worldofchen

Ya ya ya – it’s another post with a musical title. I know, I’m getting predictable. What can I say? I’m a musical lady.

Marty and I have engaged   in some heavy conversations about our fertility future…and between the two of us, neither of us has the drive anymore to continue on with IVF, which I’m starting to think is a procedure thought up by Edgar Allen Poe. I think he wrote an infertility treatment horror story right after The Pit and the Pendulum and modern medicine thought it sounded like it just might work, despite it’s torturous nature.

I have to be honest – and my friends always say that I’m going to lay down some truth when I start any sentence with “I have to be honest…” Ie, “I have to be honest, I really think your best friend is kind of a bitch, sorry, I hope you don’t hate me.” Or…”I have to be honest, when I told you that I liked the hot ham water that you prepared for dinner two weeks ago, I was lying.”

But I have to be honest – I’m just kind of over it. And I have to be honest (again) and say that I am concerned about my health if I were to undergo any more torture, I mean IVF. I mean, let’s be honest – cancer is caused by mutations, often mutations in cells that deal with hormones. IVF is a constant mutation of your hormones via chemicals.

I don’t really think doctors have any idea about what can happen to the women they put through this…and I kind of like living, and would like to have a go at it for a couple more years.

And I know, it’s a gamble, to quit. I have a friend who … has been given some grim news about her own fertility and …she can’t get closure until she hears the news from a third specialist. The specialist who specializes in her particular challenge. And as she is telling me this, I understand. I really do. Because she wants the event that will close the door. This will be the even that will close the door that leads down to the dark and dreary stairwell that she has been in for a year and a half. And this will be the event that allows her to shut the door behind her and start living again, rather than living in a painful limbo – one that I’m familiar with.

I get it. I suppose any of the failures of our fertility history could be considered “the event” for us. But really, for me, I’m just listening to that voice in my head – you know, the one who told me that I wasn’t going to make the junior high cheerleading squad because I couldn’t get my split. That one?

Well she was right then – and, I think she’s right when she says to just shut my own door and come back into the light.

It’s like Kenny Rogers said – “You’ve gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away – and know when to run.”

And I agree, Kenny, can I call you Kenny because I’d really rather not call you Mr. Rogers because that is a different guy. But Kenny, you know about gambling right? I mean, look, one minute your Kenny Effin Rogers, singing “Islands in the Stream” with Dolly Parton who you may or may not have been nailing, and you were wearing your beige linen suits with your salt and pepper hair and your cowboy boots – and you were selling out arenas, Kenny, ARENAS. And then, you took some time off to broast chicken, that’s right, you were broasting. I mean, Kenny…..why didn’t you just call it “Kenny Rogers Roasted Chicken????” What is broasting???? Is it barbequed roasted chicken? Is it buttered roasted chicken? Is it battered roasted chicken? You can’t just do that, Kenny? You can’t combine two words (ie, Fake + coach = Foach, or Fake + Louis Vuitton = Fouis Fuitton) – and not explain it???

And while you were busy broasting chicken, the world moved on without you, Kenny. And then when you were staging your big come back, you had some surgery to try to freshen up, and you ended up looking like that lady who’s husband really liked cats so she had a bunch of surgery to look like a cat. You look like that cat lady now, Kenny. And you know what, when you were done having surgery and broasting chicken, and you were ready for your big comeback, either A) people were pissed about that broasted chicken crap or B) you were unrecognizable or C) the chicken + the surgery was just too much for the general public – and ….there was no big comeback.

You now play the convocation centers of state schools in Pennsylvania and casinos in West Virginia.

Oh how the mighty have fallen, Kenny. But I respect that you took a chance…and you followed the voice in your head. The voice lead you to bad plastic surgery and an ill-fated string of broasted chicken restaurants (which my parents loved by the way) but still…you took a chance.

We’re taking a chance – because with any chance comes the opportunity for regret. Will I regret stopping the insanity of IVF? I might.

But regret is the product of not doing the best you could do – or not doing the most that you could do - regret is born of situations in which you left the arena with more fight in you – but you just were too tired to take another swing and you then spend the rest of your life wondering what would have happened had you just taken one more swing.

But, won’t there always be one more swing you could have taken? There will always be another doctor who specializes in the mysterious happenings of your uterus – there will always be a friend who saw said doctor and had luck after no other doctor could get anything going. There will always be another clinic in another state….

But as you fly around the country and continue to swing at the invisible enemy, your life…is passing you by. And one day, you might see yourself in the mirror – and really take a long hard look at yourself – and you might say, hey, I need to pluck my chin and also, you might say, hey, it’s ok to just stop. It’s ok to say…I did everything I possibly could and…I used my last swing…and I can walk off the field with my head high becuase…I left it all on the field.

