... Not.

At last years IVF we discovered our eggs & sperm basically have the same dynamic.

I don't really ovulate, but with good drugs my eggs come out ginormous.  Bub's sperm have no problem getting to the egg, but get overwhelmed and decide not to tell the egg it's there in the first place.

So to recap, my eggs come out all sassy, shimmying and jazzhanding their way through our Petrie Dish in a parade of glitter and feathers.  Bub's supermodel sperm gets invited to the party, but upon arrival decides eggs are weird. Decides that eggs are too horrifying to even alert of his arrival, freezes, and then lays still and quiet so the egg won't even know he's there.

Still don't get it?  Okay here's a reenactment of what happened, with the role of my eccentric egg being played by Dave Chappelle as Prince, and the role of sperm being played by cats.

You're welcome.

So here we are, 15 months later, and in 13 hours I'm gonna be sedated and have my eggs retrieved.  

I'm super excited about that part, seeing as how it's the one day where the IVF drugs are going to be FUN.  

Useless IVF (or any fertility treatment involving injections) tip:  DO NOT READ THE HELPFUL INSERT FOR ANY INJECTABLE.

No seriously, don't even glance at it.  If your eye so much as passes over it in a half ass manner, horrible words will pop out.  Just horrible, horrible ne'er to be explained properly words about what the fuck is in that shit to begin with. Two second glance over and this is what it looks like:

Again, you're welcome. And screw you my handwriting is wonderful enjoy the free art.  I'm explaining some very scientific shit left, right and center today.

I shit you not, Bub informed me that the trigger I shot up last night contained something called CHO - as in Chinese Hamster Ovary. You just let that sink in.

(Source.)

So tomorrow is the egg retrieval.  They're going to add the secret spice to make Marc's cats talk to my Prince, hopefully, and then we will know how many fertilized on Sunday.  Considering last time it was 1 out of 10, I'm very nervous about Sunday more so than anything.  

We have to leave here at 5:30 in the morning tomorrow (weeee!) so the plan for tonight is to bulk up on Fajitas (that's protein, right?) and watch "The End".  

By sheer convenient coincidence, this movie does contain one scene which is relevant to the House of Stork climate.  I give you, Jonah Hill's interpretation of any given infertile woman once she starts progesterone suppositories, as I will be doing soon:

I am feeling lucky (I get to do IVF when I need it, after all).  I am feeling unlucky (I need IVF, after all).  I am feeling nervous, I am feeling excited, I am feeling the need for fajitas.

If I have ever made you laugh or think or pause or smirk or you have any warm and fuzzies towards me whatsoever, please think a happy thought for me during the next couple of days.  Pretty pretty please. 

Slut.

Happy Tuesday, my scrumtrulescent kumquats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lines were drawn - of the non-blurry variety.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Source.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Source.)

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

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

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

As for regular, non-monstrous men?

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

Men/boys have equal responsibility here.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

::Returns to tap dancing::

Let's Peck Each Other to Death

It's Saturday, my darling sex goddesses.

I am currently sitting on my couch in booty shorts, my husbands knee socks and a t-shirt with a picture of Grumpy Dwarf that says "All Grumpy, All the Time".  The Justin Timberlake prophecy is true, friends, I am single-handedly bringing sexy back.

Thought I would take a break from turning everyone in Los Angeles on to pop on here and talk about the world of online infertility as it seems to be sort of a shit storm recently. I'm apparently on some kindness kick - last time it was about being nice to yourself now let's talk about each other.

I've said it on here before, but my favorite book of all time is probably "Like Water For Chocolate". It's simple, it's an easy-read, it's folklore, it's a cookbook, it's fairy tale, it's romantic, it's funny, its heartbreaking, it's everything I want in a damn book. Whenever I read it I feel like Fred Savage in The Neverending Story.  Gimme gimme this shit is crazy.

