The Pail Sea

Tap tap tap...

Testing.... Testing 1 2....

This thing still work?

CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?!?

It is I, Stork.

It has been... Jesus.... two months since my last confession. Let's just get into it, shall we?

I haven't been too active in infertile world because I've been frozen in terror, and I need to thaw. I need to unfreeze because I miss you people, but mostly for my own sanity.

I've often compared being a member of our community to being a passenger on the Titanic. We're all unlucky - every last one of us somehow ended up on the wrong fucking boat, and most of us wound up in the freezing water. There are unmistakable divides in our community - who's been in the water longer, who was in it for too short a period or too long ago to count, who's currently sitting fat and happy in a lifeboat.

The ideal code of conduct between these divides, as I understood them pre-pregnancy: If you're in the water, try your best not to focus on the order people should get saved based on suffering because that's never the order it will happen in. If you're in a lifeboat, for fucks sakes don't complain about the gd conditions of the lifeboat particularly to people who are still in the water.

I was in the water for 4 years.  It was a tit bit nipply. I thought, if ever I get yanked onto a boat, because of the aforementioned ideals, it would be a non-obnoxious transition. I'll admit - a million times I've heard a finally-pregnant infertile express how terrified they were, and I've thought 'OMG just be fucking happy'.  So I had a pretty good idea of how I was going to respond if I was ever lucky enough to be 'saved'. Pregnant = problem solved. Smooth transition to happiness.

I was - and this still annoys me - totally, fucking, spectacularly, wrong.

The moment my butt hit a dry seat - happiness. Happy disbelief.  No denying that. There's a physical reaction to obtaining what you've been going after for years before you even have a chance to mentally process it.

Then, I think because of losing one of the embryos 5 weeks in and having enough time to remember - I dunno, who I was? -  and that person was not someone I associated with good luck or a lack of cruel irony, it just morphed into panicked disbelief.

I thought... this can't be your boat. The last one you were on sank spectacularly, you were in the water forever - one of the gajillions of people floating helplessly in frozen, never moving, on-the-cusp-of-ice water. Do you really think you're going to be one of the lucky people successfully saved on this tiny ass boat after all that? Please, by all means, spend a few minutes thinking your safe - because that will give Gawd/the universe/Mother Nature all the more booming a laugh as they hurl you back into the water and you will pray fondly for the days where your skin was used to the cruelty of that temperature... it's going to be soooo much funnier now that you've warmed up a bit.

Another unforeseen reaction on my part was how I would view my place in our community. A million times before, when one of us has gotten knocked up and then disappeared completely, I thought 'well that's kind of a dick move... I guess we'll see you later? Thanks for playing?'. When my butt hit that dry seat, after I realized what happened I looked back in the water. Freezing cold fucking awful water, full of people who had kept me warm for years - and I couldn't do shit to save them. Still can't.

The water had become my HOME. My community. My place. The unbelievably cold and the unfuckingbelievably strong. To stop paddling seemed preposterous... presumptuous. Better women than me were still paddling. Out of habit, I was/am way more used to the idea of surviving than I was the idea of being a survivor.

For a combination of circumstances I don't really fully understand myself - previous experience, hormones, genetic disposition, who knows - I also went a wee bit coocoo for the first half of my pregnancy. I am, if left to my own devices, a very calm, cool, collected and above all mellow person. I find the goof in everything. About 6 weeks into pregnant I became so afraid of how far I was going to fall when it all went to shit, that my brain started entertaining itself by spending most days picturing every possible disaster. An example? I went hunting for blood so thoroughly I would accidentally make myself bleed. If so much as a fucking ant boarded my lifeboat, I would be completely convinced it would sink the whole damn thing.

I'd have a few days where I'd feel normal, and then a few days where it was just... panic. Maybe I would have been better prepared for that if I had hints of that in my personality to begin with but.. nope. It was like being taken over by someone else.  I technically no longer had to paddle to stay alive, and that threw me into such a panic that I exhausted myself paddling. Exhausted.

Maybe around 20 weeks (I'm 25 now) I started to show a little bit (although I'm pudgy to begin with so one could argue I just look like I'm awkwardly carrying fat). Around the same time, I started to feel her move. I started to feel a slight thaw. Maybe I'm really pregnant - but like, the kind that may result in a baby.

A few weeks ago I was driving to get myself some peanut butter froyo with chocolate chips and strawberries (which is now my jammmmm) and listening to "the Loft" on Sirius. (If anyone knows what the fuck the theme of that radio station is supposed to be - don't tell me because at this point it's become a great big infuriating riddle I need to solve.. but do tell me someone knows?).  Anyway, I was thinking about how I really needed to just... let go. Embrace the unknown.  I didn't get this far being a chicken shit. I am no longer trying to get pregnant or struggling to get pregnant... time to accept that I just may be one of the lucky ones. I'm thinking this to myself, this song comes on I've never heard before, Heisenbaby starts to dance around apeshit, and I start to cry - another totally-out-of-character thing for me, but they were happy/relief tears.

So, I still have rough/weird days where relaxing feels like it will bring on punishment.. However, as pre-pregnancy I was no chicken shit, I'm now trying to embrace the happy ending. I bought a crib. I got her a few outfits. I started a registry.

And I'm forcing myself out of the weird and unbearable inbetween... because again, I miss you and I miss my sanity - and at least previously it would seem one was very tied in with the other.

So... I declare this a PAIL blog.

I'm going to get back to writing in here - which has and will continue to be mostly weird shenanigans and certainly not where you go to get an instructional on how to knit a sweater out of tuna casserole using only heavily used stockings.. but I will be writing my shenanigans as a pregnant woman. Which I will be talking about (but I'll go easy on the fruit comparisons).

