Today.

I can't even...

I mean...

WHAT JUST HAPPENED!!!!!!

My words are not going to be very writerly today, but I'm going to write it all out because I want it here for when someone is searching.

First of all, let me say I was running LOW on hope.  I mean, as close to empty as I could possibly go and still be able to put clothes on in the morning and impersonate a functioning human being.  I've been like that for about a year.  Don't get me wrong - in the 4 years we've been trying to conceive, I got low on hope fairly early in the game.  (Well, definitely not early it was probably a year after torture, but now it just seems that way by comparison). In the last year, I have reached this whooooole other level that I didn't know existed where you're just.. as close to being empty as you can be without being a pod person.

I was a centimeter - a centimeter - away from just thinking that nothing good will happen for me.  I'm not religious in any way shape or form, I'm one of those liberal spiritual types though. I have always liked to think that there's some universal force, or good, or something, that even when it has to do bad shit to you doesn't enjoy it, and will eventually throw in some good. And that part of me just went dead.

I am a goofy funny person (funny people tend to be very dark) and I was still awake enough to realize I would seriously start to infect the people that love me if I didn't make an effort to stay goofy and positive, so I have.  And don't get me wrong - moments of sheer optimism!  But for the most part, it was something I was doing to impersonate an earlier version of myself so as not to alarm anybody, and because everyone should have hope in their life as long as they can possibly have it and I didn't want to beat anybody over the head with my discovery that hope was a myth.

And I've always been so grateful for other areas of my life - my husband is kickass, I have some fantastic friends and family, and a bunch of little things that all add up to me having it a lot sweeter than a lot of people. It's just this one area of my life where I felt like whatever universal force there was was chasing me around, whispering "If I just make this one thing go completely dark and punch you at every turn, I can make even the lightest things in your life go dim".

When they called Sunday to say ZERO had fertilized and that the remaining six eggs that were less mature had a less than 5% chance (mind you, this was IVF WITH the special chemical that was the only help of solving this) I felt that last little bit start to go dead.  Funeral was to be held Monday. Begged and pleaded with the universe and asked you to do the same for me (and you did, you did!).  Didn't think anything would come of it, and that's why Monday morning when they said two DID fertilize, I wept from happiness for the first time in my life.

Even less likely that they would keep growing, that they would make it to blast, I have basically been in a panic attack for the last five days trying to remain hopeful (and starting to tilt my head and squint at the power of good juju) while trying to prepare myself for when they told me none of them made it.

By this morning, I was a complete wreck.  I conked myself out last night (yay drugs!) but my stomach was apparently creating it's own superpower adrenaline and nauseousness, and I was worried when they said 'zero' despite my best efforts I would crumble and throw things. Everything on me was shaking.

When they called me back, there's Nurse Angelface standing right behind the door patients go in (across the office from where she usually is) smiling.  She says "I have good news for you". (She later told me she raaaaan down the hallway when she got the lab report).

I went into shock and kind of said "YOU DO!?!?!" and then she quickly shoved me into Dr. Kickass' office and handed him a paper.  Bub and I are now plopped down in chairs.

Dr. Kickass fumbles with glasses a second, looks at paper, and says "Oh my God". Then nurse Angel says they are both blastocysts, and not only that but they're Grade A.

Ummmm.. WHAT?!?!?!

So glad I had already gone to the bathroom because I probably would have peed my pants.

I started crying, Bub started laughing, I declared my crying gross which thankfully stopped the crying.

Of the late-late-late (two days!) bloomers, one of them has pooped out, the other is still mysteriously chugging around.  (Are you kidding me?)

I do not remember undressing, getting an ultrasound to check on my post-ER progress (apparently they just had to push hard on my stomach to get to my tricky hidden ovary for it's eggs - which I'm so glad they did! - so that's probably why I'm still sore).  I do remember thanking the Doctor and giggling at Marc and unable to decide who to text first.

Afterwards we went into the little nurses' nook where Angelface works and ended up laughing and having lemoncake with them for a half hour. (Icing is now on my leggings). Nurse said honestly, a miracle - and they were so excited when the report came in they whooped and she went running.


I know I'm not pregnant (YET!) and this is just getting a couple of blasts.. But holy shit me, are you KIDDING ME?  I get a CHANCE? WHO has heard of one cycle going from ZERO fertilizing to having two, perfect blasts?

My point is whatever little but very crucial part of me started to completely and utterly die this last weekend was slowly, tentatively reviving all week and now it's awake.  And I'm smiling. And there's no part of me that thinks bad HAS to happen and that miracles DON'T.  If you knew what kind of hardcore cynic I am you would know that that in itself is a miracle - you all had so much to do with that I'm going to be forever, and ever, and ever grateful. I can't believe I'm lucky enough to have so many people thinking happy thoughts and lighting candles and cheering me on.  Some weird kind of magic happened that I wasn't expecting and I didn't think I deserved, and now I have a really good shot because of it.

The proper words to you fail me.

I have nothing but love right now.

And what a couple of unbelievable ASSKICKERS these two are!  BOOM!  Heisenberg and La Bamba kicking ass, taking names and making history!!!

Off for a big celebratory lunch with Mr. T!

Love, love, love you people.  Oh so much.

Holiest of Holy Shits.

Umm, I love you people.

I fucking love you people.

Yesterday morning when the Doctor called and said "none", I immediately went dead inside.  Just dead.  Lights out in Storktown. Here we are at IVF, here we are at super snazzy challenging IVF, here we are still screwed. I know people have it worse, I do.  There are some women who I marvel at on a DAILY basis all the shit they've gone through (you are probably reading this).  But four years, ninety gajillion dollars, heartbreak and the exhausting attempt to keep my optimism later, and not an embryo (or really, a hope of future embryos) was too much.  I went dead.

Every couple of hours I'd look at my phone, and there would be a new comment on my post from yesterday, a tweet, a picture of a candle lit for me (which slayed me), a text, a message on Facebook, and I would WEEP.  I know weeping is normally considered bad, but it was the ONE release I had yesterday (better than Vicodin or a cigarette). I have never felt so embraced by the IF community and I've always felt pretty awesomely embraced. I am just so very, very, very thankful for you and for being allowed to be a weird little corner in this community.  It's fucking awesome, humbling, comforting - a big comfy bosom at the ready.

I asked for prayers, happy thoughts, good vibes, candle lightings, a stern mental petition to science and nature, and I got them.  The dead part of me didn't think it would do anything, but it made me feel better, and loved, and not alone.

Then some crazy shit happened, one after the other.

Last night I'm sitting on the couch with Bub trying to convince myself to sleep.  I don't use my phone for music - at all, NEVER (I like my tiny Ipod).  Also, a few weeks ago Bub finally convinced me to put one of those passcode thingamajigs on it to get into it in the first place.  The phone is sitting several feet away from me and I haven't been on it in hours, and it starts playing music.  At first I thought it was the TV with a really weird choice in song - then when we muted the TV, it was clearly coming from my phone.  Took us a few minutes to figure out how to turn it off.