Anyhoo - at one point some farm chickens are fed some food that was made when someone was righteously angry.  Lovely little community of chicken friends are handed a little bit of anger-laced-food, they ingest it, and then everything gets all Quentin-Tarantinoey/Lord of the Flies/Lux Aeterna real fast. They're pecking each others eyes out, munching down chicken feet, ripping out each others feathers and wearing them as fashionable victory beards - it is CRAY CRAY time in chicken town. They turn their energy on each other in such an epic way that they force themselves into a literal tornado of evil chickens, blow themselves away from their real purpose (which was to lead happy chicken lives, I assume) and out of the whole damn book.  No more chickens.

My point is - at best, Twitter, Facebook, Blogs, forums, all the shit that we use in the infertile online community is amazing. At best it's a place to meet other women like ourselves, keep invested in each others stories (because gawd knows we're probably boring the less understanding people in our real lives to tears), we help each other, we keep informed... I can get on Twitter at any time and say something along the lines of "Dear Facebook, I don't give a shit about what anyone's baby had for lunch" and I will undoubtedly be embraced by the warm, ample, hormone-riddled cyber-bosom of many women who agree with me. Which, and I can't stress this enough, is awesome.

At worst, when we're hopped up on a little bit of anger we turn on each other like a goddamn psychotic chicken tornado hellbent on our own destruction which is a pretty big 'at worst'.

(Source.)

Let me state for the record here, I'm not saying any of this in response to anything specific.  Much to my horror, there is no specific.  If there was a specific, I would be animatedly retelling it to my doubtlessly eye-rolling husband and not looking up pictures of angry birds. Most unfortunately there are countless examples so I can't even narrow down a specific.

I've been in blogland for over a year, and occasionally the blow ups happen.  I've been in forums off an on for years, occasionally the blow up happens. I've been on Twitter for 3 months, and though it is overall lovely (never will I again go a day without talking to another infertile) holy shit me it happens every other week. Most of the time when there's a whiff of negativity, I spend 2 seconds investigating, get lost, get distracted by a butterfly or shiny object.

Sometimes when I notice them, I think 'oh I get where they're both coming from, they're both living out a nightmare, afterall'.  Sometimes for me, it's a clear case of 'wooaaaah girl, you are being CRIZAY'.  I stick to making ludicrously unhelpful comments and the occasional fertile-bitch.

This is not to count myself out of it or claim innocence.  If someone went way over the line I'm not going to delude myself in thinking I wouldn't go to bat.  I'm a peaceful, mellow person who tries to stay out of things, because I'm naturally goofy - and I also know my tongue can be the equivalent of a nuclear bomb. No one should yank me out of the arsenal unless all is lost and we've resigned ourselves to death-by-chicken-tornado.

But yeah, I'm infertile.  No matter how good I am at shoveling all my emotions into a ball in the pit of my stomach and throwing jokes on top of it, there's some part of me whether I feel it or not that is probably pissed everyday.  I'm wrestling the crazy pissed stork into a nice little mental closet, but if someone jiggled the handle the right way out would come Storknado.

Some of us are way better about keeping in check than others, but all of us - given that we're all living out some version of a psychological cunt punt nightmare - are capable of being nasty if pushed in the right way.

We have all this great technology that we've been blessed with to bring us together in the first place.  On an off day, however, that technology can be used as a rocket launcher and hurl everyone into a lady-on-lady bitch spiral of doom.

(Source.)

I know I've talked about this before and I will undoubtedly talk about it again, but just a few thoughts I had on how we can keep ourselves from turning on each other and destroying an otherwise peaceful infertile farm.

Be super duper nice to the lady that's in the middle of treatment. It's a shitty situation to begin with as you well know, and she's now orbiting in outerspace between two planets called "all your dreams come true" and "haha just kidding you're fucked".  Being grounded is a card girlfriend desperately wants but wasn't dealt. That alone is going to make her more sensitive - plus she's hopped up on hormones. What. Are You. Doing.

If an infertile gets pregnant - yes every pregnancy is a sock in the gut, however, I think we should remind ourselves that at least it's one on the scoreboard for our team, and she's not taking a pregnancy away from us.  (Yes, I know, close to impossible, but we can try).  Yes she's achieved pregnancy, but she still doesn't belong at the fertile table so let's try not to hurl her away from ours so she's not forced against her will to sit at the not-belonging-anywhere table those people are freaks.  You don't take an artsy-drama nerd and force them to sit with the band-nerds it's uncomfortable and frankly blasphemous. Let's try to keep in mind that this was always the goal here.  We supported her, we wanted this for her, she's one of us.