I'm going to preface this whole new blog - wherever it goes - with the following disclaimer: I am grateful. So grateful. If I had to put hot needles in my eyes every day for the duration of my pregnancy to result in a healthy baby, I would do it with gratitude.  Not just gratitude, but the same perfect understanding I had a year ago as to why any pregnant person should be grateful.... but in that scenario, on this blog, I will be saying 'dude I wish these needles in my eyes were more fun' in my own overly dramatic way... and when I do, please don't think I've forgotten where I come from or how to have gratitude (I think that ought to cover it for the disclaimer).

If you need to back away from me - don't spend a second feeling guilty about it. Just... before you go, know that if there was any way I could drag you by your hair into the boat I seem to have found myself in, I would.  Because I want us all to be happy, sure, but mostly for selfish reasons - I want the familiar on my damn lifeboat, I want you with me because I'm afraid, and you know I'm not going to be able to socialize with too many of those Carpathia bitches who never sank in the first place.

Tomorrow: back to shenanigans. Shit they don't tell you about pregnancy but STORK WILL.

Dispatches from Coocoo

Greetings, blogosphere!

Just wanted to pop in and say howdoyoudo... Need to get back into the swing of writing, so I first wanted to dip my toe in the water to say hey in a sudden and possibly alarming fashion.

HEY.

Going to be talking about pregnancy in this one, so feel free to skip if you need to.

We good? k.

I shall be 16 weeks along with Heisenberg on Wednesday.

Also? Heisenberg is a SHE-BEAST!

While she may be a lady, she shall still be known as Heisenberg as she is clearly a fucking badass (although a friend on Twitter suggested 'Heisenbroad' which made me die a thousand deaths).

The short story is I haven't been on here because I went a little bit coocoo.

By coocoo, I mean the midpoint between 'oh that Stork and her antics, she's silly' and 'holy Christ on a cracker somebody call someone with a giant butterfly net'... maybe a little closer to butterfly net.

I will admit I previously thought that when infertiles got pregnant and then were all nervous and nutso? That it was melodramatic bullshit.

Not so, friends, not so.

Infertility is a fucking survival game. You do what you have to do to get by.  My MO is to make jokes, numb myself out, soldier on like a good little soldier.

And here's the thing, folks... infertility or not, when you put off feeling things you're not getting rid of them - you're just guaranteeing you have to pay for them later. With interest.

Pretty much every day in my first trimester I was convinced something terrible had happened. Not 'oh that would suck, I wonder if something's wrong' but 'something is WRONG'.

I'd randomly get completely overtaken by anxiety that was seemingly not even related to Heisenberg.  Like, getting out of my house and suddenly crippled in fear that the stove was on when I hadn't used the stove in a few days. Wondering if someone was breaking into my house when I wasn't there.

Why? I suppose because you get used to happiness eluding you that when it finally shows up wanting to be a part of your life, your first thought is to figure out what kind of con this is.

I was constantly, cripplingly, 1,000% terrified of getting attached to the idea of a happy ending.

Best way I can describe it... You know that game where you put your hands straight out, and your opponent puts their hands a few inches below yours, and they have to try to slap your hands before you can pull away?

Okay so the process of trying to have a baby when you're infertile is like getting slapped constantly.  Like a never ending fucking slap fest where your fingers get raw and bloody, and eventually you get used to it.  You're constantly taking punches. If you try = you get slapped.

Getting pregnant at the end of infertility is like putting your hands out never having known anything other than slapping, and your opponent just sits there mind fucking you with their eyes. If this one time you can make it 5 minutes without a slap (even though you've never made it 5 seconds without one) the abuse will stop and you can heal. With each passing second, you're more and more afraid of that slap because it's going to scare you, hurt you, make you feel stupid on a level that you're just never going to be able to recover from.  So while before you were physically getting slapped, now it's psychological warfare which makes you flinch and cringe more than you ever did.  Because this slap?  This slap could be worse than all the rest - your opponent could just be winding up for this one, with every passing second a little more inertia added to it.

A specific example of coocoo level? I was checking so vigorously for blood that wasn't there that I would make myself - in a tiny way - bleed.  Not healthy.

I'm starting to feel better. I'm thinking it's a combination of the Maternity21 testing coming back (which I only had on account of my being adopted) lovely, getting a fetal doppler so I can find her when I want, and knowing that prior to this happening to me, when another infertile reached 16 weeks of pregnancy I thought 'oh okay, she's really pregnant. A baby is going to come of this.'

So for the most part I am more relaxed... a few paces further away from the butterfly net. Just a few paces.

Don't get me wrong, in a moment of relaxation panic can still find me...

(Source.)

but it's a little less alarming than it was a week or two ago.

(Source.)

So I'm dipping my toe back into the world.

Hello, world.

Feeling Dump

It. Is. Thursday.

Hoping that Santa brought you everything you wanted and that the New Year brought you some closure on the old one.

Sorry that this is going to be brief - still pulling myself out of the holiday haze and more importantly, I am pretty much constantly in a state of panic.

I am, as of today, 8 weeks and 1 day pregnant.  Tomorrow morning, yet another ultrasound.

At 6 week 2 day ultrasound - our Doctor couldn't find a heartbeat on his machine so he sent us upstairs to a higher tech machine.  After an hour of being in that waiting room with multiple visibly pregnant women thinking 'welp that's it', they found it right away (phew). 102.  But I was measuring only 5 weeks 5 days (which would explain why Heisenberg was so hard to find).

At 7 week 2 day ultrasound my Doctor was out of town so a different Doctor saw me.  Heartrate was up to 128 (which is right), and it grew about a weeks worth in a week.  But I was measuring 6 weeks 4-5 days.

