The Shine

It is Monday, my little bambinas.

And a Monday it is.

Bubba Gump has been in workaholic mode the past few weeks, working 6 days a week, crazy hours in preparation for south by southwest in Texas in a couple weeks.  He has coincidentally contracted what appears to be some strain of plague so I have only seen him conscious and awake but a handful of times the last couple of weeks, most of which he has spent making some seriously disgusting noises and trying to cough the black death onto me.  So far I have managed with only a minor headache, for once in this life his seriously hungry-for-power-and-domination German immune system has not made mine it's bitch.

I have dragged my ass to the gym every day most of the last week. Mr. T and I even shimmied and did the chicken dance at a dance class with old ladies and gays.  Yesterday, on Bub's one day off, I managed to convince him to take me and the fur children on a walk.  Me, him, Phoebe, and Luna - who wore a parka on account of being the only husky in the history of ever to shiver if it's below 65 degrees.  So far I find that I hate exercise for the first 10 minutes, find that whining and complaining make me feel better (others be damned) and then I'm fine.  Perhaps one day I will work my walking up to a slow jog provided someone chase me wearing a bear suit.

Also, I have actual magical powers.  A touch of the shine, if you will.  I knock people up.

What?  Yes.  Your problems are solved.

I send my irresponsible half-sister sheets for a delayed wedding gift, and she is impregnated in said sheets within a week.

The one time I ever bothered to set anyone up, they got married, and despite the fact that the woman in question, though I love her, is a rancid bitch, they had a child last May. (So technically I've created a child... it's just not mine).

My one non-blog related infertile fix up, I took the girl for pancakes and she was pregnant within two weeks.

And Sunny, the only one I am happy about, I'm convinced I took part in knocking you up by forcing you to watch Sinister.

So my methods are apparently sheet gifting, blind dates, pancakes, and horror movie rape. Line up kids, I'm more talented and better smelling than spooj.

My feeling on this ability, lovely blog friend aside, cannot be expressed with words but rather through the majesty of goatsong.

I am going to admit, openly, that I am about to be unreasonable.  That should make you feel better.

I am in total awe and wildly impressed by chicks that when they get pregnant, put something in their announcement about how their pregnancy was NOT conceived with a bottle of tequila and the mistaken use of a balloon animal for a condom, but through struggle.  (Mrs. Griswold you rock my socks off).

I genuinely don't know if I would do a Facebook announcement, I think I will.  I genuinely don't know if I will put something in said possible Facebook announcement about my struggle involved with conceiving.  I'm not usually a chicken shit, but the idea of sharing my struggle with people does make me quake in my boots a little bit.  ( I have no idea WHY, the only reason I can think of is that my 'friends' list is partially made up of people I don't really know.. but this is not an excuse).  Should I get pregnant, I'm going to have to get over myself and put a little something in the announcement - jokey as it may be - about it not being easy-pacheezy.

Because fuck me, in the sea of pregnancy announcements that have occurred on Facebook the last couple of months - no shit, HALF of them are twins.

Now, not to be skeptical - as twins, triplets, etc. obviously occur in nature - but c'mon.  Can we not do a shout out to fertility meds?  Just a wink and a smile?

Of the... let's say 10... twin announcements since Christmas, I can open my mind to say that two of those may be natural, and I feel I'm being liberal here.

Short of some Groupon for a very particular brand of witchcraft and/or wizardry that I clearly would've been first in line for, no.  NO I SAY.

To assume all 10 are natural...  It's to assume the girl that looked liked two tylenols on top of an ironing board that shows up at your high school reunion with watermelons acquired them naturally.  It's to assume that Courtney Cox's eyebrows at the age of 45 just started naturally fleeing upwards from the rest of her face.  It's to assume that Michael Jackson was solely a victim of a skin condition, it's to assume John Travolta's skin has just of it's own accord decided to try to strangle his skull, it's to assume that Tyra Banks got into Harvard business school strictly on merit.