And then maybe you can resume living – and you can stop being mad at the world at large and going on your blog and writing searing commentary on new parents and social media because sometimes something strikes your nerve and you put it away in the box of things that you might blog about some day and then sometimes it comes out really mean and you feel bad because you came across so angry when you really were just having a bad day.

I mean not that that has happened to me, I mean other people who blog about infertility and have bad days and rage out but I definitely don’t mean ME.

Cough.

And maybe the book that you thought you’d make out of your blog will have a different ending then the one you thought it would have….and maybe that will be OK.

And so, I have to thank Kenny Rogers, even though Kenny, honestly, what the hell is that shit that you did to your face? And Marty, for being my island in the stream.

Here’s to living again (cue the Islands in the Stream….)

Or, in my case, What Not to Expect When You’ve Been Told You’re Expecting but You Aren’t Sure that You Should Buy What to Expect When You’re Expecting because you Expect that You Won’t be Expecting That Long.

I recently saw an ad for the “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” movie. Yes, because that is what the world needs right now – another movie starring J Lo, whom I can’t stand. Why you ask? You probably don’t have to ask because you can’t stand her either, but let’s just pretend that you aren’t sure why I can’t stand her.

Here’s the thing, Jenny…from the Block. You’re kind of a terrible singer, you’re definitely a terrible actor, I’m pretty sure you’re hawking Taco Bell in addition to Fiat right now, which, undoubtely, has Fiat questioning their descision to have you represent their fancy product  – I haven’t eaten Taco Bell in probably more than 20 years, but…I’m pretty sure that they are feeding you cat food if you’re dining there. You make that stupid face when you have your picture taken, where your eyes are all squinty and your mouth is parted and somewhat open …because everyone knows that open mouths are super sexy and YOU, are super sexy, dammit. You apparently pay some poor shmuck to follow you around with a wind machine because it seems like your hair is perpetually blowing around – though I’ll give the hair of JLo some credit – that’s a nice head of hair. She probably never had to grow out a bad set of bangs.

But really, JLO, you corrupted my beloved son of Bean Town, Ben Affleck, and turned him from his jeans and Red Sox hats to the fake spray tan and Armani suits…You ruined him temporarily with your caliente, but Jennifer Garner, daughter of West Virginia, was able to pull him from the edge before you turned him into a non-Puerto Rican version of Marc Anthony  – who looks to be about 75% dead at any given time. She is the anti-Jlo, and she saved him, and returned him gloriously to baseball hats and tshirts.

Anyway, I was recently subjected to the preview for that movie, which looks insanely stupid, which means it will be a huge, world-wide hit. See also the Adam Sandler formula – terrible movie with terrible acting and terrible humor = huge hit.

I know, I said it – I am not a fan of Adam Sandler. I mean maybe old Adam Sandler – but…every movie is the same and…I don’t like the formula. If you do, you love all of his movies and you’re one of those people who say “I love Adam Sandler, I love all of his movies” – it’s easy to love all of them because they are all the same movie, see. See how that works? I know that because I have a degree in Communications Media and Broadcasting…which means, I learned about movies and stuff….and I’ll never get paid to use any of that knowledge so I’ll impart it here for you on my blog so I can feel like the thousands of dollars that my parents spent for me to watch and critique Apocaplyse Now were worth it.

At this point, in 2012, does anyone NOT know what to expect when they are expecting? With the baby watches and constant coverage – I’m actually surprised there wasn’t a live feed of the birth of Jessica Simpson’s child – which, by my calcuations, should have been about 18 when it was birthed.

Did that not feel like the longest pregnancy EVER? I feel like we were made aware the minute the sperm and egg shook hands. It didn’t help that she looked to be about 6 months pregnant upon impact…and Twittered (or Twatted – I saw that in a movie recently and thought that was hilarious) – and Facebooked and conducted interviews and told the world how absolutely magical it was to eat buttered Pop Tarts and buttered…butter. FOR NINE MONTHS.

I feel like that kid should have come out of the womb, taken the car keys, and driven straight to the Mexican border to get the hell away from her. Good luck, kid.

I may have to write a book about What To Expect when You’re Not Expecting. I wonder if I’d get sued if I used that title. I mean, this blog is kind of about What to Expect When You’re Not Expecting. Or, what to expect when you’re expecting for about five minutes.