Apparently, this could be fine or it could not be fine.  I kind of grilled the fill-in Doctor about what the hell I should be feeling because just going week to week with what is essentially "we don't freaking know anything " is stressful. (I understand there are no guarantees but why the fuck am I even doing ultrasounds if afterwards I can't feel better or worse.)  He elaborated - but by elaborated I mean used more words to say "we don't freaking know, it could be nothing or it could be something". 

PS - I love that my Doctors office is realistic and doesn't blow sunshine up your ass, I do.  However I think all RE's need a memo that NONE of the women who have been trying for a certain amount of time have the problem of not enough doomsday scenarios running around in their head.  As far as help is concerned that's not something I need help with.  Statistically speaking I'm ALWAYS on the shit end of the stick when it comes to reproduction so feeling the need to make sure I'm being realistic or that my hope is well in check is kind of bull shit.

Anyway.

So sometimes this means it's an abnormal pregnancy that will eventually end.  Sometimes it's just something that people who have had FETs encounter - late bloomers.  So it could mean something or it could mean nothing (I mean, a 51/49 scenario even would be nice).

The one thing they said that I find equally comforting and terrifying depending on my mood is that the outcome is long ago decided - there's nothing I can do to change it.

I always imagined that once I did get pregnant, I would just be happy, that's it - number one emotion.  Some nerves thrown in for sure because at this point I know WAY too much to be without them, but mainly I would feel happy.

And let me say here before that statement makes anyone upset - I am happy and I know how lucky I am to have gotten this far.  And if I have to have a panic attack for the next 32 weeks - NO problem.  Happy to do.

But mainly I am fucking terrified.  I am terrified that after all this time, if I let myself get happy or attached or optimistic and it's snatched away from me (not just hope for a dream but being close enough to fucking TASTE it) I will fall so tremendously far that there will just be no recovering.  Not like 'oh that's awful but she'll persevere she's so strong' kind of breakdown but a full tilt boogie, old school, 'call someone with a big butterfly net' crazy.  

So every day, I'm afraid. I know I should be enjoying every second that I am pregnant (someone gave me the very helpful mantra - which I've been using but to no avail - today I am pregnant and I am happy).  I know I should - and don't get me wrong, every day there are moments where I'm like 'fuck yeah this could end in a baby!' But I'm so afraid of getting attached.  So afraid. So afraid that if I start thinking that maybe this one fucking time I'll come out on the good side of statistics and a Doctor may look at me and say something OTHER than 'well we just don't know, maybe you're screwed' that I'll be punished beyond measure for my foolish optimism.

But today I am pregnant, today I am pregnant, today I am pregnant, today I am pregnant.  Please stick around, Heisenberg.  Please, please, please, please God please.

Anyway...

Think a happy thought for me and Heisenberg for tomorrow!  Think pray do a small jig, something please. 

Hopefully everything caught up and grew properly, and I can go back to fun posts (like about how I'm pretty sure Macaulay Culkin and Mary Kate Olsen are the same person). 

Strawberry Funk

It. Is. Thursday.

May yours be full of glitter and unicorn farts and topped with a generous helping of awesome sauce and a sprinkle of fuck yeah.

Just wanted to say really quick - this blog is my crack den of free therapy and you are the coke I get to snort off of a hookers teet. Therefor it should go without saying, that if all goes well I will not be doing the ole "well, fixed that problem so peace out, suckas!". Nor will I hold it against you if you have to take a step back from me a bit or a lot at any time, and if you're on the fence about it - let me just say I don't want to sit at the freaking fertile table at lunch.  Also, I am unsure how much I will be talking about pregnancy on here but I can tell you that for now it may be a lot because I'm nervous, but once that subsides a bit when I do talk about it it will be in the manner I talk about everything else which is 90% totally freaking ludicrous. And that's all she wrote for now.

My betas went swimmingly - at 12 dpo (7dp5dt) it was 44, 14 dpo 135, 16dpo 386.

Today I am - and I can't believe I am saying this - 5 weeks and 1 day pregnant. I am nervous and grateful and nervous and excited and nervous.

...And nervous.

I know what you're thinking - 'just enjoy it you asshat!' because this is what I would have been yelling a few weeks ago. And I'm trying to.. I'm trying to.  I'm trying to live every moment as though its soundtrack was a super duper relaxing 70s funk song.

(No joke - I was up for two hours in the middle of the night with that song stuck in my head, being further and further enraged that there's no explanation as to why it's called strawberry letter 23 WHEN THEY KEEP SINGING 22. No I was not high though that would greatly help my nerves at this point).

I'm trying to be a groovy, groovy bitch and I am about 60% of the time.  The other 40% is spent worrying what will happen if I allow myself to be totally happy.

I go from feeling like a giggly creature high off the ole strawberry funk to totally overwhelming anxiety.  Pretty damn quickly.

(Source)

I just wonder when it lifts - when the worry lifts and it feels real.  When the overall worry will lessen enough for me to mostly feel the happy.

And before you get totally irritated with me - I am SO happy and so fucking grateful there are no words for it.  I just want to feel it fully without being a superstitious ass about it and get it through my thick skull I won't get punished for enjoying the happy.

I have to be better about letting myself feel happy because right now, in this moment, I am pregnant.  I've been waiting for this for so long, and damnit I'm going to enjoy it.

I occasionally shout to my husband (full decibel) THERE'S A PERSON IN HERE.  Mostly because that doesn't fully register with ME.

There's a PERSON IN HERE. I have to try to relax and enjoy that shit because by the beard of Zeus, after 4 years there is, as of this moment, a PERSON IN HERE.

Tomorrow is my first ultrasound - I'll only be 5 weeks 2 days so they'll just be looking for a sac (or sacs).

I promise to become a much more interesting person once this worry subsides a little.