If you are an infertile who gets pregnant - for gawds sake don't become a born again fertile.  Yours are the only pregnancies we can handle hearing about, and the only ones we can muster up happiness for. Yes you're still a member of our club, and we're happy that it worked for you (because you deserve it).  That being said - keep in mind your pregnancy does not magically transform us all into totally unscarred fertiles who are going to want to endlessly debate nursery color choices.  I am trying to keep my happiness for you as upbeat as I can - please try to remember what it feels like.  I would love to be happier for you and more involved than I am.  It pisses you off that I'm  not?  Me too. There is absolutely no way under the sun that my inability to feel giddy about a pregnancy makes you feel worse or more guilty than it does me.  If your very best friend was recently widowed, yes absolutely you should still expect her to support you in your wedding/marriage but prrrrobably not deduct points for lack of enthusiasm.

I've said this before, but we've all booked passage on the Titanic thinking it was going to be a lovely vacay and that shit sunk. If you're still in the water waiting for a lifeboat, trying to poke holes in the boats of people floating by is not really going to do anything (though I understand the impulse).  And if you're in a lifeboat, for gawdssake try not to complain too much about how chilly it is to people still in the water (though I understand the impulse). To sum up  - we should all keep in mind how fucking awful it is to make someone feel bad about their luck and/or something they can't control.

Unfollow.  Do it.  Life's too short.  While I have to say overall our community has an extremely, extremely (shockingly!) high rate of lovely, there are people on this planet who were mean and/or batshit to begin with.

If at all possible (and I'm allowing room for everyone to be out of control every once in awhile, we're human) ask yourself before engaging in something - is this really going to be worth my time?  If someone is a friend of yours that you really care about, then yeah - have the argument.  Bleed out the toxins. If it's not... let it go. Let them go.  Every time I write a post where I talk about my unshakable support of gay rights, I lose a follower.  For a second, I feel bad.  Then I remember that person has left me to go continue their life of being a miserable person.  God speed.

Let's try not to categorize ourselves.  Which is close to impossible, I know.

The fact is, if pregnancies and babies were handed out based on who had put in the most time and effort, more than likely all of our families would look different.  Some of us with 0 kids would have 20 and some of us with 3 would have 1.  Who gets to return home after this war isn't organized by battle scars.

Some girls are going to get pregnant their first round of Clomid, some are going to end up like me and be a problem within IVF.  My easily knocked-up half-sister with 0.0 dollars and a life out of Maury Povich is 8 months pregnant, still smoking pot, and posting about it on Facebook. (I think we can all agree here that Mark Zuckerberg is a sadistic dominatrix who whips us all daily). The one thing we can probably all, infinitely and forever, agree upon is that pregnancies and babies don't happen based on readiness, motherliness or general awesomeness. If they were, we'd all have babies by now.

Apart from when someone asks, don't say anything along the lines of 'if I were you' to someone on the front lines.  Are you shitting me?

If you say something not-so-pleasant to someone, and they call you out on it... Assess it, man up & own it, justify or apologize.

If someone seems to be going off the rails and having a day and a half, let's be kind and try to disarm - because we've all been there, and if at all possible we don't want them to be a henpecking catalyst.

If someone has gone way over the line, and it's not in a misunderstanding way but a malicious one, then by all means, let them know.  But be clever and firm - if they can write you off as 'crazy' then they're even less likely to get your point.


Yes I realize this is over simplifying, and I realize I don't even do these all the time.  But if we could just.... try to keep them in mind.  That way when there's a tornado of chicken feathers or an animal attack, it's at the very least necessary.  Then I'll take my earrings out, rip my weave off and verbally beat someone over the head with it.


(And speaking of psychotic animals, is it me or is the trailer for "You're Next" not so much a trailer for a horror movie as it is just a very vivid and realistic portrayal of what it's like to live with a cat?)