My book wouldn’t be about the clear and present danger that cheese and lunch meat present to humanity – because if you haven’t read that book, let me tell you – you will be afraid of practically every food on the planet. I didn’t read that stupid book – I did the modern thing and got the App. And the app drove me to distraction. You can see the day by day measurements of the alien that is growing inside of you…and you can see 3D images, which are alarming, and you can see what you shouldn’t be doing on a daily basis. And if you’re already under extreme diress, it adds to it by saying that on Week X, you should be puking, and then when you aren’t puking on Week X, you start to slowly lose what is left of your mind. And then long after you’re no longer pregnant, it continues to pop up on your phone and tell you what you should be expecting.

I’d like to tell the creator of that app that what she can be expecting is me to punch her in the neck if I ever see her.

But my book wouldn’t be about the dangers of lunch meat and when you should be puking – let me tell you something, I don’t eat lunch meat so I think it’s safe to say that if you eat lunch meat – you should expect to be puking – but that is unrelated to what you should expect if you’re expecting, I can’t help you there.

My book would be about how dumb people are when you aren’t expecting. And how bad everyone feels for you even though you sometimes feel bad for them.

I better get on that now before some other infertile soul gets to it before me.

Look for me on the best seller list!

And so here we are.

May.

For the last two consecutive Mays…on just about this coming weekend, I’ve been doing two things: watching for the finish line at Marty’s marathons and having a miscarriage.

But not this May – this May, I will be running my own (half) marathon, and I will not be expelling anything that was once allegedly alive from my uterus, who, quite honestly is bored with all of this nonense.

I’ve grown so accustomed to bone crushing disappointment in May…it will be nice to not fall victim to it.

This May, I can do the things that normal people do…I can drink a lot, and then feel guilty about said drinking and then work out a lot to make myself feel better. I can brunch with my fabulous friends who don’t have kids and debate things like whether or not both Jordan and Jonathan Knight from New Kids on the Block are gay (at first blush, the answer is yes, a thousand times yes, but in actuality, it appears that only Jonathan Knight is gay…contrary to some slanderous reports – Jordan Knight is in fact married to one of the female species…and has reproduced. Keep fighting the good fight, JK.) And how did that band even WORK, really? It’s comprised of …a child (Joey,) a guy who looks like a monkey with a fierce mullet (I don’t even know what his name was,) a thug (Donnie Wahlberg, representing Boston YO,) gay Knight (who looked like a girl) and Jordan Knight, who…is not gay.

Whatever, anyway…I’ve recently been sharing a few things that I’ve noticed as of late that annoy me to the very depths of my being.

Let’s start with the first one – and…of course…it goes back to Facebook. And listen, I know it’s exciting when you have a baby – I mean, I don’t know first hand, but everyone on TV looks pysched – except on Teen Mom, when they show what’s actually going on. They look like they are affected equally by pain, the knowledge that they have been impregnanted by a teenage boy, and also annoyeance, because they know that their days of picking up a cool shirt at Charlotte Russe and heading out to the local hang out are now dependent on saddling their mother with their new bundle of joy.

But listen, I know (from watching TV, I’m looking at you Lifetime, Television for women) that the sh*t is magical, OK? Actually on a side side note, I recently read that Jennie Garth will be playing Nancy Grace in a Lifetime movie.

Pause for dramatic effect.

And…we’re back.

I mean, isn’t Jennie too young to play Nancy Grace? And…I mean…too pretty? No offense, Nancy. I think Jennie could play Meredith Baxter Birney…if she has to play SOMEONE. But Nancy Grace? Oh Kelly ….I mean Jennie…you are so far from your days of being the hottie on 90210.

Anyway, listen, I get it – having babies is awesome. But…look, ladies who have babies, we all know that…it’s a baby.

YOU DON’T HAVE TO REFER TO IT AS BABY HAYDEN. WE KNOW IT’S A BABY THAT CAME OUT OF YOUR LADY PARTS.

WE KNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW.

And then you don’t have to post a photo of Baby Sophia every day for a month and then say, “Don’t worry, I have 150 more for you to enjoy.”

150???? I mean, when babies are new, they aren’t THAT exciting. They look kind of bored. And annoyed.

I mean I would be – you’re living large in a nice warm space, breathin’ in liquids and kicking and punching like it’s your job – and then the next thing you know you’re squeezed down a little tube and spat out to a bunch of strangers staring at you.

That would suck. And quite honestly, I think that is why babies look so …annoyed in their first pictures. Because you’ve totally disoriented them and now you want to take their picture.

It would be like if someone wanted to take your picture after you spent the better part of your night dancing to terrible music in a dank, dingy fraternity basement with a guy who had a nickname that you can’t remember, but it was something like “Tuna” or “Flipper” and you knew that Tuna was not really all that appealing but the ALLURE of him being in a fraternity and older than you made you think that he was worthy of your best dance moves and of you showing off your new navy blue chords right after Christmas break because you were rocking those with a belly shirt and freshly highlighted hair but you still hadn’t discovered the wonders of eye brow waxing so that was still kind of a wreck but you were ROCKING IT with TUNA because that…my friends…is what YOU DID when you went to a state school in the 90s. You rocked your grunge and you got your hair highlighted and you danced with questionably handsome guys with bad moves who smelled like old beer while a questionable liquid dripped regularly from the ceiling of the cellar that you were in.