Keep a toe or two crossed for me - I shall update tomorrow.

Until then, you stay funky internet.

The Results Show

Happy Tuesday, tiddlywinks!

It's DECEMBER!!! Mind you, this has been the longest 2 1/2 months of my life quite possibly but at the same time.. been so hyperfocused on IVF turned battle o late blooming embryos turned IVF (aka, full tilt boogie tour of all injectables) that I feel as though I should still be recovering from Halloween.

So I'm gonna talk about the last week, my Beta tomorrow, the end of FET, etc.. So if you're not in a place for it - skip this!  Skip it!  Skip that shit!

Get out of here guilt free or so help me this cat will get you when you LEAST EXPECT IT.

(Source.)

Are they gone?

Are we sure?

Okay just in case - one more pic and then you're in or you're out or I shall punish you like this dog!

Ready?

Almost exactly four years, eleventy rounds of clomid, 1.5 IVFs, many special tests, 90 gajillion shots, one chemical pregnancy, many miracles, so much money and one FET later - as of this moment, I am pregnant.

PREGNANT.  With like, a HUMAN BABY. (Or babies).

PREGNANT. La Bamba and/or Heisenberg dug deep.

None of it has sunk in yet.  None of it.  None.

PREGNANT.  And we're talking about ME here.

Okay backing up.

My transfer was last Monday and I tell you I felt weird pinches that day (I'm guessing Heisenberg as he is THE ONE WHO KNOCKS.)

The night of Thanksgiving, as it's starting to hit me it may not work, I start getting dull cramps and the tiniest little spritz of red flecks (and I mean tiny - a mentally stable person would have probably missed it.)

I start feeling like I'm getting the flu I'm so tired - I of course think I'm just getting the actual flu on top of my negative-to-come and start getting weepy about my bad luck.  It was actually a very relaxing holiday at my Moms and I ate ALL THE THINGS.

Saturday, Bub and I come home having agreed that I will hold out to test until Monday.  Beta scheduled for Wednesday, and if there is no hope I really want to be eased into it instead of being shocked.  So Monday.  Monday makes sense.

Naturally, after we get home I go out to get Jamba juice - and a pregnancy test. Just going to ease myself into seeing that negative - it's only 5dp5dt at this point (10dpo for you non-IVFers, 10 days past ovulation for you fertiles) which is LUDICROUSLY early because my period wouldn't be due for 6 days.

I put my purchased FRER in my purse, take purse into bathroom, pee into cup.  Dip in FRER.  Set aside.  30 seconds later look, and start cackling like a mad woman.  Then I yell "HEYYYYY!!!" and start sprinting out of the bathroom for Bub, and say oh by the way I'm pregnant and PS I bought a pregnancy test.

What you're looking at - top one is Saturday at 5 PM, middle is Sunday at 5 PM, bottom is yesterday at 5 PM.

I paged my Doctors office. Initially the on-call Doctor said to wait until Wednesday (14dpo) as planned, but then she called me on Sunday to say she spoke to my Doc and to come in early on Monday.

So I had my Beta yesterday - took forever to hear back, but my hcg is 44. (Keep in mind that's two days early - but yeah, I thought it'd be a little higher). I am pregnant.  Doc said to keep doing what I'm doing, it seems to be working, come in for retest on Wednesday to make sure number is doubling.

I go back and forth between "holy shit I'm pregnant" and it not hitting me AT ALL.  Like, AT ALL.  Yesterday getting my number made me realize I kind of have PTSD about pregnancy... Just keep having to remind myself this is SO much earlier/darker/higher than last time.  And I already feel... weird.

Please pray for nice, doubling numbers by tomorrow.  I am at the end of the line here, last stop to have a baby- I promise to be a benevolent and understanding knocked up woman.  Let me be that crazy story you tell people when they're losing hope. Light a candle, think a happy thought, send some good juju, this has to be it (or them).  Has to be. Any good vibes you have I will appreciate.

I almost hesitated in posting this today but am pushing through.  Tomorrow is going to be awesome! Awesome awesome.

Everything is going as it should (which who knew could HAPPEN to ME) so far.  I just have to keep reminding myself I'm actually pregnant.

I'm pregnant I'm pregnant I'm pregnant I'm pregnant.

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.

The Vagenius Flames of July

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Source).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4.  I spent two weeks in teen town.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10 minutes out of every mother fucking episode.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That video makes me die.

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

Pretty Sure I'm a Witch.

Happy Sunday, Witches of the Womb.

I'm thinking we should start some sort of Coven.. or that maybe we're already in one and we should just kick up our alcohol intake, accessories and general spell-casting.

(I mean think about it... we are a group of women who prefer to stick to one another.  We talk herbs, potions, medications, meditations... We're cyclical creatures who throw ourselves at the altar of fertility. I mean, for chrissakes I own at least three fertility amulets and some fertility candles.  We're a Coven, I say.)

In an Ambien haze, I ordered myself some Roald Dahl books because I love them, and for some reason I no longer seemed to own them. (Ambien = Christmas. I order myself gifts, completely forget that I've done so, arrive home to find surprise packages on my front step.  I am my own Santa.)

Anyhoo.

This weekend it was approximately 10,000 degrees in Los Angeles so I spent the last 48 hours breathing heavily next to a fan, looking at the mess in my house and thinking 'ohhhh, I should probably do something about that but that would require moving' and wishing I had a magic wand.  It's a straight up Tennessee Williams play in my house.  It is hotter than hell and I may have the vapors.

Whilst sweating I re-read Roald Dahl's "The Witches". If you haven't read it (...serrrriously?  I can't even look at you) I'll give you the jist.