You people are my safe haven.  Let's just be kind to each other how we can, when we can, shall we?

Treat. Yo. Self.

Happy Tuesday, Tiddlywinks.

Senor Bub got a big promotion last week with a title so fancy that it cements my suspicions that he works in an ivory tower whilst stroking a hairless cat.  I'm super proud of that freakishly smart cray-cray.

I am writing to you from my sweaty backyard. After a summer of disasters I am finally feeling like I'm getting less behind (only 20 more things to write! This week...). I was feeling like I was drowning in the swimming portion of a triathlon, and now I can sort of start to see the surface so I can bust through that shit and get to the really tedious running part.  Busy (but good) day and now I am simultaneously trying to keep my psychotic dogs in line in a yard they have dug holes in the size of bunkers, and marveling at how the first few days I use a new mascara I always end up looking like lamb chop.  Short of showing them the hose (which seems mean seeing as they hate the hose) I don't know how to keep these damn dogs from digging.

To sum up the last paragraph with the holes and the mascara and the dogs it's all very Silence-of-the-Lambs up in here.

(Source).

(Sidenote - does anyone else think "IT PUTS THE LOTION IN THE BASKET" anytime they go through airport security and make themselves giggle?  No?  Just me? K.)

Speaking of lotion, Mr. T (gay husband) and I went to the mall this morning to spend an unseemly amount of money on their fall scents.

We both, equally, hate summer (are we in the right state, or what?).  And if I didn't before, I certainly do now.  My summer has consisted of me basically being the fat kid that gets dropped off at camp in June, and on his first day gets stung by bees, stricken with poison ivy, nearly drowns after falling off a canoe, impales his eyeball whilst trying to make Popsicle stick art and thus spends the rest of his summer praying someone will save him. (Hello Mudda Hello Fadduh and all that).

I'm ready for my house to wreak of pumpkins and apples. I'm ready for it to be socially acceptable to blast "Thriller" in my car as much as I already do. I'm ready to rip off the damn Bandaid and get to the part where I'm actually doing IVF #2, the super sci-fi edition.

Here's the thing, sugar lumps - just between us girls.  I am a tough, tough lady.  And even though I'm chubby and bug-eyed and I can't even handle keeping my dogs from pre-digging graves for the happy bunny families they kill, I'm good at making things funny.  That's the one thing Gawd or the universe said 'okay we'll give you a little extra dose of that'.

Most of the time, I emotionally approach infertility as I would an exaggerated, horror-movie size version of having an inappropriate fire-ant-like crotch itch when you're out in public. An absolute terror of an inconvenience, but give me a couple of seconds of no one looking and damnit I have the determination to squash that shit. I am good at making it silly and manning the fuck up.

Yesterday, Mr. T came over to do a welfare check and I had spent the day writing, talking to women going through infertility and answering a couple of you-got-to-be-shitting-me 'why don't you have kids?' type questions with jokes (my standard answer being 'because I want freetime and money').  And I was, as always, feeling fine and goofy and numb.  But five minutes after being here, Mr. T said "you're not fine, are you?"

And I'll be damned if hearing someone I care about ask me that question didn't make my eyes.. moisten.  Not full on cry, mind you, because I'm a dead robot at this point, but the way the question was worded disarmed me for long enough for me to... feel.  There were a few seconds there where I felt it before the goofy, overly-strong 'scratch that shit' side of myself inevitably took over.

Nope, I'm probably not fine.  Actually - I don't know if I've been 'fine' in four years.

I may not let myself feel it (I may not even know how to and survive at this point) but that doesn't mean my brain isn't somewhere, secretly, absorbing every little bit of pain and wrestling those monsters into a dark closet so that I can continue to feel, on some level, Alive.

In a couple of months I'm going to figure out exactly where the line between determination and desperation is, and that makes me nervous.

I'm choosing to go at this determined.  I will man the fuck up because I'm Stupid Fucking Stork and I was born ready for whatever shit is thrown at me.  I have to remind myself that any time any person does any brave thing, they are afraid of doing it but they do it anyways.  I'm telling myself you end up with what you put up with and no matter what, I am not putting up with being an unhappy person.