…It was the nineties people – but anyway…I’d be totally annoyed if someone took my picture…IF that was me who I was referring to.

Ahem.

I guess I kind of combined those two things that annoy me but it boils down to that – why do people refer to their babies as “Baby Chen” and then post 2,000 pictures of Baby Chen doing…nothing.

Here’s Baby Chen with daddy, here’s baby Chen with mommy, here’s baby Chen with the dog, here’s baby chen by the window, Baby Chen’s eyes are open…baby Chen’s eyes are closed…Baby chen looks like she’s pooping…Baby chen’s pooping!

I don’ t know. I guess I don’t get it because I didn’t have that magical experience.

And look, mom of Baby Sophia and Baby Hayden, I’m thrilled as punch for you, I really am, but…you won’t be seeing any more of my brilliant posts or amazing photos (cough) because you and Baby Chen are going to be HIDDEN.

I can’t take anymore and you have to go.

I know you understand and you know what…it’s MAY, and this MAY I won’t be having any magic, but I also won’t be suffering through another malicious miscarriage. So take THAT.

Blessings,

WorldofChen

Hi, well this … is awkward. I know I know I know…I have totally sucked at posting. I have, what can I say?

I know that after WOC’s birthday I said my resolution for the year was to write more – and like all of the resolution’s I’ve ever made, I didn’t follow through on that one…

But it’s not for lack of thinking - or writing drafts that sit dormantly in my draft folder, waiting to be published.

The problem, friends, is that I thought that the next time I came to you I’d be posting with a plan – a direction…some might even call that… a decision.

I’m terrible at making decisions, and typically, have to call at least three of my friends to discuss any major life-altering changes. Ok, sometimes, not even major decisions…sometimes it’s things like…should I get bangs? Or…at other times it’s struggling right down to the last minute on what color to get my toenails painted during a pedicure.

But on the question of whether or not to get bangs – let me tell you – you need counsel – because if you get a bad set  (see also the set that I, personally, just received from my hairdresser or see also the years of birth through high school – MOM) it takes a LONG time to fix them. I’m anxiously watching my new set of bangs now…and waiting for them to not stick straight out of the side of my head…I know the time is coming…but … can it get here sooner because I’m running out of bobbie pins. Which reminds me that I did have one professional hair cut in my youth and I should have called some friends when I let my mom’s sister take me to get said haircut…to get my “ears cut out.” Where do you go from there? The good news is, everyone was having their ears cut out and we were all growing out ugly hair cuts together. You might call that a mullet…business in the front, party in the back. I prefer…”getting your ears cut out.”

But anyway, the point is, I still don’t know – and as time goes on, and the more trips that I make to Chipotle after 7 pm and the more miserable looking parents I see at Chipotle just trying to eat their burrito bowl while two little banshees, hellbent on destroying their dining experience, crawl upon them and wail over the reggae music, demanding to be heard…and the more I see the weary dad, who longs for his days of eating his burrito while listening to reggae music in peace, the more I don’t know if I want to do it. Which annoys me, not the whole part about me and having kids, I mean back to the burrito - sometimes, I want to sit in Chipotle by myself and listen to reggae music and eat my burrito by the window and show the world that I am not afraid to eat at a restaurant by myself, becuase I really am but I can do it at places like Chipotle. And you’d think that trying to eat a burrito at 8:30 would be a safe time because kids go to bed early – but no. They are there, destroying my burrito experience.

And so with my burrito experience ruined, I’m sure that I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be that miserable looking woman, who … you can just tell…somewhere down in the pit of who she really is, thinks that life would have been a lot easier if she hadn’t given birth to two of the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

I recently re-read my blog – cover to cover – for the first time. And the first thing I thought was “Damn, whoever wrote this is brilliant….” I’m kidding, actually, my first thought was “whoever wrote this is sidesplittingly funny.” Ok, no, that wasn’t what I thought at first, either. Actually, I did think both of those - but what I really thought was “ wow….have we been through the ringer. ” The other thing I thought was “damn, I wish that I had been writing in my blog more but… I just don’t know what to say.”

I mean, how many posts do you REALLY want to read where I continue to report back that I don’t have a decision.