There's a secret group of women throughout the world.  They're itchy.  Their feet are uncomfortable. They've inexplicably grown claws.  They regard other people's children in the same way one would dog shit, spend their time trying to lure children and hope to eventually turn them into mice.  They only peel off their masks and itch freely if they're in a room exclusively made up of their fellow witches.

As a child I used to read this book hoping for the downfall of these poor women.  Now I realize these 'witches' are just a rogue pack of misunderstood infertiles hopped up on hormones. And now we're much more dangerous seeing as how since the internet was invented we can find each other by the thousands.

(Source.)

Apart from videos of Corgi's doing basically anything, one of my favorite non-fertility related things on the internet is Humans of New York. I haven't been to New York in years and I obviously don't live there, but honestly... You should follow it on Facebook because it's absolutely fascinating and it is a fantastic, fantastic way to break up all the usual sonogram snipering and "look at what my kids had for lunch!" statuses on Fertilebook.

Basically, this brilliant photographer goes out onto the streets of New York and takes portraits of the people that he finds.  While he's doing so, he usually asks them a question about their life and writes a small 'story' about how they responded.  It sounds simple but it's extraordinary.

This weekend, much to my delight, this photo popped up with the following story:

(Source.)

"What was the saddest moment of your life?"

"Probably when our first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage."

"Had you chosen a name?"

"No. But we were given the remains to bring to a laboratory. And we named the jar. We named it 'Formolin,' which is a derivative of the Spanish word for formaldehyde. We both have a very dark sense of humor. It's how we coped."

And thus I was introduced to my favorite picture/story of HONY, ever, which is a hard thing to accomplish.

For one, I love when there's a storyline outside the world of infertility that has to do with miscarriage.  Two, I am obviously in a camp (as are many of us) where I thoroughly believe that having humor about something awful is absolutely necessary.

What was most fascinating about it - and what ate up a good 45 minutes of my time that would've otherwise just been spent sweating - were the comments. Some of them made me happy, some of them pissed me off and most were in between.  I could not stop reading them.

It's as if someone took a little bit of our secret world, our infertile Coven, broadcast it to a few thousand unsuspecting people, and I got to sit there and watch them respond.  Truly. It was, by pure accident, the best, most honest poll of how the average person would respond if they were a victim of some sort of sorcery that immersed them, fully, into our world for just a moment.

A lot of the comments were lovely condolences.

Some of the comments were plucked straight out of the 'what not to say to someone who's had a miscarriage' textbook.  You know, "Everything happens for a reason!", "It just wasn't meant to be!"; "See everybody?  Don't worry about it, because you'll go on to have your family someday!".  At this point I am totally forgiving of saying things like this because I would probably be saying the same things... Though if someone was newly widowed, I would like to think we would all know not to say "Don't worry!  You'll meet someone in the future and it will make up for it!  Everything happens for a reason!"

Some of them were genuinely freaked out by the dark humor... some of them were even so clueless as to why she would even have her fetus in a jar they were bordering on implying she was involved in some sort of dark magic (seriously people.. just a quick Google search would've answered your question).  I obviously immediately understood the humor (and thought it was brilliant) but seeing how eeked out some people were made me a little self conscious that our world was being shared with 'others'... like the muggles were temporarily being exposed to the darker sides of the Harry Potter world... but I kind of get their response.

You know that saying about boiling frogs?  (No seriously - even from a non-witch standpoint it's totally a saying).

If you stick a frog in a boiling pot of water, it will become panicked and jump right out.  If you stick a frog in a pot full of lukewarm water and slowly turn up the heat, it will stay until it's nice and toasty.

So reading the freaked out comments on the photo is a bit like watching a bunch of frogs being put into our pot, and immediately wanting to jump the hell out.

In 2009, when Bub and I decided to start trying, if I had conceived immediately and had two kids by now... I would probably read something like this and my mouth would drop open.

As it actually is, I laughed out loud.

Until you're hurled into the throws of something unimaginably awful like miscarriage or infertility in general, you have no idea what it feels like... and kudos to the commenters who seemed to grasp it despite their inexperience.  I'm in awe of anyone sensitive enough to be good at the 'if I were this person...' game.

At first reading people upset about her dark humor made me feel naked and gave me an urge to explain... but the more I read the more it morphed into feeling smugly proud of myself. (But don't worry - I did, as a helpful PSA, try to inform people the only appropriate response to someone's loss is "that fucking sucks").

It takes an arsenal of witchcraft to keep yourself afloat in a pot of loss. It's a witches brew of herbs, medication, and the most important ingredient of all, in my opinion, is to have a sense of humor. The end result when done properly out of necessity is supernatural strength. The herb known as chuckle is so vitally important and rare, that it should be sought after the instant it becomes available and in whatever form it's available in.  Every True Witch knows that.

So in the end, seeing the opinions of the average fertile (which we all knew) played out through a casual discussion, sparked by a photo and story on HONY's Facebook page, made me feel pretty good.

Naturally, a lot of these frogs couldn't handle the heat of our pot, and were so absolutely shocked that anyone could not only handle it but handle it with humor.  (If you're going to need the strength to survive a boiling, might as well treat it as much like a jacuzzi as you can, when you can).

As for responding to that story with any level of panic - good for you, mere mortals.  May you never understand what she's talking about.  I, however, do.  The world has tried to burn us a million times, and somehow we still thrive. It requires potions and elixirs and monsters I hope you never have to deal with. Girlfriend may have two adorable kids now, but she is forever a sister in my Coven.

And my fellow bitchy-witches are clever and hilarious.  It's just the kind of strength that requires witchcraft.

Fangs and Feathers

Greetings, People of Webdom!

I had my first ever acupuncture appointment this morning.  Pause for reaction.