But I am afraid.  I am afraid, I am afraid, I am afraid - and for one second because of the particular phrasing of a question out of a particular mouth, I felt it.  All at once.

Today, much to my surprise, instead of feeling jarred I feel pretty damn good. It took me a minute to realize why, and then I had a mini-revelation.  I feel good because as a result of that interaction, today I was kind to myself.

Which brings me to my point - we could all stand to be a lot fucking kinder to ourselves. It is, and I say this as someone who has numbed herself as best as any human being could and who is pretty good at genuinely cackling about all this, almost impossible not to end up with some level of self-hatred as a result of infertility.

My body is a failure. If only I were thinner/taller/sluttier in High School, this would have been easier for me.  Maybe what they say is right - maybe some people can't have kids because they're undeserving. Maybe if I hadn't smoked cigarettes, pot, drank so much in college.  I shouldn't make light of this, I shouldn't let myself get depressed, I shouldn't be so spiteful of women getting pregnant... It's my fault, it's my fault, it's my fucking fault.

Whether you're like me and your body has shut down any ability to let you feel that or you feel it every second of every day in a crippling way, on some level that's the shit that we're really dealing with.  More than bum ovaries, more than uteri that grow their fluff incorrectly, more than our bodies spontaneously getting rid of things our hearts so desperately want.

My jokes are my own response to the asshole in the back of my mind that's consistently mean to me. So you know what?  Yeah.  As Carrie-Fucking-Barf-Bradshaw as it sounds, a few hours this morning of buying things I absolutely don't need and eating greasy Chinese food without making myself feel guilty about it felt good. As far as infertility-treatment is concerned, Dr. Stork is highly recommending grabbing your gay husband and having a shopping seizure (or some form of self-treat) of mammoth, epic, unfathomable proportions.

(If you're not watching Parks & Rec I can't imagine what you're doing with your life).

So to you, yes YOU, may I just for a moment here be your best friend and word things in a way that you may need to hear.

Dear You,

None of this is your fault.

If today you woke up and felt shitty about it - you are allowed to.  Feel shitty for as long as you need to, soak in it until your fingers get all pruney.

If today you woke up and feel compelled to feel goofy about it, make jokes, or not deal with it at all - you are allowed to.  Make fun of that shit - anything that involves flashing your beaver as much as we do is on some level hilarious.

You don't have to be fine and you don't have to be miserable.  Whatever you are right now is exactly how you should be and you're going to rock the shit out of it until you're ready to feel something else.

If that woman that your friends with is having a baby shower, and you don't think you can go?  Not only do you not have to, but you don't have to feel guilty about it.  Like, at all.  I am officially telling you that feeling guilty about not going to a party because you're too busy trying to dance in hell is not a problem that you have to deal with. One teeny tiny bit of her happiness (on an atomic level) being taken away because you're not there does not undo or negate the kind of pain (on an atomic bomb level) that you're going through.

You want to be mad at Gawd?  Do it.  If He/She is all-knowing and made all of us, I'm pretty sure no matter how angry you are They can handle it. No one is going to smite you for having dark thoughts just like no one seems to be rewarding you for the times you had peachy thoughts. If there's a Gawd to be angry at, They're the ones who gave you this hurdle to deal with knowing exactly how you'd deal with it.

Whatever He, She or It that doesn't understand how you feel - if they don't get it, they don't need to. It sucks that they can't - it sucks - but it's not your job to make them understand loss or heartache on the level that you're dealing with. It's like trying to explain astrophysics to an infant.

And that He, She or It that really, really doesn't understand how you feel?  Fuck em'.  They're idiots and they always have been.  I've always thought so I just didn't want to say anything until now.

If you're feeling like you're somehow sexually inadequate?  Please.  You are a woman who has sex for fun and doesn't get pregnant.  You are a porn goddess in the eyes of 90% of the male population.

Get that fucking pedicure you've been putting off.  You don't get to have kids yet?  Guess what. You get Pedicures.