And…is that a sign? That I am so wishy-washy? Does that mean that I really don’t want to do it? Because I’m not like every tabloid magazine that reports on Jennifer Anniston’s womb “Desperate for a  Baby.”  I am not “desperate for a baby” - that I know for sure. I don’t think Jennifer Anniston is either, to be honest. If she was, she could just rent someone else’s uterus and then pay someone to take care of her child while she continued to live a fabulous life.

What is that, anyway, with the tabloids? Why do they have to make it that if you don’t have a baby you are “desperate for a baby?”  Maybe Jennifer Anniston thinks babies are cool, but isn’t necessarily “desperate” for one.

Marty recently completed a half Ironman in California – he was in the largest age bracket – 40-45 year old males, which I like to refer to as the “midlife crisis bracket in which wife would not sanction purchase of Corvette or other sports car.”

I’ve wondered if Marty was running away from our current situation – which is that soon, we have to come to a decision and soon, we will have to live with it – one way or the other.

I haven’t had anywhere to run – and I’ve thought about it and mulled it over and made decisions and reversed decisions and then re-reversed decisions and polled friends and thought about it some more and weighed options and…still..nothing.

Marty’s race was in California, and it was such an amazing thing because our friends, who we stayed with, do not have kids and their friends don’t have kids…not a one of them. And this wasn’t a group of 20-somethings who didn’t “want kids.” I didn’t “want kids” when I was in  my 20s either. But sometime around 30, some type of switch was flipped and I changed my mind.

But…being in a room full of people who didn’t have kids, and who didn’t ask us if we had kids…was amazing. I typically have to explain our situation to every new person we meet, because apparently, it’s so strange to not have kids. It’s “unnatural.”

I also met up with a friend from college while we were there, and had lunch in Hollywood with her. She and her husband do not have kids – and never wanted them. I asked her why that is and she said they were having too much fun together, and that she had seen so many couples get divorced because of the strain that kids put on marriage.

There’s got to be some truth to that – I mean, marriage is not easy. I will now liken marriage to the many house plants that I have accidentally murdered. Sometimes, when  I’m on my way to the bathroom, I look at some of my houseplants and think…”gosh, they look like they need watered.” And sometimes I remember to water them, and then they look better within the hour – they have lifted themselves back up and all wrongs have been righted. But sometimes, other things are in my brain bouncing around, and my adult ADD, which you have all witnessed through my writing, kicks in and I focus on something else and those plants watch me walk by and not water them again….and they sag and droop. And sometimes when I forget for too long, they drop dead, and there is no recovering them.

I think that houseplants would be dropping dead at a rapid clip if you had kids in the mix – when would you have time to water your plants/marriage? Sometimes, we don’t have time now, and we don’t even have kids.

And the farther we get from  that whole circus of IVF, the farther away I want to stay. That probably sounds terrible but…I feel like I’ve been through hell and…well…after reading my own blog…it’s confirmed – I have.

I was recently reading an article that one of my friends sent to me about a woman who had been through all of the same things that I had, and then had two failed adoptions to boot. And after all of that disappointment – she just decided that she was unapologetically done. Unapologetically being key – meaning – she wasn’t going to hear any more comments like “if you just keep trying it will work” or…”don’t give up…it will work.” Or…”if you really wanted to be a mother you’d just adopt.”

I can tell you right now- the first person who says that to me is getting punched in the neck – unapologetically.

I don’t even care if it’s a kid – I’ll punch a kid in the neck if they say that to me.

So … that’s where it is.

The answer is…I don’t have an answer but…if I had to have an answer the answer would be that…we might just be done…and embarking on the life of the childless.

Which I’ve lived for 35 years….and it’s not all that bad.

I’ve got the lyrics to Comfortably Numb in my head right now…because that’s how I feel. And not because I’ve developed a wicked heroin addiction…just…because.

When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse (more like in my 30s)

out of the corner of my eye (more like out of the corner of my uterus)

I turned to look but it was gone (see also all of my sonograms)

I cannot put my finger on it now (see, because it almost seems like it didn’t happen …)

the child is grown

the dream is gone (it was never really a “dream” per se but it would have been nice if mother nature had given me the courtesy of not having to have medical science intervene in my reproduction cycle.)

I have become comfortably numb (because I truly am.)

Those dudes from Pink Floyd were tptally deep. And totally stoned.

Anyway, if you need me I’ll be at Chipotle – listening to reggae and eating my burrito in peace.