My friend Kali, who is a psychotic ball of the kind of hummingbird energy that is normally reserved for people in the throws of a crack meltdown, started going a few weeks ago to control her stress level.  The day after she came slithering into my house and melted onto a chair proclaiming she was a different person.

It should also be noted that Kali has a severe needle phobia. I can safely say as a witness that most of us would do better dumping a bucket of spiders over our heads, and she's somehow totally cool with the acupuncture poke.

I emailed the lady that de-stressed her for an article for Fertility Authority, and ended up emailing her back & forth just regarding general shenanigans because she was awesome.  SO I went in today.  It was cray cray.

While my body can be super lazy (thank you, dead thyroid) my brain never shuts the fuck up.  It would be counter intuitive for me to believe that someone shoving a needle in my forehead would cause me to relax, but that's what happened.  I am a convert.  If you're in L.A. and looking to give it a try - girlfriend's info is in the Fertility Authority article.

I did not think I could outdo the initial discovery that needles not containing heroin could be hella relaxin' - but I did.  They had a wall of old ass photos as well as magazines, and as a result of looking at the room at just the right angle, I discovered Michael Cera is a vampire, ladies and gents.  This completely explains his skin tone and inability to complete puberty.  My acupuncturist helped me take the photo - you heard it here first.

The cray cray needles also helped me return to my usual self a little bit.

I do not do well on birth control.  All the heavy duty IVF drugs, I'm fine - give me a wee bit of Progesterone or birth control and I turn into a she-beast of the netherworld.

I have what you would call a 'quick wit'. I'm a very, very mellow person (I do not sweat the small stuff) however if you put me on something that makes me sweat the small stuff... 'Quick wit' works against me and becomes 'razor tongue'.  I'm basically a domesticated rattlesnake - it takes a lot to poke me, but when I'm poked I bite.  Hard. A couple of times this week my mouth/hands worked faster than I would have liked them to, and at least one person got bit.  I felt terrible about it afterwards, so I'm thrilled to pieces that a delightful woman armed with needles and an ability to deal with my saying "I have a needle in my fucking face! What am I doing?!" has helped.

Enough of that - on to lose some followers.

This morning, as per usual, I groggily rolled over and dicked around on my phone in bed.  Turns out that quite literally, I woke up in a better state and world in general than the one I went to sleep in.

DOMA and Prop 8 were turned over, and I am so happy that I could explode into an epic mushroom cloud of glitter and feathers and unicorn farts.

DOMA - the Defense of Marriage Act - was a federal law barring the U.S. Federal government from recognizing gay marriages legalized by states.  So yesterday, when it stood, even if you had been legally married elsewhere, you couldn't leave your spouse money or assets in your will without that spouse having to pay huge inheritance taxes. You couldn't jointly file taxes, receive social security benefits as a couple or tax breaks for workplace health coverage. If you were a legal citizen, you couldn't sponsor your spouse for a green card. (An example of that would be this heartbreaking video over here).  Today, hallelujah, you can do all these things.

Prop 8 was the horrendous bill my usually much more progressive state voted on, not allowing gay marriage. As a result of being ruled unconstitutional, California couples should be able to be married here within 25 days.

And wouldn't you know it, I woke up in a world with more equal rights and somehow - amazing! - my heterosexual marriage still seems to be intact.  Bubba didn't disappear into thin air, our marriage license wasn't made void, our house didn't burst into flames or whatever the fuck else was supposed to happen.

If any change did occur? My marriage is better this morning because it's not being soiled and shat upon by being used as a platform to discriminate against others.  It's not being used as an arguing point for pure fucking evil - it's a little bit more mine and a little less political tool.

As always, I'm genuinely disgusted by the arguments against it.  My Mom is 100,000% Mexican and my Dad was white - had they been born a smidge earlier than they were, it would've been illegal for them to marry.  And back then people were holding up Bible verses and shouting about how it was the beginning of the end, too.

If you're that worried about the sex life of two consenting adults that have nothing to do with you, I really, really don't think you're screwing correctly. Maybe instead of typing angry Facebook statuses you should be using your hands to google "what is a clitoris?"

As grossed out as I am by any of the arguments there is one that tickles me.. The bestiality argument - that's my favorite!

First of all, we should all be concerned that so many 'happily married' heteros jump so quickly to man-on-chicken sex.  It's alarming.

Second of all - I totes agree with this argument!  Everyone knows that women's suffrage led to an epidemic of hamsters voting.

Some people are claiming they are upset because since Prop 8 was overturned, obviously the state of California just doesn't care about voting anymore.

First, we should never have the right to vote on whether or not another human being should have equal rights simply because we disagree with them.  It shouldn't have been put up to a vote in the first place - as reiterated today, it's an infringement on our constitutional rights. There's nothing in our constitution that says I or anyone is a second class citizen, and other people get to vote on whether or not I have a right to be married to Bub.  If we get to vote on who gets to be married based on who's sex life grosses me out?  A lot of heteros are being voted off of sex island.

Second, if we left the matter of equal rights up to the general population, if we sat around waiting for people to come to a majority agreement on whether people not like them are in fact people at all, a big part of this country would still be using separate water fountains.  I'm sorry it's taking some people a long time to figure out that someone unlike them still gets to have the rights that they enjoy - you take all the time in the world you need to figure that out, it is your right as a citizen to be a bigot, but we're just going to go ahead and afford people rights in the meantime.

And by the way, I dislike bigots on account of their opinions - not their race, religion, sex or sexual orientation.  If we're going to dislike people, we should give them the opportunity to be an asshole, first (and asshole is an equal opportunity employer). If someone tried to strip an asshole of their basic rights?  I'd also be rioting.