If you're on some crazy diet and cheated? Fuck me I bet that ice cream was delicious.  Totally worth it.

No matter what the evil creatures in your mind are saying right now, You. Are meant. To be. A mother.  I have not virtually-met anyone in infertileworld who is not maternal as fuck. You are a Mom, you just don't have a kid yet.

None of this is your fault.

None of this is your fault.

None of this (not one fucking iota of it) is your fault.

However you are dealing with it, you are rocking the shit out of it.  Or my name isn't Stupid Fucking Stork.

Blizzardnado

It is creeping on Friday evening, interwebs, I have had two near-death experiences in the past week and I am feeling sassy and threw on a pair of fresh pajamas to celebrate.

I have felt lousy for probably... the entire summer. I thought this was due in large part to Francisco the Asshole Cysto which made me feel like a Class-A Pussy.

Why?  It was a CYST.  At his mightiest and most powerful he was only 4...  I'm bad with measurements.  Couldn't really tell you the difference between an inch and a mile.. something, for chrissakes. And there I was complaining about him, profusely, to Dr. Kickass. (Francisco is now, apparently, deflated and waving around pathetically like one of those inflatable people they have outside of used car dealer ships, by the way. Yay progress.).

I am not that woman, damnit.  I once went to Cedar Sinai with a kidney stone, passed the damn thing in the waiting room and went home.  I once walked a half mile home on a broken foot.  I WILL TAKE THAT PAIN AND RAISE IT A FUCK YOU.

But I've felt totally off all summer.  

Thursday I saw my GP and got some antibiotics because I felt like I had a UTI (considering I'm a horny she-beast I've had them enough times to just alert him when I've needed something).  Saturday I woke up with a headache and feeling like everywhere I went it was snowing.  By Saturday night I had a fever of 102.

By Tuesday morning, my fever was approaching 104, I didn't really understand what day it was, I had a laying down heart rate of 140, I was wearing so many blankets someone could've mistaken me for a Bed Bath & Beyond and I hadn't said anything snarky in nearly 48 hours.  GP sent me to Urgent Care.

Kidney infection, bitches.  Gnarly kidney infection.  I have never felt. That sick. In my entire. Life.

So I had probably been wandering around with an infection all summer, someone passed a slight cold-like bug to me, and my body was like nahhh, dude, too much. I lost 8 lbs in 4 days (so if anyone needs me to like, lick their face while I'm still a little cootieish, I'm game). 

I've spent my week hydrating like a motherfucker, exhausted by moving more than 5 feet, and taking antibiotics the size of gravy boats. Bub took a day off to take care of me, my Mom came up for a day - I couldn't do shit. It has been 36 hours with a temperature below 100 and I've never felt so excited to feel like regular old flu-garbage in my entire life.

On the downside, given my very thick curly hair and lack of being able to move, I look like Cornel West (I definitely mean hair, I kind of mean eyebrows and I may even mean beard). Which as you can imagine, though he looks quite distinguished, is not a good look for a pale girl in her 30s.

(Source.)

Now to the more important near-death experience.  I was almost killed by a komodo dragon.

Bubba the Grump is known affectionately as the worst-nurse-ever.  Nurturing is not his bag. However, this week he did amazingly awesome. He made sure I took my antibiotics, frequently took my temperature, I'd be unconscious and wake up to him hovering over me with a water saying 'drink, woman, drink'.

So the fact that now that I'm mentally more awake I see that the house is a four-alarm catastrophe that any sane person would have condemned is not something I'm upset about.  Had I re-emerged from my coma in a smoldering pile with a husband and three animals covered in ashes, I'd still be pretty proud of him. But today I felt well enough to get up and try to clean for a few minutes.  Gawd smited me.

My only supervisors today are my 500 lb cat  (Mokey), the 40 lb corgi-mix (Phoebe) and the giant somewhat dopey husky mix Luna (I say dopey lovingly - I'm just saying I'm pretty sure whatever thought process she has there are banjos playing in the background).