Ahhh birthdays. Some people love them and some people don’t. I happen to love them – what’s not to love? It’s your day? But then again, birthdays also signify getting older…and having more clogged up pores than you did when you were 16…back when you spent so much time re-curling your permed hair and applying your Cover Girl makeup – you used Cover Girl when what you really wanted was to use Clinique but your mom wouldn’t take you to the Clinique counter because you weren’t a spoiled brat which I thought was some majorly epic bullshit back then but get the point of now (Thanks, Mom!)  to cover up said pores because you COULD NOT keep your hands off of your face – and you’d put on your Levis and your dad’s plaid shirt and some hiking boots, and spray on your Elisabeth Arden Red Door  and get your Liz Claiborne purse- and out you’d go – to cruise the mall and walk past a group of boys 75 times but never stop to talk to them.

Were you 16? or 70? Jesus, that whole look I described sounds terrible when you put it into words – and sounds somewhat like you were an old-person mall walker. But ya, true story – those events are all true. I grew up in the country. Leave me alone – all we had was the mall. And Elizabeth Arden Red Door.

Speaking of that Liz Claiborne purse – I”ll never forget – I found a teal  (Teal: the official color of the 80s and early 90s) LC purse at some department store – and I was so excited because it was a cross-body purse. It was really small, but that was OK because I had nothing to put in it. And for the record, I still have no idea what women  put in purses – I have since upgraded to larger purses – and no, they are not Liz Claiborne purses – but I still have approximately two small things floating around in a big purse. Seriously…what do you people put in those things? If you were my friend ten years ago and you knew you were going to be with me, you’d have snacks in there, in case I got hungry – because my bitching is unparalleled when I am hungry. Or tired. Or tired and hungry – God save you all. Anyway, back to the purse. So one day, I think in my junior year of high school, I was cruising the halls with my super cool, super on-trend, teal LC cross-body purse and I was talking to someone, probably about something important like…”If Extreme would ever be able to make a song better than “More Than Words…”  (The answer was a resounding no, and what I know now but didn’t know then, is that that song is not very good) when I got tangled up in a door – thanks to my Liz Claiborne teal cross body purse – and had a colossal accident right in front of the Home Ec room, where some terrible cookies were inevitably being burned. I think I may have been wearing a skirt, too.

Ahh memories. I think I threw that purse away after that.

What was the point…the point….the point is…It’s WorldofChen.com’s first birthday! Which has nothing to do with any of that!

That’s right  — an entire year has gone by since we embarked on this journey together. Can you believe it?

So many things have changed since I launched this page…my pores are more clogged, I got a Clairsonic face brush for Christmas to take care of said clogged pores and am considering attaching a brill-o pad to it, I had some colossal disappointments, some epic moments of frustration, some moments of absolute clarity, followed by some moments – which have all banned together to form days, and weeks and months – of nagging doubt…I’ve laughed…I’ve cried…I’ve had drinks…many…many drinks.

I wonder what my uterus thought of the last seven to eight months of 2011. My guess is that she is has grown so accustomed to no longer having squatters that she has completely de-childproofed the place – probably bought some really expensive furniture (that will NOT have to be covered in plastic,) took all of the outlet covers off, bought one of those special refrigerators to keep her wine at just the right temperature (those are super cool – I want one of those,) bought a ton of furniture with sharp edges and a ton of glass and mirrors. Good for her.

Marty and I rang in the New Year in Jamaica – and it was the best New Year’s I’ve had in a long time. It didn’t start out looking like it was going to be a good one, though. I was all ready to go….and waiting for Marty, and I was on Facebook, when I saw a pregnancy announcement. Two people who I used to work with – and who are great people and who I know had to struggle a bit to get there. And there I sat…in my new party dress with my sparkly shoes (I’ve come a long way since my days in my Levis and my dad’s plaid shirts) – in Jamaica for God’s sake….slightly depressed.

Who is depressed in Jamaica? No one.

It’s amazing how it can creep up on you….and how you can’t even see it coming until it’s right there – which is more attributed to Facebook than anything else, as we know – it’s a virtual mine field for the emotionally fragile. Not to say that I’m fragile because I’m not…dammit.

But it just does make you wonder…and realize that where you are is exactly where you were and where you are going looks more like where you’ve been than where you thought you’d go.

That was pretty deep. I can’t believe no one wants to pay me to write this kind of crap.  I could write the new Infertility line of greeting cards for Hallmark. “Merry Christmas! Sorry your uterus is “thick and narrow.”" or “Wishing you  painless catheters, and bladders that are filled to just the right amount so that you don’t have to pee into a dixie cup when you know that you could fill up a large beer stein with the urine that so desperately wants to leave your bladder.”  “Happy Hannakuh, hoping you don’t have to have an HSG and that if you do, no one has the bright idea to put a dialtor in you while you do that.”

That’s gonna be a gold mine.