Isn't the opposition usually full of people who do not want government poking their noses in everyone's business?  Just so I have the priorities straight... Soooo, government should let me die of a treatable disease because to concern themselves would be meddling, but yes, absolutely, get in my bedroom and tell me who I should be sleeping with and/or falling in love with. Totes.

On a personal note?  The main argument against gay marriage made in legal cases is that they don't procreate.

Fuck off.

Neither can I.  How long do I get to try before my marriage is considered null and void?  (And as a sidenote, I really think the 'uptick' in homosexuality is probably mother nature's way of balancing out the fact that there are morons who think that despite depleted resources they should be churning out as many babies as nature allows.).

I know I'm not religious.. but no.  Do not hold up verses as an excuse to make decisions about the personal lives of others.  If you think it's wrong - don't marry someone of the same sex.  Simple as that.  And unless you have never had a haircut, don't believe in autopsies, are free of tattoos and/or have sold your daughter for a certain number of cows (and made sure to eat all your sacrifices within 3 days), don't even bring it up.  Do not.

And how flimsy does your marriage have to be to think that it's less sacred if someone else is married too?  Spend your time worrying about your own marriage, please.

(Source).

I'm happy today.

Happy that my marriage is being used a little less to discriminate against my friends, happy that justice is slowly and surely prevailing, happy that people are closer to being treated equally because they are equal. Whether you're a delightful gay, a feather shitting unicorn, a bigot or a carnie with man hands - you should have the same basic human rights.

The people that are a little better than others?  It's not because of race, it's not because of sex, it's not because of sexual orientation - it's because of their capability to love.

Try siding with love sometime, you'll be less miserable.  Take it from a domesticated rattlesnake.

The Artistry of My Uterus

Greetings, my lovely warrior-wombed.

Yes I've been a terrible writer and reader the last week.  Explanation forthcoming.

I am now the proud Mother of an ovarian cyst.  I'm calling him Francisco the asshole Cysto, and you should all be expecting glossy, glitter shitting announcements in your mail any day now, with his picture, his measurements scrawled out in cursive and information on his registry.  In my adult baby-shower victim life I have bought 90 gajillion nonsensical, brightly colored plastic toys and baby contraptions with vomit-inducing names that no human being actually needs that get more horrifying with time.  ('Here!  Buy me a robot that pre-chews food and spits it into my mouth before I spit it into the mouth of Jayden/Aiden/Kayden/Santaclausaden!  Baby birding is made so much easier!  It's called a Sparklezzzzz and it's only $200! $50 extra if you want a monkey painted on the side!')

I think at this point Francisco the asshole Cysto warrants some gifts.  He likes Quentin Tarantino movies, environmentally friendly sports cars and Vodka.  He told me so.

I did 10 days of progesterone to get a period.  A week after I stopped, no period so I went in for an ultrasound and Bub came since it was early.  (Sidenote: am I the only person who enjoys passing the time at the RE's by trying to find the craziest name on the wall of baby announcements?  I have bad eyes but I swear this last time one was named Sasquatch.)

Cyst.  Francisco has been churning out a shit ton of estrogen (I think my level was 500?) so that's probably why I feel all weird.  I like to think the pain is coming from his inevitable genetically-gifted tap dancing genius.

Spent the weekend trying to work whilst Francisco practiced for some international break dancing competition (he's going pro, ya'll, I can feel it).  Weekend I was okay with some run of the mill Vicodin, by Monday it would've been more pleasant had someone just dumped a giant bucket of fire ants over my head so I ended up in the ER.  I had a date with their dildocam, but on the plus side they gave me a shot in the butt which was glorious.

Tuesday morning back at the RE's - my RE wasn't there but I saw a rogue team of kind fill ins. Francisco, despite birth control (HA!) had grown a wee bit, but they're still confident he'll boogie on out on his own. They thought what may have happened on Monday is that my ovary twisted a bit, and has since untwisted itself.  I'm basically down, trying to work, and taking a pain pill when I need it.  Since Tuesday I started bleeding (despite the BC) which actually has made me feel better.  I am downgrading my status from 'death imminent' to run of the mill 'fucking gross'.

So for those of you keeping score, I have had 3 dates with dildocam in the last week.  I went to a dermatologist last week and no joke, upon entering the exam room started taking off my dress out of habit.

It's hard to keep your shit together when you're constantly being flirted with from across the room by this saucy, unstoppable minx.  Although after 3 dates in a week he is getting clingy.

So that's where I've been.  I will be doing the rounds and updating this weekend (and hopefully getting the million pounds of work done that I'm being crushed under).

On a positive note - if you have missed me, there are places I've been cheating on you with where you can totes come find me.

First of all I'm now occasionally blogging over at FertilityAuthority.com.  This is my blog page, and as an example this is my super helpful post about the importance of being stocked up on Vodka on parent-centered holidays.  Come vist me!  I'm lonely!

Second, I'm writing articles for their L.A. page. (If you have any suggestions/requests for what I should write a helpful/informative article on, please please tell me.  I have to write a lot of them and could use the brainstorming session.  I totes get to interview RE's for some of them, so if there's anything you ever wanted a Doctor to talk about...)

Unrelated, but perhaps most important.. Everyone remember my sister-in-law, Bubella?  She is seventeen, unbelievably awesome, and a spectacular - and I mean this, I am artist picky and she was born gifted - artist.

She is, by far, the most gifted photographer I have ever met - and I'm in the position to know several professional photographers twice her age. The walls in my house are almost entirely decorated with her work.

She has put up an Etsy page.  I am wildly supportive of this because making art (and my opinion photography in particular) is absolutely what she was born to do.  So if you want to support young artists (who are a dying breed), to know what to get Francisco, or just want to do me a solid while I'm hopped up on Estrogen and swelling to 10 times my usual size like a life raft - Visit.  Buy.  Tweet.  Share in a blog post. If you do any of those things, please let me know so I can come up with a creative way of thanking you.