It was playing "I can tell that we are gonna be friends" by the White Stripes.

I don't have any songs on my phone - just ringtones. I DO, however, love that song.  On my Ipod it's on my IVF playlist.  Yeah, I have an IVF playlist.  Just songs that make me happy, make me think of babymaking, make me optimistic.  The White Stripes song is one of my favorites.  Eons ago a spiritual/cooky family member of mine told me 'you're going to have twins one day'.  The last couple of months when I tried to force my mind to be optimistic, I'd listen to that song and think "they're going to get embryos, they're going to stick in two". Again - rare attempts to be optimistic, here, and that song just makes me think of two friendly peas in a pod.

It was absurd - like, really?  My technology has to go all haunted and wonky JUST to torture me? So once we figured out how to turn it off I went to bed.  Done. D-O-N-E.

I barely slept, kept waking up crying or just angry.  You know like when you had a bad break up in high school?  You'd wake up in the middle of the night and for a hot second things would be fine, and then you'd remember life sucked and your stomach would drop through the floor. Like that.  Mixed in with getting lovely messages, and saying out loud to the universe I KNOW my eggs are feistier than this. I was also beyond moved by the hope friends, family, IF people were showing me and was plotting exactly how I would kindly and non-dramatically say "thanks for trying, but..." in the morning.

8 AM Doctor calls - he asks me how I'm doing physically post egg retrieval (since they got twice as many this time, I'm super duper sore but that's the least of my problems).  Two minutes in he says "Well, out of the six we talked about yesterday -" I literally brace myself wanting the zero to be over with - "two of them fertilized normally".

At this point I start screaming and crying.  I say "SHUT UP!  ARE YOU LYING?" at which point Bub hears me from the other room and comes sprinting in, and Luna the lovable moron begins circling and howling. (Thankfully my Doctor thinks I'm funny).

He's a Doctor so apparently he's not supposed to lie.

Yesterday, 11 out of my immediately mature eggs didn't fertilize.  Not one.  He told me the embryologist was going to try with the leftover 6 eggs that had matured since Saturday, but that the chances of even one fertilizing was less than 5%.

Fucking miracle. Miracle, miracle, miracle.

I have never - NEVER - cried from happiness before in my life.  EVER. Seen it in the movies, didn't know it was an actual thing, and I WEPT.  Wept.

Since they're a day behind, my uterine lining is going to be a little too fluffy for them right now.  So they think the best chance is if they survive until Friday, they're going to freeze them, we'll get my lining all synced up with them and do a FET next month.

Stopped crying long enough to tell Bub what was going on who was enormously relieved.  Immediately texted my Mom who had my entire family (all 90 million of them) lighting candles last night (she said miracle: part 1).  Texted Mr. T who was rallying the troops last night and cried with me on the phone today (whose text response is priceless)

.

I am so happy.

I realize that that may seem ludicrous - I've seen women upset that they only got 8 embryos and I have 2. And my 2 are behind where they should be...

But holy shit!  2!  2 is SO MUCH better than 0!  And those two had less than a 5% chance of existing in the first place! Yes they have to survive until Friday (please please please) and then to freeze/thaw, etc... but OMG, for the chance, just for the chance...  And if we have to do this again (I'm hoping not) at least I can say "well, last time out of one batch there was a 33% fertilization rate" which is much more optimistic than 0. If I have to have a round 3, it'll be easier to go into it with some hope now.

I am so happy to have hurdles and hope.  So happy.  

... And this could be them.  This could be them. This could be them, feisty and pissed off and demanding life.  This could be those two I've dreamed about and was told I was going to have.  This could be them. They could right now be deciding if they are going to have my bug eyes.. Last night they could have showed some of Bub's technical genius by somehow communicating via my phone (could they not send a text?).  This could be them.  This could be two little feisty ass kickers who insisted on getting here come hell or high water.  They just have to stay feisty and strong - and I'm feisty and strong, so they have to have that in them, right?

I am overwhelmed with all the love I felt yesterday.  Overwhelmed.  Everyone was so unfuckingbelievably amazing.  I'm so honored and humbled to have you in my life.  (And though there's been countless awesome people, COUNTLESS who have gone above and beyond, a special shout out to my darling Fox who has been sending me silly videos and rallying troops on my behalf for two weeks. Honored to call her a friend).

Please keep thinking, praying, lighting candles, etc.  I'm totally fucking humbled that so many people did this in the first place so it feels weird asking for even more (I want MORE free candy, damnit!) but my gawd, you all have some kind of magic.  

And I would love - LOVE - to be that blog that people accidentally stumble across via google one day.. when they've been given terrible, awful 'it's never going to happen' news, and they want to find someone who's prospects were even bleaker and came out the other side.  I will rock the SHIT out of being that girl - I have had enough with being the horror story that scares people. I was MADE to be the girl that can take someone by the shoulders and say 'oh no, honey, this is GOING to happen for you, I KNOW it will'.

If I do manage to come out the other side (please please this time would be great) I will be sensitive, and wonderful, and without complaint.  I will write (as I do, anyway) mostly about unrelated shenanigans and light the whole fucking street on fire when you need someone to burn a candle.  If I loved you times a million yesterday, I love you times a gajillion today.

I am just... okay this is rambly, but I am just so grateful for you.  So grateful.  And grateful for whatever the hell miracle happened in the last 24 hours that gave me at least a shot. A shot is a SHOT damnit.

I'll end this with my peas in a pod song... For you and for my two.

My darling embryos, please, please, please stick around and give me the chance to be your silly Mom who will inevitably be blasting that song into my uterus for the entire 40 weeks. (Sidenote - I have not named you in your embryo state yet, but I am thinking one of you will possibly and inexplicably be La Bamba.  Just trying to think of another name that is also ass kicking).

Thank you for all the love - please keep praying and thinking happy thoughts and sacrificing goats and lighting candles and whatever else you got.  I will be one happy, happy and appreciative Stork.

Aspergers: No Relation to Asparagus

Aloha, cyber vixens of uterine rage.

It is Memorial Day here in 'Murica, so you're supposed to be BBQing a wide variety of meats and hurling your post-winter body into some sort of body of water.  You know... to memorialize or some shit. (Settle down I have USAA, do the math). Seeing as how I have the body of someone who has spent the past ten winters in hybernation, and most days feeling like a sea of lard you may mistake for a mattress if it weren't for the two bug eyes at the tippity top, I will of course be celebrating with the grilled meats part and skipping the swim part.  (Though I am looking into finding old fashioned 20s swimsuits for Mr. T and I to wear, hopefully with matching floral swim caps and nose plugs,  to appease our mutual body dysmorphic disorders when they finish building the pool in our gym... until then we will have our moist fun trying to make a cyclone in his super classy above ground swimming pool).