I am not one for holding anyone's uterus (uteri?  Uteresus... look at that beautiful herd of... uterus.  We'll go with uterus) to psychotic standards or any standards for that matter, but I can't help but feel a wee bit disappointed that not one of these people mentioned anything.  Not that they have to, not that they should, it just would've been.... impressive.

Because if it's all natural, there's some serious magic shit going on on the east coast and we should all be fleeing there by the dozen.

And speaking of the Shining, I can tell my period is afoot because it is the only time I crave chocolate by the metric ton.  (And in the spooky shining vein, I have inexplicably the last couple of months, for the first time in the 22 (!) years since I got my first period, had regular cycles).  So off I go to CVS to attempt to find some slightly innocent version of chocolate.

The one shining moment I have to look forward to this evening is The Bachelor (I know, I know - I'm hideous, don't look at me.)

Do you know that the oh-so-boring, completely vanilla (without so much as a hint of interesting to upgrade him to french vanilla) bachelor is a born again virgin?  Can someone explain this to me?

Because if in addition to knocking people up, within the arsenal of my magical powers I could wake up every morning and re-grow my own hymen, I feel like this is something I should be looking into.  You know, just to mix things up.

The Walking Fertiles

Greetings, interwebs.

I am not dead, I am more... undead.

It would seem - and I'm sure every last friggin one of you could've related to this statement at one point or another - that the entire universe is pregnant.  I don't know what happened in November or December... my theory is that in several counties in the U.S. and possibly internationally there was some sort of sperm spill into the water system, and once I have any proof towards this I plan on donning a low cut shirt and fussing about in front of television cameras Erin Brokovich style.

While I am ecstatic for some and indifferent to most (c'mon people, you can relate) I have found it best to use my power of invisibility as of late rather than hone my acting skills.  I'm in survival mode.  It is the Walking Dead all up in here only instead of zombies I'm trapped in a prison of my own making to avoid herds of pregnant women, and frankly I'm praying they'll infect me but all they fucking do is bite.

(How much do I love that show.. Let me count the ways).

I am ever-so briefly in Walking Dead mode, yes, but I am coming back slowly but surely, promise promise.

Though, as I said, I am using my cloak of invisibility rather than my acting skills, I did in fact deliver such a performance recently that I am sure if Daniel Day Lewis hadn't come out with Lincoln this year, I would be dominating the Oscars this weekend and weeping in front of a camera in a ballgown in a much more dignified fashion than anyone on the Bachelor.

(Seriously - Daniel Day Lewis wins all, I say.  Best actor, best picture, best foreign documentary, best performance by a man in a top hat).

As you may recall I am adopted.  I have a half brother on my maternal side that I am close to and understand, and a half sister on my paternal side that I don't particularly... get.  We'll call her Summer. I love her, do not get me wrong, I do.  I flew her out a few years ago, we had an excellent time, but mostly our relationship has been limited to the occasional email or comment on Facebook and I think that's about as far as we're destined to go.

Anyhoo.

Girlfriend is 24 years old, has been married for less than a year (as far as I can tell, they were cheating, breaking up and making up riiiight up until the wedding.  This is her third engagement, so I waited until she had been married for a month before sending a gift this time.)  She is somewhat familiar with my struggles, wildly immature, and told me she was pregnant by sending me a picture of her positive pee stick.  

A few things before I say things that are going to sound wildly snotty.  You all know I'm a bleeding heart liberal.  I also, for the record, am in one of those financial brackets where part of my taxes will be going to people who have less.  I am hap-hap-happy to do that, I'm pretty sure whoever your religious idol is wanted people to have... food.  And Summer is one of those people that has no money.  None.  The biological Father we both share ditched her, her Mother, left her with some impoverished and very elderly grandparents, girlfriend has nothing.  No.  Thing.  This is genuinely one of those people that when they get help, needs it.