In Jamaica, they don’t light off fireworks, they light lanterns that they send into the sky. Because nothing goes better together than paper, fire and drunk people. Marty lit a lantern for us and I remember thinking in my drunken stupor, this lantern is symbolic of the New Year….it is the start of all new good things…and it was so pretty while it made its ascent into that New Year’s night. And then took a sharp nose dive and went right into the water and burned out.

Huh. Throat clearing.  Well…a lot of people’s lanterns didn’t make it into glorious flight.

I mean…that can’t mean anything. That DOES NOT mean anything.

Right?

Well…as they say, it’s better to burn out – than to fade away. Thanks, Neil Young.

Thanks for all the comments and support, friends and readers. Here’s to a New Year, and all the things that come with it.

Hi, how are you? Been a while – I know…

Since we last talked, I’ve turned 35. I’m now officially in a new age bracket.

I swear that when the hand struck midnight and it was officially birthday, the Gods of my epidermis decided that I’d had a long enough run with good skin, and it was time to start a battle with the pores on my face. I mean it’s not enough that I’m Italian, so I’m already hairy - and without maintenance could probably be one of those people on the Discovery Channel that they show every now and again – you know I think it’s like “Ape boy and his sister, Ape girl.” I could be one of those people. I feel like I have the power, through my Italian heritage, to grow a sweeter ‘stache than Magnum PI. I’ve often thought that if I went on Survivor, I’d have to forgo something in order to bring my tweezer because it’s like Jungle Book on my face without it.

Sigh.

So with the passing of my birthday comes the holiday season – otherwise known as “the most wonderful time of the year” – said with sarcasm and air quotes. I have to say though, looking back on last year at this time, I’m definitely doing better. Last Christmas was brutal – and this one, though similar in status, is much better.

This year, I am not carrying the burden of wondering if I was going to be able to create a Lifetime movie over the holidays by announcing, in between passing side dishes, that we were going to become parents. No treatments this year…no transfers…no accupuncture – which did absolutely nothing for me except cause me back pain because I was laying on what felt like a large baking pan during the process. None of that. Just celebratin’ life.

Remember a zillion posts ago when I said that I saw that girl from college’s husband in the waiting room of Dr. Bohemian’s office? I was trolling (stalking) Facebook the other day and she had posted some pictures…so I thought I’d take a cruise through her page ands see if I could find out how things went. I noticed that in one picture her face looked a little fuller … and then I noticed that someone responded to her Thanksgiving post by saying “Happy Thanksgiving to you and your little one!”

I’m assuming by “little one” that person didn’t mean “congratulations on adopting a little person!” or ” congrats on adopting a vertically challenged” person. I’m assuming that the process worked for them.

And I’m happy for her. No really, I am. I’m happy for anyone who has success at this because it’s a real bitch – and it’s a bigger bitch for some than it is for others but it’s a bitch nonetheless. But it makes me wonder about things…things I’ve made a conscious effort to not wonder about over the last six-ish months. And can you believe that we’ve been celebrating life for almost seven months? Last year at this time, the thought of taking a seven-month break seemed … ridiculous. Like something we would never do – like getting your hair cornrowed while on a tropical vacation.

I always wonder about those people who get their hair cornrowed like Bo Derek while they are on vacation. It’s cool, I guess, in the moment to be “one with the island” but…what happens when you go back home and you have a big meeting with a client or the president of your company…and your hair has been completely cornrowed and those little beads at the end clink  around while you’re engaging the room during your power point presentation. And for any of my African American readers – I don’t mean you – you can pull that sh*t off, but the Caucasians? We look ridiculous.

Where was I – oh yes,  a year ago, I would have never thought we’d take a break like this. And here we are. And still…no plan to continue.

The holidays kick off the time of year when people’s inappropriate and enlightening comments really kick into gear. We see people we haven’t seen for a while and their own uncomfortableness with our situation, which I no longer share with them, compels them to make statements that make me want beat them with the closest Tannenbaum. (See that, Tannenbaum…like..”O Tannenbaum….” The best Christmas song, in my opinion, is O Tannenbaum performed by Vince Guilardi, the jazz pianist from the Peanuts. Though I recently stumbled upon some Christmas music performed by Cats, and that was pretty awesome. I imagine the Christmas Cats, as they are known, assembled much like Band Aid, when they performed “Do they know it’s Christmas?” I remember watching the Band Aid video, even as a kid – and yes, that’s right, I was a KID then – even though I’m 35 now (barf) – and thinking about how it must have gone down when the solos were announced. Bono got the best line, by far…George Michael got a good one, too – but … you know the other people were pissed. Let’s have a look at the performers:

Click here to view them.

My mom recently alerted me to the fact that she doesn’t know how to right click. That link was for you, Mom. Happy holidays.