I'mma talk about my hubba, Bubba, today.

So after hitting 'publish' on my last entry, I realized that I slipped in rather casually that he has a touch of the ole' Aspergers.  Every couple of months I truly-by-accident stumble across an article about it, a blog entry where someone is genuinely concerned that their kid is/will be autistic, or heaven forbid some shiz on vaccines. So I'm gonna throw my own cookey experience in the ring in the event someone wants to read about it in a... less frightening way.

In case you don't know, Aspergers is a 'high-functioning' form of autism (there is so much stuff on the internet about it, some great some awful, so I'll just leave you with wikipedia out of sheer laziness). The super simplified jist is that you're a very smart, very focused, kinda clumsy socially awkward person who doesn't easily pick up on social cues.

So before I get into it, a few requisite disclaimers that will hopefully help weed out any yellers.  I can only speak to my experience being married to my husband, who happens to have Aspergers... I am by absolutely no means an expert, nor can I give an opinion or try to speak to anyone else's experience, that's not the idea.  This will just be one woman's experience with one man (that sounds like the tagline on an erotica bookcover).  And yes, I'm capable of taking things seriously but outside of a funeral home I try my best not to.  ::fart noise::

I am a handful.

Much like procreating, I don't think there's any formula to dating that 'works', I think some people just luck the fuck out.  I would, however, venture a guess to say that most people's love lives before they found 'the one' is a constant editing process. I met Bub when I was young (2 weeks shy of 22), but I had been around the block a few times... I sucked at dating and had a hell of an editing process.

I initially went out with super extroverted guys who were hilarious, because I'm pretty extroverted and though I'm chubby, bug-eyed, continuously perplexed by any form of technology and can clearly not bake you a cake, I'm good for a chuckle.  So I picked people like me.  What ends up happening there is that you're so concerned with one-upping the laugh, that it turns into a neverending stand-up comedy routine.  By the end of the date you're so exhausted that nobody is in the mood to do anything else.  Every extroverted-funny man I went out with, eventually I'd have to sit him down and tell him ever-so-politely that he felt more like my brother and I'd rather be friends. Lesson learned: can have funny/funnier/more extroverted friends, not what I need in the romantic department.

Then I switched to sensitive artsy-fartsy types.  This I sucked at even worse. Right or wrong, for whatever reason, if a person pouts at me for several hours I don't have the patience to 'guess' what is wrong with you or try to psychologically analyze your reasoning behind your emotions.  I am nice and squishy and will get on board with it once I'm in the know, but I need people to tell me.  I have on more than one occasion said "tell me what's wrong or quit letting it affect me".  Reason being, I don't have any 'subtext'.  Apart from a select few friends, I have never had an experience with anyone 'reading' a facial expression of mine and getting it right, and if I'm in a room with you I like you enough to just tell you what's on my mind.  Believe me when I say, I find a way of eventually saying it.

I had, on most occasions, run screeching away from the suggestion of a relationship because I was afraid I would get bored, be responsible for the overwhelming emotions of another person, or that they would attempt to stomp around in my head invitation or no.  If I am your friend I am your friend for life, but for some reason in the romantic department I had never been hit over the head with a frying pan of devoted-love.

Enter Bub.

I've been with him for almost 10 years, and we didn't have any idea what Aspergers was until a few years ago.  Honestly if you had asked either one of us what that word meant when we first met, we probably would've thought it was some form of down syndrome.

For me, my personal experience with falling in love with and living with someone with Aspergers... I'll give you the jist.

My husband is a fucking weirdo and so am I.  His just has a name.

Thankfully the first few times I talked to him it was via email... So I had no idea what volume level I was going to deal with.  Also thankfully, I'm an extrovert and he was hot - so the first times we talked I just yammered on and on until he finally felt comfortable (or drunk) enough to chime in.

In a matter of a few weeks, I went from being someone who was basically incapable of returning a date's phone call to someone who was full on, gaga, in love and living with someone.  He quiets my mind, I make his mouth a little louder.

After a few dates with him, it was apparent that we were pretty much the same person, just different volume levels (this is, to this day, how I 'explain' us). Any given situation you give us, we will inevitably see it the same way and have the same opinion (with the exception of Amanda Knox... we are divided). The only difference is that I'm loud and he's quiet, it just happens to be such an 'obvious' difference that people upon seeing us together tend to say to themselves "what the... how the hell did that happen?"

If you meet one of us first, the other will come as a shock to you.

I realized right away, obviously, that he was a shy person.  The first year we lived together I let it frustrate me, then I embraced it.  If you sit me down in front of anyone, I will talk to them like we're girlfriends right away - I have never met anyone I can't have a conversation with.  If you want me to be nervous about you, you're going to have to seriously go out of your way to prove to me there's something to be nervous about.  Bub is the opposite - he will automatically assume there's something to be nervous about until proven otherwise.

If you were to invite me plus one to a dinner party tomorrow, by the time it was over you would assume that Jenny was going through a midlife crisis and/or was very rich, as she clearly is dating some pouty model who does not like anything or anyone.  It would take a few dinner parties for that pouty model to talk and for you to realize that we are, completely, intellectually and spiritually made for each other.  If anything he got the shit end of the stick.

I should mention here that Bub has a handful of facial expressions, basically, most of which would typically be categorized under 'grumpy'.  I have always had a wild attraction to people doing that whole brooding James Dean thing.. Half the time if Bub is looking at me I can't tell if he wants to have sex with me or murder me, and I dig that.

I should also say that despite his shy under-the-radar nature, he's never really had a problem with me being me in any social situation.  My favorite facial expression of his is one I alone can produce, always after I say something ridiculous or funny in front of someone else.  It is a face that is 25% okay-level-of embarrassment and 75% unadulterated pride.

The only time our difference-in-social abilities ever gives me pause is say, in a situation like going to the RE's.  I'm slightly conscious of the fact that it may come across that I'm some harpie shrew that won't let him talk (which believe me.. is not the case).  But ultimately, I don't give a fuck.  We make sense, and whether or not anyone would believe it, I can't get him to shut up when it's just us.

He is also freakishly smart despite his usual protest to this description.  He is a professional computer nerd, doing things I will never understand (and could frankly fall asleep just thinking about).  He gets super duper hyper focused on things.  On a regular basis, he's gone into our backyard to work on his computer and I've had to come out six hours later and say "hey.. so.. have you noticed that the sun has gone down and you're covered in mosquitos?"

Now, if I was another person I may have noticed that he had Aspergers.  But, as we are as a couple, it makes no difference to me 99% of the time that he can't read social cues because I have no interest in giving them. I'm sure in previous relationships he's gotten in trouble for not being able to read facial expressions and implications, just as I've gotten in trouble for refusing to give 'cues' and just telling people what's going on like a robot.  An example of our general wheelings and dealings - if we had some big RE appointment tomorrow I would tell him 'hey, I'm probably going to be a little upset about it after so maybe hug me, be nice, and let's watch a movie or something' instead of just going, coming home, and sticking my lip out expecting him to blindly figure out how to get it to pop back in.