It's her first venture out into the world with her stuff.  I would love for her to gain some confidence about it.  And more to the point, girlfriend is brilliant.

Random poll - is there anything more degrading than having to explain your joke to people, or the fact that you're joking?

Okay fine, I realize there are worse things, but as far as the usual social interactions go it's about as close to water boarding me as you can get.

Fat girl that I am, despite feeling and looking like death I ventured out to Chipotle yesterday to paw at the door at 10:30 when they opened.  I was second in line (oh the injustice) behind a man in a suit.

This was disconcerting in the first place, because the 10:30 AM Chipotle culture tends to be like-minded individuals who are ready to get high on the magic which is pico de gallo and wearing yoga pants not to work out but because after they eat they're going to need to be wearing something that provides a stretch.

They were playing a TLC song in the restaurant, and when grumpy suit man got to the cash register he scowled, and said "I don't think this kind of music is appropriate for Chipotle" with a weird level of hostility.

You should know that I am of course in the habit of volunteering myself to get into weird conversations with strangers before I have any time to assess whether or not it's a terrible idea. My particular brand of artistry seems to be getting involved in shenanigans, wise or no.

So I said "Aww, I love 90s rap and R&B.  My Indian name is Running Man".

Now before I write out what he said next, I need you to appreciate that my response came out almost BEFORE he finished answering the question, it is my stock answer for anyone forming this sort of question, regardless of topic.  He looked at me with a scowl, and we had the following interaction:

Grumpy Suit:  You think the plight of the American Indian is Funny -
Me:  YES.

::he blinks at me in horror for an awkward few seconds::

Me:  Seriously dude?  It's 10:30 - it's a little early for the plight of the American Indian.


Why do I get myself into these situations.

Of course I don't think the plight of the American Indian is funny.  Every Thanksgiving I put up a wanted poster of Christopher Columbus. Weirdly enough I'm about a quarter Native American.

But sweet merciful crap - the few times people have tried to 'shame' me by using some version of the phrase "so you think .... is funny?' the answer is and will always be YES.  Yes I do.  Asshat.

Ghosts and Fairy Tales

It's Tuesday and my period is now, officially, a week late.

Not "oooh you could be pregnant!" late but "you took your last progesterone pill how long ago??" late.

I am a bloated seamonster of a life raft.  If you were capsized off the shore of Malibu with 7 of your friends, I could easily seat all of you on my monstrous body and dog paddle you to safety.

If it doesn't arrive soon, when it does come out I will be able to fully reenact the elevator scene from the Shining using only my vagina. The role of sad, twitchy, horrified, tormented Danny will be played by my husband.

(Source.)

My favorite character on True Blood is a medium.  I've been re-watching my DVDs in preparation for it's return on Sunday, and just saw a whole mess of episodes involving ghosts.

It's funny - no matter who you are or what your beliefs are, you are undoubtedly an expert in the rules of theoretical ghost.

Many-a-time we have all smugly shook our heads at a ghost in a movie or in a book, and thought "dude, you're not the same person anymore, and you're holding on because of a problem that no longer matters and that you can't do anything about. If you just let go you'd be way less hostile and see that there are good things in store for you - everybody knows that, ya Jerk."

So lately I've been wondering at what point in my infertility am I officially a ghost that's holding onto a life that just doesn't exist.

In many ways, I am absolutely already a ghost of the person I once was. There was a time where Knocked up was funny, and not a freaking Greek tragedy.  There was a time when I thought that ultimately, always, the universe's scale would eventually tip in favor of fair. There was a time I wasn't in a total panic that I would hit a certain age, and my personal tragedies would be something so obvious and tangible as being childless that I would constantly have to explain it.  Or at least be aware of floating, unspoken questions.

When I'm being optimistic and determined to plod forward, I don't know if I'm being a woman with an admirable amount of humor and hope, or if I'm some haggard looking, depraved, see-through version of myself that's holding onto something that just doesn't want me and missing out on the things that do.

I've never been one for fairy tales, but my body is starting to feel like the troll under the bridge between Childless and Mother.  No matter what attitude, medication or comedy I bring to it, it is dissatisfied and won't let me cross.  There is obviously, at some point, some intangible shift that happens.  One minute I'm a tap-dancing example of hope on that bridge, but at some point I'll be a petulant child who's wasting time, unable to back away from rejection with some of her dignity intact.  

At what point does hope become blind stubbornness?  Does giving up on a fairy tale happy ending show grace and maturity, or the soul of a quitter?

I'm assuming sometimes there's a point where you have to look the troll in the eye and say, "screw you, if the other side of the bridge doesn't want me, I'm going to rock the shit out of this side".  I wish there was a way to not feel guilty about contemplating that point, like I will inadvertently curse myself like a fabled witch just for thinking it.  I wish there was some way to know when that point is, and to assure myself that it's not coming soon.

I genuinely don't know what or where the difference is between being a woman who is determined to right a wrong in her life, and being a stubborn ghost mourning a life that just doesn't exist, fighting the inevitable and missing out on the possibilities in the process.  Or maybe it's me, being reborn into my life when I give up the ghost of a life that will never happen.

(Source.)

Okay, so I'm a little uncharacteristically gloomy due to hormones. Just because it happens to coincide with my grandparents 69th wedding anniversary, it occurred to me that today it's been a year since my last egg retrieval. I have been listening to far too much Velvet Underground and John Lennon's "God" on repeat for any sane person.

On the upside, I tickle myself?

I was running out the door to go to an appointment, and a religious solicitor caught me by my car.  By my car.  I said "I am in a hurry.  Also, I just believe in me...  Well, Yoko and me."

They were not so tickled.