Here's where I get snotty.

She found out she was pregnant 2 weeks ago via a very very positive at home pregnancy test.  She has no insurance, was shocked that a Doctor wouldn't see her, can't afford a bus ticket or a taxi ride to a planned parenthood.  Still hasn't been to a Doctor, but apparently a case worker for the state is going to see that she sees one soon.

The financial plan for taking care of this kid is foodstamps and welfare.  Again, this kid would starve to death and have absolutely nothing if it weren't for this little net.  This kid is fucked with or without the foodstamps, but thank G-d it will have that.  We are talking about a woman who has cardboard furniture and doesn't have the maturity or the fucking know how to spend money on things that you can't smoke.

This baby was planned.  PLANNED.  Personally I try to keep my nose 100% out of people's reproductive organs because I sure as shit don't like other people's noses in mine.  But fuck me sideways with a crossbow, seriously?!?  I feel as though if you're 24, you've been married a few months, have absolutely no money or insurance, that maybe planning one isn't the smartest thing to do.

But I have done my bit.  I have said "Oh yay I'm going to be an Aunt... sort of". It is exhausting to even mutter that in an email. Exhausting.

On a positive note, Bubba flunked the super shnazy sperm test and I had a summit with Doctor Kickass about it.  He is meeting with the embryologist tonight (!) to discuss who they need to wrangle in in California to get this shit done, and then we're off to the races.

Only I'm going to wait until June, methinks.  I need to quit sugar (in the process of it - see above grumpy cat) and yesterday Mr. T and I went to the gym. (No shit first time I typed that it came out gymp).

I am running a couple of miles a day on a sweaty disgusting treadmill.  I will not be trying to convince you that endorphins are better than heroin, I will not be shoveling kale happily into my mouth by the pound telling you it's just as good as bacon, nor will I be exclaiming how refreshing and awesome exercise is.

I just want to be clear... It's awful.  It's sweaty and disgusting.  I can't fathom how any gym is a pick up place as it is just a breeding ground for awful smells and douchebaggery.  I do not understand the enjoyment of exercise unless it is in the physical pursuit of an orgasm (which I shouted repeatedly at Mr. T whilst treadmilling.... thankfully he does not embarrass). 

But I'm gonna do this shit anyway so I'm healthier for IVF go time and so that I look less like the lovechild of Mr. Kool Aid and Rodney Dangerfield.  This way, when I actually do get pregnant ( and I will, damnit) in order to weigh me they won't have to tear down a wall to my house and ask the entire town for assistance in heaving me onto a large mammal scale.

I am slowly coming back.  Sweaty and pissed, but coming back.  Love to all.

Testing....Testing

Greetings, ladies o the interwebs!

Okay, here's the thing.  I have been in a bit of a skunky funk as of late, hence the radio silence.   I have decided to swim in it until my fingers get all pruney because I find that if you force yourself to ignore a wee bit o depression it tends to hang out a little longer and beg with increasing patheticness for your attention (it has a low self esteem, after all, that depression).  Sort of like if you're driving in snow and your car decides to skid - you're supposed to just take your hands off the steering wheel and let it slide because if you went with your intuition and fought it too hard you're much more likely to end up mangled.  So there we have it.  I'm sure it will get bored with me soon and move on to some other lady who will play hard to get.

I also did something tragically old lady to my right knee, so this week I've been additionally holed up in a knee brace.  No idea what I did, I have bad knees to begin with so I'm used to just having a few off days with them, but one of them has decided to go above and beyond as of late so I ended up in urgent care on Monday.  Nothing broken in the xrays, had to get an MRI last night.

It is official, apart from having my anonymous torso and/or fanny used as background in one of those local news stories on America's problem with obesity, waiting rooms are at the top of my ridiculous-nightmare list.

I had an appointment at 5:45, they called at 5 to let me know they were running a half hour behind, could I show up at 6 for a 6:15 appointment.  Fine.