So up until a few years ago, we had no idea his particular brand of weirdness had a name. He was weird, I was weird, we both dug weird, off into the sunset we go.

Somehow, I don't remember how, he started reading about Aspergers and said to me "I totally have Aspergers".  To which I said "No you don't, you're just weirdly hyper focused on something.  Stop it". (The irony of this statement is not lost on me).

Eventually, to shut him up I got online and read up on it.  And.... it was like if I didn't realize my husband was black, and had found an article that appropriately described to me "Oh - you'll know because his skin will be dark".

It was all him.  All of it.  Lack of eye contact, freakishly smart, hyper focused, socially awkward, a hyper sensitivity to certain textures/sounds... And then once I got into the minutiae of it, it was so much like I had written it it was almost funny. (Not funny ha-ha, funny 'omg YES').

An example of minutiae, I read something written by a woman who was married to someone with Aspergers.  One of the things she mentioned was that her husband rarely, if ever, used her name.

I am in no way exaggerating - Bub uses my first name maybe 3 times a year.  It's turned into one of our ongoing jokes.  My favorite example - he was once in the shower, and I was across the house.  He was out of body wash and the newly purchased bottle was in our kitchen.  So how does he get my attention to bring it to him?  He just shouts "Heyyy.... HEYYYYYYY!" until I came into the bathroom (dissolving into giggles and telling him he's lucky the gardener wasn't out back).

He doesn't have as 'severe' a case of it as some people do.  He went through his life just 'shy' and a little fucking weird.  It was a strange, cathartic experience when we learned he had it reading about people who also had it.  We now have a name for it, a little helpful advice about it, and I'm almost jealous that I can't type in "bug eyed, funny, no-filter and no domestic abilities" into some database and have a name for myself.

When most people hear 'aspergers' they either hear 'asparagus', Temple Grandin, or some kind of violent grunting.  (PS - other famous people that have it/it's speculated had it:  Dan Akroyd, Einstein, Lincoln, Nietzche, Dickinson, Marilyn Monroe, Beethoven, Thomas Jefferson.. the list goes on and on).  Most unfortunately he does not communicate like Tarzan and when he thinks electronic looking graphs do not appear next to his head (I double checked with him to make sure he couldn't do this yesterday... damnit).

We both have chosen a partner who is a little weird.  Yesterday I was laying on him, and told him if I die first I want him to leave instructions that when he dies they are to dig me up and hurl him on top of me... Believe me when I say, whatever diagnosed weirdness he has, I match it in my own way.

I've been in the Bub-whispering business long before he had any kind of diagnosis.  I know if we have some kind of emotional confrontation (which is rare, but it happens) to leave him alone for awhile because an immediate heartfelt response is not his thing.  I know that he inhales about 30 seconds before he's going to say something.  I know that he's great in bed and makes me laugh and that certainly outweighs that he's never going to be a chatty cathy at a party.  I know that he's not comfortable in situations but is freakishly good at making me feel comfy in the situations I'm uncomfortable in (which usually tend to be private and emotional). I know that I have to be/and am privileged to be his safe place.  I know that sometimes there's just going to be a thin line between Aspergers and Asshole.

I also know that I was not built for someone 'uncomplicated' or particularly emotional.  I know that I have to find words for what I'm feeling because I can't stand giving or getting 'cues'.  I know that I am a chatty cathy in most social situations.  I know that I can be Queen Asshole, Ruler of All Asshole People.  I'm freakishly good at making people comfortable, and the strength I need from my husband doesn't have anything to do with social situations.  He pushes me to find words for my feelings, which is the only time I've ever felt compelled to do so with a person.  And I know that I love being the Bub Whisperer, and likewise, he's a pretty good Jenny Whisperer.

My husband is fucking weird.  So am I.  Who isn't?

Babies Don't Love, They Need

It. Is. Almost. Monday.

Umm, I don't know if you know but I'm sort of a big deal and since we last spoke have become uber fancy.  Seriously considering getting myself a smoking jacket, one of those beatnik Hepburn-esque cigarette holders, mayhaps even a monocle.

I discovered this website called... Twatter or Twitter, I'm unclear on the pronunciation.  I don't know if you know about it, it's basically a spinning internet carnival whereby following me is the equivalent of having the disjointed thoughts of your local insane woman sent to your phone or computer at her whim.  This woman, who you probably already follow because she appears to be some sort of uterus Hub, interrogated me under hot lights and water boarded me until I agreed to join.

I'm twittering about my twat @StupidStork, ladies and gents.  Now who else is on there?!?  SHOW YOURSELVES.

This is going to be one of those posts where Stork needs to vent.  (If not to you people, then who, damnit). Now as I am about to get uncharacteristically judgey, please keep in mind that yes I'm a heathen, but usually a very kind and charming one.

Here, to soften you up first, a pug on a slide.

I have previously written a little bit about my half-sister, 'Summer', but don't worry I'll summarize (or Summerize - SEE WHAT I DID THERE?) so there's no catch-up involved.

I was adopted, day one minute one after being born, by the best possible parents a child could ask for. (Tip from an adoptee:  when discussing their origin story - like they're a superhero! - make sure to use the terms 'birthparents'.  'Real parents' or 'your mom and dad' is like nails on a chalkboard.  This has been a PSA).

I did the whole meet the birthparents and siblings thing (I'm sure I'll write about that someday) because I was just too curious.  Birthmom is a nice lady, and she had my half-brother a few years after I was born.  I can completely embrace being genetically related to her, and she raised him herself and did a great job.  Love him, get him, he is a part of my life. 

My birthfather is a story for another day.  Let's just say back in the day, at least, he wasn't the most exemplary of men, and 6 years after I was born he had my half sister, Summer. (Actually, you should really be reading that as Sumer - her name is a common word, but my genius birthfather and her mother didn't know how to spell it properly, so she would forever be Sumer).

Seeing as how the birthfather was older and 'more mature' by the time Summer came along, he attempted to raise her for a few years prior to going to prison.  Her Mom has an involvement in her life but mostly let Summer's grandparents (who are destitute) raise her, and the birthfather has remained mostly out.  (For the record, I am obviously for countless reasons extremely fortunate to have been adopted, and wish I had a magic wand to make Summer just as lucky).

I didn't know about Summer until I was a teenager, and we wrote letters.  A little while after Bub and I were married, I flew her out to L.A. for a week and that was the one and only time we've been in the same space. I love her very much, I do - but as is true with the entirety of my paternal side, I don't really 'get' her.  We keep in touch via facebook occasionally, and that will probably be the extent of our relationship.