Let me just say that I feel an intruder in our house should have gone far smoother with this team.  Phoebe, although loving, is a known mouse, bird and bunny murderer. I've left her outside for five minutes only to come out and find her wearing a feather beard with a grin on her face. The only thing that's gotten away from her clutches is a skunk and that's because it distracted her with a skunk-dance before spritzing her right in the nose and everyone knows corgis are suckers for the majesty of an elaborate tap-dance number.  Luna is the scariest fucking thing you've ever seen in your life.  Dopey, yes, but on looks alone she kills. If Mokey hasn't seen a piece of food in 20 minutes, she has the balls to act as though she is starving to death despite looking like a furry waterbed and will smack you right in the face because that's how she rolls.

SO THIS. SHOULD HAVE. GONE. BETTER.

I am in the kitchen cleaning and wondering if while I was unconscious my husband just put pounds of mud on every clean plate just to mix shit up, when I notice that Phoebe and Mokey are sitting in the kitchen fixated on something in the laundry room.  We have a child safety gate between the kitchen and the laundry room - not because we have children (HA) but for the far more ridiculous reason of keeping the dogs from accessing the... free dog bakery Mokey runs out of a box. I go to see what they're looking at and they seem to be looking at a giant piece of fur.

'What are you looking at?' I say as though I'm snow fucking white and can speak to animals, and as I do the giant ball of fur gets up on it's legs and starts to scurry around the laundry room. Not a ball of fur, but a LIZARD.

A series of things happen all at once.

I, naturally, jump up on my kitchen bench and start screaming.

Mokey, who is supposed to take care of this sort of riff-raff being a cat the size of a large diabetic puma, runs into the living room and wedges half of her body under the couch, ass in the air because it won't fit.

Luna, the scariest, proceeds to just run around the living room barking like I'm not scared for my life but rather have just announced that we're all going to Disneyland.

Phoebe, brave soldier that she is, dives as though belly-flopping off a pier into the laundry room. Through sheer gymnastics I shut the child safety gate behind her and scream (Snow White has grown hostile) that I will not be letting her out until she gets rid of it and then continue to scream at the top of my lungs.

I'm screaming, Luna is barking in circles (in the wrong room, naturally), I hear Phoebe scuttling furiously in the laundry room all the while attempting to text Bub that I have survived high fevers and a kidney infection ONLY TO BE KILLED BY GODZILLA and he needed to come home at once (from an hour away) or I was calling the SWAT team.

He apparently thought this was an overreaction.

This is my punishment for cleaning and for mocking sharknado made manifest - I will die by combination Barknado and Lizardnado. A Blizardnado.

Three minutes later it has occurred to me that the neighbors might think I'm being murdered, I spent a good 30 seconds contemplating whether them sending the cops would be a BAD thing before I noticed that Phoebe had stopped scurrying.  Peeped around the corner (my bravest moment) and she seemed to be sitting at the gate triumphant.

I cannot determine cause of death exactly as I will NOT go into the laundry room and I find it best when hiring a furry hitman not to ask any questions just to be grateful, however there appears to be a smooshed, lizard shape outline near my second fridge. (And that damned lizard carcass is blocking me from my juice). Not to say that this was the king of Lizard's but had I found Jim Morrison standing in my laundry room I would've been less surprised.

Mind you, I am happy that I have survived this.  I am.  However, if you would have asked me yesterday I would've thought it gone smoother.  Much more like the Cat on Roomba if the role of duck was played by a lizard, you know?  Hyperfocused cat predator with dogs in the background as a just-in-case muscle prop.  They spot unwanted creature, and without blinking whip out costumes and machinery like a finely tuned death squadron.

Not a psychotic corgi saving the day with a cat, husky and woman in the background acting fucktarted.

(Sidenote - the tile in this video is the exact tile in my laundry room, so now I feel as though this video was trying to prophetically warn me).

Be thankful to be alive today, people.  It's true, there is infertility and lizards and people casting Ashton Kutcher to play Steve Jobs (whaaaaaaaat?! Honestly Luna is closer to Steve Jobs' intelligence) in this world... and if you're having trouble feeling thankful, I give you my new favorite everything (apart from cat on roomba).