I drive my gimp self there, pull into a huge medical center with a pay ticket.  It is abandoned - no one is there, google maps has betrayed me.  It looks like every dark parking lot in every lifetime movie involving rape, and I am literally quivering as I get out of the car to verify this is the wrong building.  Thank the heavens it doesn't make me pay to get out, so I pull into the next large medical building (google maps should just be a little off, after all).  Again, a paid parking lot and now I am mysteriously at a ghetto fabulous hospital diving off the side of the road to get away from ambulances.  I call the place where I have an appointment, they basically say 'oh no, silly, we are located in a tiny shack behind the CVS across the street where people go to fill their prescriptions for bloodlust and murder'.

I charm the lady manning this pay booth into letting me out, finally arrive at the right shack.

The place wreaks of cat litter boxes long abandoned and the cheapest dollar-store cleaning solutions.  I spend my evening trying not to itch.  The woman informs me that my appointment will start 30-40 minutes from now.

There is one woman in the waiting room aside from me, and she is either sleeping or dead.  This is never a good sign, and I spent my hour in the waiting room occasionally checking to see if she's breathing because I don't want to be that blurred out asshole on the news in the waiting room with some seriously ill person who has died without the medical personnel realizing it.

Meanwhile, the medical personnel is eating their dinner and discussing cats (could this be where the litter box smell is coming from?)  One sad woman spends 15 minutes going through the many pictures on her phone, and explaining the many subtle layers to the psychology of each of her kitties.  They are the loudest chewers on the planet - the only sound apart from meowing-in-my-head is chewing, like an angry army of vaginas marching through mud.

I am literally in the middle of the ghetto, waiting for some guy to take me behind a paisley curtain and ask me to disrobe.  I realize I may not be in a medical office at all but rather some dude's basement.

15 minutes before my appointment the chewing stops and cat lady decides to put on the tv, on a marathon of two and a half men.  It occurs to me maybe I'm not in some dude's basement but I'm in fact in hell.

They finally do my loud ass MRI, and the one poor bastard actually working there is the one poor bastard operating the one poor MRI machine.  Note:  You cannot call yourself an imaging center, you are more of an image center.

Today is the day I'm to get back up on my diet horse and get this TTC thing back on track, as my depression and I have gained approximately 4,000 lbs.  Suffice it to say this has not put me in the mood for it.

In better news, Bubba failed his super-duper fancy shmancy sperm test in Massachusetts. I am seriously delighted by this.

As a recap, we've been trying 3 years, had our first IVF in June with poor fertilization (and yes we had ICSI) - 1 out of 10 fertilized, ended in a chemical pregnancy.  Could've been a fluke, sure.

Dr. Kickass was dumbfounded and took it personally.  He had another Doctor test for DNA fragmentation, gratis, and we passed.  He happened to be aware of a study - a study - going on in Mass.  I repeat, not common knowledge or a common practice, a fucking study.  Basically, some men are missing a protein in their sperm that tells the egg that it's there and to start doing it's thing. Their sperm samples will look amazing (Bub's looks like he could impregnate a village), and you would be classified as 'unexplained' because everybody looks fancy.  Unless of course, you get all the way to IVF and have some fishy fertilization issues, and your Doc is aware of this study.

So Dr. Kickass pulled some strings, and got Bub into the study.  So Christmas day Bub flew up to Mass from where we were visiting in DC, made a cup his bitch on the morning of the 26th, drove back to MD in the snow. We were told it would be 3 weeks to get the results.

So yesterday Dr. K called, and said that they had the results - Bub is missing the protein.  So when we do IVF again (April?  May?  Girlfriend's gotta get her shit together) we will have fancy shmancy IVF where they not only do ICSI, but put the protein into the dishes themselves to get the party started.