Summer has not been single for more than five minutes since she was 16.  She is now 24 and from what I can tell has been engaged to every other 'man' that has come into her life.  After cheating on each other, and breaking up and getting back together right up until the wedding, Summer married 'Brad' this past fall.  They were on foodstamps, welfare, and Summer has no plans to get a job.  They of course immediately started to try and get pregnant and (of course!) immediately succeeded, but don't worry I don't think this is getting in the way of her spending her money on and smoking pot. She is now 5 months pregnant, and as of today I have just learned that she is back with her destitute and very elderly grandfather, and getting a divorce.

I want to make clear that I love her, and again, wish I had a magic wand that could help her.  I also want to make clear that I have no idea where I would be if I wasn't lucky enough to be adopted.. maybe even worse off than she is.

But here comes the vent.  If the pug didn't do it please be softened by this very demanding christmas tree.

I am, as you probably know, a bleeding heart liberal.  And if ever there was a person that needed financial help from the government?  Summer is it.  What I have a hard time understanding is when you're in a position to need that much help, you're 24 and you've been married for 2 months, how planning a baby right away sounds like a smart idea.

Yesterday, I quite innocently popped onto Facebook and was taken aback by 3 things in my newsfeed, one on top of the other:

1. Selfies Brad took of himself posing with money
2. that he has listed himself as 'separated'
3. Summer is now listed under her maiden name.

I immediately sent her a message to see what happened.

No one cheated, no one beat anyone, but he was coming home from work late an entire week in a row and then didn't put ultrasound pictures up on his Facebook page.  So she left.  That's it, the end of the 6 month marriage, full steam ahead towards divorce.  She was temporarily homeless, now she's living back with her grandfather but don't worry, she's now with a guy who 'wants to be there for her'.  This all happened in two weeks.  

I told her I loved her, I'm sorry this situation didn't work out for her, I'm thinking happy thoughts for her, let me know if she needs anything.

But, of course, there are a few things I really want to say.

(Try to still love me, please).

I fully understand the difference between Summer and I, as far as how our 'surprise' existence was dealt with.  I was given up for adoption because somehow my birthmother, despite her age and inexperience, understood that I needed a different kind of love than she could provide.  At that time, she really could've used someone to show up and love her unconditionally, but on some level she understood that I was not that candidate and she was not ready.  With Summer, her Mom wanted someone to fill the holes in her life and thought Summer was the candidate.  When she realized that that wasn't how it was going to pan out, Summer got passed around.

Now that I'm an adult, because of how I was raised and the kind of love I was exposed to, I get that having someone to love you is not a good primary reason to have a child.  And because of how Summer was raised, I can't help but think she doesn't get that.

No one has any business creating a human being just so that they can have someone who loves them. No one.

Babies are hopefully born of love, and those babies will grow up to love you.... but babies don't really love, babies need.

It is the only existing relationship that I can think of where the design of it is entirely for one person to pour their love and everything that they can give, gleefully into someone who only has the ability to take it.

In an ideal world the person consciously making a decision to create themselves this kind of relationship does it because they are so full of love, care and attention that they want to channel that into that child and see what grows. Again, not because they're lacking love but because they have so much of it. They understand that there's two kinds of love - the love you give a child, and the love you give everyone else.

Any other type of love on the planet, you can expect full reciprocation, and if you're giving more than you're getting, a person of good self esteem eventually says "peace, I'm out".  Love for a child should ideally come with the total understanding that for a long time your job is to give and their job is to take - which logically means that this is not going to be the thing that makes up for all those adults who didn't reciprocate.

Trying to fill adult-made holes with a baby is like trying to solve the problem of thirst by putting on moisturizer.  It's not the same thing.

Of course your baby loves you... but it's not going to make up for adults not loving you, or you not loving yourself.  A baby should just have to deal with growing up, not with righting the wrongs of the adults you had in your life.

If what you want is a tomato garden, you plant it with the understanding that it's going to take commitment.  You plant seeds, you water, you make sure it gets the right amount of light and attention.  That act alone is supposed to feed your soul. If you do a good job, later on you'll get tomatoes.  If you do it in the hopes that those seeds immediately after - shall we say implantation? - are going to turn around and concern themselves with whether or not you're getting enough light and attention, you're going to end up with a mess in your backyard.

Yes I'm over simplifying, yes I realize it's not an ideal world and I doubt there's one person reading this who isn't familiar with the apparent law of the universe that the very women who get instant gratification in the reproductive department are often times the very women who don't think about these things.

I'm just saying if the majority of your reasoning behind creating a human being is because you want someone to love you?  You have it backwards.  Create a human being because you want to love, because you want to experience what it's like to pour your heart and soul into someone just to see what they'll do with it.

And of course, no one is going to love you like your child is going to love you.  I have the Mother of all Mothers, and if she needed a kidney tomorrow I would rip it out with my bare hands.

But I'm 31.  When I arrived, I was a ball of confusion and need, and though I'm sure she was my favorite person from day one, let's be honest, for the first couple of years it was probably in large part because girlfriend showed up with a bottle when I was hungry and a clean diaper when I had pooped.  Child love instantly available - adult gratitude and love come later.

A baby is helpless, innocent, new.  When it arrives and for several years to forever, the only item on the agenda is for you to make him/her feel loved in the scary new world, teach him/her about it, help usher them through it in a way that will keep them happy and safe.  That's the item on the agenda.  They don't exist solely to arrive and immediately start to provide you with the love themselves.  That was your Moms job.

If tomorrow I am beamed up and sent to Mars (hopefully you're not, at this point, wishing this on me) I don't think my first order of business will be making the aliens feel loved and safe.  Maybe in time I will, but frankly for a good long while there I'm just gonna need them to explain to me how to breathe right and navigate, and then in time when I finally have my wits about me I will love them for it.

If what you're looking for is to fill a hole in your heart that was created by adults, a baby is not immediately going to be able to fill it - those are adult sized holes.  I wish for everyone that there is at least one person on the planet who makes you feel whole, complete, and loved, however in this world there are people in their 50s who don't know how to do that for another person, a baby is not going to instantly figure it out.  I just can't help but think that the kind of hole that Summer is dealing with, Summer should figure out how to fill herself.

And I know I'm not some perfectly together, fully whole person.  I know that if I'm given the opportunity to parent I'm going to fuck it up royally at times, and there will be times when I unfairly expect my child to fill a hole that they didn't create.

But I get that a baby, when they arrive, needs.  And that it's my job to fill those needs.

I get that my job is to be covered in cheerios, panicking every time they get a cut and to be a sexless ball of providing for a few years.

I get that what I'll be receiving is the ability and opportunity to love and care for someone on a level that I don't yet know, and that that's the part of the experience that's going to feed me.

I get that I am volunteering to put my needs and wants on the back burner just to get the opportunity to put theirs first.

I get that whatever shortcomings I have as a result of my time on this earth, that it's my job to fix them and not my childs.

I get that you have a child to love and provide, not to be loved and provided for.

I get that I have to dramatically pause anytime I want to make a decision and that even though I'll fuck it up sometimes, I need to make our baby the deciding factor rather than myself.

I get that I'm volunteering to downgrade my husband and my love life to second place on the list of priorities, just for the opportunity to look into the eyes of that loves product.

I get all these things.

What I don't get, of course, is a baby.

Equal

Greetings blogosphere!

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

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

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

What have you missed?

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

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

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

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

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

or this -

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

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

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

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

I admittedly could not be that person about this.

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

Not this one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

::sigh::

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

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

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

To Dad

This Sunday, the 11th, would have been my Dad's 67th birthday.

I'm writing this on the 7th because to tell you the truth, I'm not so sure if I sat down on Sunday and tried to get through it I would be able to, and I want to put something out in the ether about this man that you unfortunately will never get to meet.

He passed away from cancer on my Mothers birthday, May 4th, in 2003.  It's been nine years and counting - and my brain still can't seem to wrap around the fact that that number is only going to get bigger.

His birthday falls on Veteran's Day here in the U.S.  For some strange reasons, I happen to have eaten my lunch about a dozen times in my life next to the Vietnam Memorial in D.C. to people watch.  Most of the time people are just walking by it, sometimes they stop to take pictures, sometimes they stop and look at it for a moment before moving on to chasing pigeons.  More than once, however, I've seen a grown man walk up to the wall like he were approaching a casket at a funeral, clutch it to steady himself and burst into tears.

That's how I feel about my Dad's death.  Most people don't know anything about it, a chosen few were aware of it and moved on to the point where it's just occupying a dark shelf in the back of their minds.  For me, I've seen too much and I remember it all.  If I think about it too hard the Earth becomes unsteady, and as long as I live he'll never be another name or a statistic that I can easily pass by.

Watching cancer is to watch a monster.  It's like your loved one has turned to sand by the ocean, and as sure as you can measure the ticking of a clock you watch the ocean rise up and slowly take little bits of them away, one wave at a time.  In the moment you don't even care where 'away' is, because all you know is that it's not with you.  You're overwhelmed with the sense that they're communing with something you can't see, something you've forgotten and they're remembering.

Losing a parent is something I know some of you know plenty about.  And I'm sure I can speak for all of us who are a part of that particular horrid club, it's not one you imagine being a member of quite so young (I joined at 21).  It's both a comforting and horrible fact to know that eventually, everyone will be a member.  They'll all feel differently about it when it happens, but everyone will eventually understand.

My Dad was the strongest person I've ever, or will ever know - physically, emotionally, you name it.  I know those just seem like words that people say - but believe me, he's the strongest person a lot of people have ever known.  The only ever time I genuinely saw him break down was when he was sick and apologizing to me for ever putting me in the position to experience losing him. (And while I genuinely hate having lost him, I am nothing but grateful for every moment I had him - 21 years with him was a thousand times greater a gift than a lot of people have in a lifetime with a father).

For me, joining the loss club meant realizing that the center does not hold, that anything and everything can be taken away from you in the blink of an eye.  Everything, everywhere, ends.  And as anyone in our infertility club will tell - the hardest part of loss isn't necessarily forcing yourself to go on with your life, but it's in re-entering the normal world and realizing that people just kept on living theirs after everything was taken away from you.  The world did not stop nor is it going to be any gentler with you because yours did.

My husband missed meeting my Dad by 8 months.  When people ask how I knew that Bub was 'meant' for me, part of my response is always that he had lost his Dad at the exact same age as me (to the month) and that he was the first person who told me it was going to be okay who I could believe. He's also a man in every sense of the word, much as my Father was. Had they met, they would have loved each other.

Of course I want to talk about my Dad's life and what a good person he is - but as any of you who have had a miscarriage will understand, even when you try to focus on the beginning or the middle of a story, when it's a sad one the end always has a way of finding you.

My Dad was kind of hysterical.

He wasn't like me in the outgoing kind of way.  He was thoughtful, and chose his audience but when he had one, he was hysterical.

He would persistently suggest whenever a boy came over to my house that he was going to put on his neon shorts from the 80s, his Stetson hat and cowboy boots.  Occasionally he would come find me in the house wearing that outfit and do a little jig.

If we were driving (and it's a known fact that he was the worst driver) and I wasn't paying attention, he would scream out of nowhere "Jenny!  Jenny!  LOOK! LOOK! OH MY G-D!".  I would yell "WHAT?!" in a panic, and then he would casually point out the window and say "a tree".

Whenever I would leave the house he would say, word for word, "look both ways before crossing the street and watch out for people running red lights".

Once, in a blizzard, he walked a mile just to get me tampons.

Apropos of nothing, he would make a point of every few days hugging me, kissing me on my cheek and saying "you make it all worth while".

He never talked down to me about anything - politics, sex, my ridiculous teenage problems or whatever random Jenny thought I had.  Not once, in my entire life, did he ever make me feel like anything other than charming, capable, smart and loved.

He taught me that defensive driving is the way to drive.

He taught me that there are people on this planet who can eat beets raw (disgusting but true).

He taught me that I'm capable of outfoxing any man at anything.

He taught me that the people who run around screaming "you should be afraid of me!" are never the ones you should actually be afraid of, but the ones to be pitied.

He taught me that there are moments in this life that require absolute seriousness, and so when there's a moment that doesn't, you shouldn't take it so seriously.

He taught me that I am a force to be reckoned with - to this day when things get hard I think "Jenny, Dad would've had the utmost confidence that you can handle this".

He taught me so many things that if I spent my time thinking about why I have made any choice in my life, Dad would always be somewhere in there.

One thing he could never quite convince me of in life is country music.  He was more of a CCR, Rolling Stones kind of guy, but he did have a tendency to sing "On the Road Again", and tried many times to convince me of the validity of Mr.'s Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash.  I remained unmoved.

After he died I had a hard time letting myself get truly emotional about it - it's just not my way. I think both of my parents would prefer it if I didn't try to be strong all the time and just let things out, but that was especially true of my Dad. A little bit after he died, someone showed me this Johnny Cash video.  I burst into genuine tears, felt every bit of it all at once and thought "damnit, you win".  (Watch, it's beautiful).

So for you, Daddy.

And I would trade every last bit of my empire of dirt for just one more day with you.

Satan's School for Girls

Me no likey the Mondays.

Today, in America, it is apparently Columbus day.  What a bullshit holiday.  Columbus discovered America much in the same way that me going to my local grocery store, demanding all their produce and profits in exchange for giving them all syphilis would be me discovering Ralphs.