I am tickled by this news... Reason being, at least there's an explanation for what's going on. And it is somewhat liberating way down the line here to know 'oh you were never going to get pregnant with Clomid, or IUI, or your first IVF.. you were always going to end up here.  And you're lucky because your Doctor knew to test for this thing that most people aren't even aware of".

So I'm stoked.  We'll have a summit on where the hell we go from here, but we have someplace to go, is my point.

Bub asked when he was in Mass how many people have this protein deficiency and they said, basically that they had no idea - it could be a lot a lot a lot.

So I am super excited and grateful... On the other hand, how many women who have gotten A++'s on all their tests and their husbands tests, have this problem and will never know or get tested for it? Because you would literally never know that this was going on unless you got to IVF and had poor fertilization, and then your Doctor could just be dumbfounded as opposed to suggesting testing for this.  I mean, this is at best a tiny chunk and at worst a huge chunk of the explanation for the 'unexplained infertility'.

So anyhoo - putting this out into the ether so if someone has 'poor fertilization' they can look this up and shoot me a message so we can chitter chatter.

Never been so happy to flunk a test.

31, 13

Good morning, interwebs.

I have been lurkey as of late, I know.  Forgive me future mamas, for I have lurked.  I have been silently in your front hedge with night vision goggles and a jar of vaseline, but I haven't made a peep so you and I don't even get the benefit of you being creeped out.  I'm working on it.

I am not... depressed.  I've had fleeting thoughts of "holy shit me in an alternate universe I would be 7+ months pregnant right now" but seeing as how I am mostly a cold hearted robot I still don't have anything to offer that thought, really, other than numbness.

I haaaave been having one of those marriage-renaissances that are awesome.  Bub and I are one of those weirdly happy married couples (don't get me wrong, we're fucking miserable jackasses in all other regards, but together we're happy... like that pair of old curmudgeon old men in the muppets.  We should all take a moment and be glad they found each other. ::bowing head in silent gratitude::).  Just one of those periods where I can't get enough of him.  Last night we spent a good hour naked in bed chitter-chatting about nonsense such as the HR lady in his office who every time she takes a sip of her drink, regardless of the beverage, looks at the bottom of the bottle and swishes it around.  I don't know if I'll ever be able to sleep again not knowing why she does that.

Those are the kinds of random, unplanned, not particularly exciting yet totally spectacular moments that make me think you know what, I'm happier just with Bub than most people are with their husbands and a brood of kids.  Someday should we have a state-of-the-art Bub-Stork hybrid, I'm thinking that'll put the kibosh on uninterrupted nudey time discussing people's crazyisms, and I'll miss it.

Mostly I'm sick of, and I think we can all collectively groan here which is part of why I love you, the endless barrage of happy news streaming through the common devil we all share known as FertileBook.

I'm thinking this is maybe just the silence before I take 2013 and make it my bitch.

Tomorrow I turn 31 in the year 13.  That's gotta be lucky, right?  Inverted numbers, 13 no less?  And my lucky number is 4.  It has to mean something, surely.... Okay fine but if I were wearing my super thick glasses instead of my contacts and was using a pointer to gesture instead of a cigarette you all would think this was brilliant.

This is how 30 started - such promise.

Ahh, there she is, innocent little drunken Jenny on a cold afternoon in January of 2012. Starting the year off right with drag queens and blow job shots.

30 was the year I lost 30 lbs.

30 was the year I had my first IVF which ended in early miscarriage.

30 was the year I celebrated my 6th wedding anniversary and 9 years of being with Bubba the Magnificent.

30 was the year I started a blog.

30 was the year a naughty mutt named Luna tapdanced her way into our hearts.

30 was the year Towanda the Honda died, and she was replaced with the Batmobile.

30 definitely had some positive moments for which I am grateful, but 30 was overall not so hot.

30 will pale in comparison to 31.

31 in 2013 is my year, people, I am fucking due.

Babies in Ballgowns

Happy Wednesday, wombats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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