Much more important today is my darling, wonderful Grandpa's birthday, who is about as old as Columbus. Bub and I will be traveling this weekend yet again to the often frightening O.C. to make steak and shovel it into his ancient body.  I love my Grandparents.  My Grandma calls my grandpa 'viejo' (which means old man) and they have been married for 68 (I think) years.  They are hilarious.

In fertility news, we had our appointment Friday... A brief summary of my woes, because it's hard to keep everyone's utes organized in our minds - IVF in June, mysteriously poor fertilization (1 out of 12 fertilized) chemical pregnancy.

So Dr. Kickass pulled some strings and got another Doc elsewhere to give Bub's sperm a fancy-shmancy test for free (for freeeee!) so that turned out fine.  Now onto the super duper fancy shmancy experimental test which they do in Massachusetts.  (I won't bore you with what all it means today - if you're interested, google calcium ionophore). At any rate, the test is so fancy shmancy that they can't even prepare a sample here and ship it out, so we're now trying to organize flying Bub out there.

(As I said before, I would've liked to have thought that Bub's sperm would've traveled by air or by tiny canoe, but alas, they need the whole Bub).

So IVF coordinator nurse lady told me to take a pregnancy test yesterday 'just in case' (obviously her stand-up comedy routine needs work) and if it was negative (if!  hilarious) to start some provera today because I haven't had my period since August.  ::le sigh::

Dr. Kickass did say that 50% of couples who have inexplicably poor fertilization one time, come back the next and they're fine.  So regardless of how fancy shmancy test goes, we're looking at January or February.

Which will give me sometime to get rid of some bad habits I have re-acquired as part of my ill-advised  'do anything short of heroin to deal with this with a smile' program I've been on since June.  (Which has involved gaining 7 lbs, getting back together with regular Pepsi, and shame of all shame, smoking the occasional cigarette... whatever, mine are full of vitamins and minerals).

Writing prompts:

If you could have any job in the whole wide world regardless of your qualifications, what would you choose and why?
Hmm.. I dunno... Working admissions at Satan's school for girls?

Me thinks I would do pretty much a combo of what I'm attempting to do now.. Writing screenplays (but you know, a reality wherin I make wild amounts of money and am constantly inspired).  Comedy of some kind.  And more acting.  I looooove acting, I do. I've been an all around thespian-nerd pretty much since birth.  This would of course require me to be about 90 lbs and much more comfortable in front of the camera, but there you have it.

If you could sleep with any celebrity who would it be?
Ladies, you know I have strong opinions about this.

River Phoenix is my forever love, the perfect specimen of man-beauty.

Bill Murray, because if he were to read from the dictionary he would do it in a way that would make me tinkle myself with glee.

And - because I can't believe I forgot to mention him before - Timothy Olyphant.  Now there's a face that could get a girl into trouble - he is definitely on my top 5 (even though I forgot him previously).  Pretty sure my husband hates him because I can go on about the Olyphant (particularly a-la crazy drug dealer from Go) which is ironic because he sort of looks like him.

And now, for Manly-Monday, a non-sperm Bubba Fact.

Someone somewhere in L.A. has finally made a deal with the devil because finally, finally we are on the cusp of some fall-esque weather.  So Bub & I are now at the point where we're still sleeping with just sheets at night, and approaching being cold - but unable to commit to pulling the official blanket out of the linen closet for fear that the moment we do the weather will go back to the hellfire it's been for the last several months.

So last night I brought one of our small throw blankets to bed.  In the middle of the night, I wake up with teeth chattering, no blanket nor furry dog to comfort me, and am convinced the furry man next to me is enjoying the blanket solo.  So I half-asleep reach over and start trying to find a bit of the blanket with my hand, in Bub's lap region.

As I'm trying to find it, Bub, in his sleep feels my hand searching around his lap and yells out a loud "NUH-UH!"

I am absolutely shocked that my laughing - which I could not control for a good 3 minutes - did not wake him up.

Apparently, still-sleeping subconscious Bubba thinks that I am some sort of horndog housewife who at 3 AM turns into an insatiable middle-of-the-night lap rapist.

Settle down dude.. Just wanted a blanket.

A Weird Little Glimpse into My Marriage

Manly Monday, My Minxy Mom-abees!

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

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

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

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

(Flowers from our wedding).

Bubba in Bullets:

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

A weird glimpse into my marriage:

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

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

Unexplained Rantings

Follow Every Rainbow

My Life is About the Journey

Expecting to be Expecting

Road2ourbaby

Mommyhood After Fertility Frustration

Sprout

wishinghopingplanning

Iydkmigthtky

Things Couldn't Be Better

My Bum Ovaries
The Future Fords

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

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

Much like the Terminator

Hola, señoras!

Sadly, Bubella left this morning.

I adore that girl.

If I was a Kangaroo, I would carry her around in my pouch.  If I had a magic wand, I would shrink her to fit on a keychain and take her out whenever I wanted amusement. I love her so much I could rip off her head, use it as a stress ball and her ears a calming chew toy.

She has left an angsty teen shaped hole in my heart.

However, while I was in super fun tourist mode, I missed you so much I had what I imagine your face to look like burned into my flesh - which isn't pretty because I can only draw stick figures.  I hope you don't mind.

I shall catch you up before I return to meatier topics.


Things you missed:

1.  Since we last spoke, Bubella and I went to -

• Disneyland - in 100 degree heat and animatronic heaven, I got to simultaneously have fun and verify that yes indeed, kids do suck.
• San Diego - margaritas, seafood, shopping.  An overnight stop en route to Bubella's first Donkey show (justkiddingsettledown).
• Cinespia.  There's this crazy thing in Hollywood where every Saturday during the summer, they play a movie in Hollywood Forever Cemetery, projected on a mausoleum.  Giant clouds of pot smoke, everyone has a picnic, there's a DJ before..  We engaged in losing our terminator virginities - that's right, out of my group of 4, only one had seen it before.
• Oh, and on her last day, for those of you who will recognize what this is, I took her here - 

WHAT?!  YES.  Bow in the shadow of my awesomeness.


2.  Bubella broke up with her first love - her boyfriend of a year and a half.  (Let's all take a moment to conjure up what breaking up with our first love felt like... I'll wait here while you vomit).

The kid's a little shit.  Definitively.  Not in the 'oh he's just being a teenage boy' way, but also not in the 'oh dear G-d tell her parents or hire a hitman' way.  Whilst we were in San Diego, his shittiness reached a pinnacle and she basically very calmly & maturely said to him "hey can you not be a dickface?" and he said "no ma'am, I cannot".

Not my little sister, asswipe, you must have her confused with someone who doesn't have a sister-in-law who will put dirty tampons in your backpack. I would fly to where you are and chase you in a less dangerous version of Schwarzenegger style - armed with a foam pugil stick and a menacing Austrian accent.  YOU ARE MY LINDA HAMILTON.

She was upset, for sure, but she's a cool customer just like her brother, that Bubella.  For the last week I've been going back and forth between genuine advice and my personal forte, merciless mocking.  For example, he has a wonky eye which she hadn't noticed until I pointed it out ::pats self on back::.  Love is indeed blind, probably from being cross-eyed for so long.

3.  I read a book that I loved so much when I finished it, I went back and read it again.

Easy read (you'll kill it in a day or two), so good particularly if you were a little weird in high school (if you're a reader of my blog and not purely to hate-stalk me, you was a little weird in high school and beyond, honeychild).

Anyhoo - Stork's big book suggestion at this moment in time is "The Perks of Being a Wallflower".  They have turned it into a movie coming out later this year, and I'm trying not to be suspicious despite the fact that the preview doesn't look as comedically dark as the book is and that it stars Emma fucking Watson.  (Yes, I love Harry Potter.  Stay in Harry Potter, Emma.  But can the girl... act?)


4.  In uterine/spooj news, if my long-ago digital OPK had been correct, I am now 2 weeks late for my period and not pregnant.  So G-d only knows when/if I ovulated, or if any of the surprisingly fun, super-quiet "shhhh your sisters in the living room" sex was anything other than purely recreational.

Bubba is getting a (free!  FREE!  Yay for charming Doctors!) spooj test next week to see if the heads of his spermy friends are telling my eggs that they're there (my husband is an introvert - I don't know why it's surprising his sperm would be).  Then he's possibly flying to Boston in the next few months to get the super-fancy-schmancy sperm test that they apparently only do there.

I am presenting this as any good infertile wife would "look!  Everyone wants your sperm!  Everyone!  They can't get enough of it, you man-whore!"



I have much to do in the world of blog-reading, but I am back and ready to crawl right back into your uterus.

G-d is a Cat

Happy Thursday, Internet Infertiles!

This Sunday, the 22nd, I will have been married to Bubba the Magnificent for 6 years.

Six years ago Sunday, it was 20 bajillion degrees in southern CA, and our initially planned outdoor hippie-esque wedding was moved inside so as to not kill any old people. The air conditioning broke down.  He sweatily promised to bring me coffee when I wanted it, and I moistly told him I wouldn't bring any animals home without his consent.  Twas a very happy day full of love and overactive glands.

Perhaps I'll introduce him further in a future post, but to give you a taste - Bub is gorgeous ( I understand everyone's required to say this of their husband - but he is. Let's be facebook friends and you tell me you wouldn't do him).  He is a freakishly smart professional computer nerd who spends far too much time with his metal whore.  He puts up with me buzzing around him like a fly with ADD beautifully.  Nothing makes me happier than to make him smirk.


How am I going to celebrate?


I believe I will sport matching underwear, and for a day put away the ginormous cotton panties which have been gently hugging my uterus through this dark time.

I will also be eating at my favorite restaurant.  If you live in or plan on visiting L.A. - let's play! - you must eat at inn of the seventh ray.  It's amazeballs, USA.  It's deep in a canyon - you will drive in loopity loops in the middle of nowhere, thinking that the dark day has finally come where the internet has gained consciousness, turned against us, and Google Maps is in fact leading you to your death, possibly by a mountain lion, and then voila... Out emerges a beautiful restaurant with the best food I have ever eaten.  And I'm chubby, so my vote counts for two women.

I am also contemplating getting a hair cut.  My hair has been up for a month - I have naturally curly hair.  Not the "oh, what an amazing earth goddess - I bet the tides get their cue from her menstrual cycle" sort of curls, but the "oh good G-d that is some afro for a pale person" sort of curls.  Think Bellatrix Lestrange.

So yes folks, the Justin Timberlake Prophecy is coming to fruition - with the aid of a corset and a set of scissors, I will single-handedly bring sexy back.

So it's been six years, and minus this whole shitty reproductive stuff they've been happy years.

Did I imagine that we would have kids by now?  Yes.  Am I pissed about this?  Yes.  On the other hand, had someone said to me "you can marry Bubba and not have kids, or you can marry anyone else and have as many kids as you like" I would've picked Bub.  Wouldn't have blinked.

Plus, when I'm super pissed off about our baby woes, despite being a snarky agnostic I have a hard time fully believing that G-d/Mother nature, whatever, is some sort of great big giant cat.  You know, some days their love/awareness comes in the form of sitting in your lap and purring, others from gleefully digging their claws into your thigh.  Sometimes they're with you constantly, sometimes you don't see them for days.   Sometimes just to celebrate a Tuesday or because they've found a particularly good sunbeam they'll sleep for a week straight happily unconcerned with your activities.  Like there's no rhyme or reason, just a great big disappearing cheshire in charge of my uterus.

Sure shit seems to mostly be just totally random.  But there has to be some sort of... plan.  Right?  Right?!  Because my cat theory is starting to gain traction.  In the middle of trying to resolve my fertility issues G-d got distracted by a butterfly or ball of yarn and has since forgotten what He/She was supposed to be doing in the first place.

I regard religion in much the same way that I do marriage - if you have one, and you're happy about it, great.  For others it would be a fucking disaster.  I am happily married - it is psychotic how much I love my husband.  Sometimes just looking at him I want to gnaw his cheeks and drink his blood like he was my own personal juice box.  My love is hardcore. This does not mean everyone on the planet will be happily married simply because I am.

So I don't think marriage is for everyone, I just think it's healthy for people to have some kind of love in their life... even if it's just with music, a creepy doll collection or a snazzy kitten.

I don't think religion is for everyone, I just think it's healthy to have faith in something - Maybe it's G-d.  If you're an atheist, maybe it's yourself..  Maybe it's Santa Claus, a creepy doll collection or a creepy collection of Santa figurines.  Or if you're me, an agnostic gleefully without religion, maybe it's a non-committal "let's just hope shit works out", which hopefully isn't too naive providing that G-d/Mother Nature/Zeus is not, in fact, a giant cat.

People who tell me they know all about G-d, they know everything about love, they know everything about why my reproductive life is working out the way that it is, I consider it to be tabloid fodder.  Someone really excited about an idea, and hoping that you agreeing with them will help solidify their own beliefs. I don't trust anyone who says "I know everything".  The only appropriate answer, in my opinion, to any of the big questions including G-d, love, or the all-encompassing "why?" is "I'm figuring shit out".

For the record, I also don't trust people without freckles or moles.  I find them instantly suspicious.

Yes that is a picture of my cat wearing a bird hat.

You know what would be an excellent anniversary present, interwebs?

Sending me your secrets.  Secret Sunday is almost upon us.

So easy.

1. Think of a secret of yours (something you once did, wanted to say, something gross, something you know about someone else, etc. etc.)
2. Email it to me.
3. Include how you want it to be signed (you can be anonymous)
4. It all goes into Sunday's post, a virtual slumber party.

Give them to me.  Mokey, the obese cat in a bird hat, judges you.