But seriously – let’s take a close look at this lineup. Overall, everyone looks pissed – they look kind of like I would have looked last year at this time, had I been photographed. Bono, far left, looks annoyed – as if he can’t believe he’s part of a collaborative effort that includes the likes of Bananarama, far right. Sting, center, first row (naturally) definitely looks as though he feels wronged. But he’d show the world – by never aging, and being able to perform tantric sex for up to eight hours in his mid-50s- to which I say…good luck, Trudy Styler, wife of Sting, because I would have such a urinary tract infection after that. I’d have to be hooked up to a cranberry juice IV. Good luck, girl.

George Michael, second row, in the sweet silk blouse with the ombre highlights (good for him, for being ahead of his time) – he looks relatively happy – because he got a solo - and because he has a secret – all of those girls who think he’s so cute…well…girls…when he sang “I want your sex…” he wasn’t singing it to you…or your mother. He was singing it to your dad. Or your brother.

Jodi Watley - far right - looking enraged – and kind of like that shrunken head from Beetlejuice… click here for reference. Let’s be honest, Jody, and I know I just spelled your name two different ways, and I’ll be honest, I don’t care enough about you to change it and will continue to do it throughout this post, but anyway, Jodie, you’re the reason Bono looks pissed and I can hear him now in his Irish accent saying “Who es the shroonken hed a the end a the row an whet song does she seng? Why is er blooday hed so small?”

Duran Duran, the best looking group of the 80s by far. Simon LeBon…remember him in “Hungry Like the Wolf” in his Indiana Jones gear when he’s chasing around a woman who kind of looked like Jodi Watley in the jungle and everyone is sweating a whole lot because that’s what you do in the jungle – you sweat through your khaki shirt when you’re chasing around a woman who eventually rises up out of a lake of some kind, in full makeup, looking like Jody Watley. File that with the other 10,000 reasons why I have no desire to go to the jungle. I never liked Jodey Watley. (See reference.)

It’s a great song though, and some popular singing youth tried to get together last year and remake it and the result is heinous.

What was the point of this…hm…there wasn’t one but I have wanted to investigate Band Aid and brought you along for the ride.

You’re welcome.

Back to the holidays…Christmas parties…Joy to the Effing World. I have to go to a party today, in fact, and I am 100% certain that a certain idiot will ask me if I have thought about adoption. One of my friends told me to just wear a tshirt to the party that says: “I have considered adoption.”

Marty and I always marvel at those things. We also marvel at people who point out to him that he has lost his hair – which is equally inappropriate and obvious. I really want to know when I can say things like…”Your ass really grew since the last time I saw you. Have you considered not eating so much? Or getting off of said ass?”

If I happen to have a glass of water today, you can guarantee that someone will say “ARE YOU NOT DRINKING?”

OH, I’M DRINKING!!! THIS PINT GLASS IS STRAIGHT VODKA, YOU BOOB, BECAUSE I NEED TO BE COMPLETELY ICED OUT TO  NOT SHOVE A TANNENBAUM UP YOUR JOLLY ASS AT MY HUSBAND’S HOLIDAY PARTY IN BETWEEN BEING ASKED IF I’VE CONSIDERED ADOPTION, FROWNY FACES, SAD GLANCES AT MY ABDOMEN, AND QUESTIONS ABOUT WHETHER OR NOT I’M DRINKING.

Someone recently told me that they saw a story on the news about a family of six kids from Mexico who needed adopted and they thought of me. Ok, um…did you think of me because…I have been to Mexico? or…because I really like Tacos?

What about that situation would make you think of me????

Though, I have discussed with my friends the possibility of adopting them and then sitting them down to find out what their talents are. Who likes animals? Carlos? you’re in charge of walking the dogs. Any chemists in the group? Juan? You’re in charge of cocktails for Mommy and Daddy. Make us proud. Anyone like garbage? No? Well, this garbage isn’t take itself out.

Truth be told, weeks after the incident in which this person mentioned to me, I did come across their story. And I did want to adopt them – not because they could make me drinks or walk the dogs…or take out the garbage…(I mean, isn’t that why people have kids??? so that they have someone to do the household chores??) I wanted to adopt them because I felt sorry for them and somewhere, a little piece of the ice that has encased my heart chipped off a bit. A door that I had firmly slammed shut creaked open just a little bit. Just a tiny bit, though, nobody get excited.

I’ve told Marty for years that we should adopt a 17-year old. We’ll take care of him/her for a year, not pay for him/her to go to college because we’ll want to teach him/her about the real world and the value of a dollar,  and then we’ll expect him/her to come back and take care of us when we’re old.

By now, you know that  my humor is wicked and that only a portion of what I write is serious and the vast majority is just the stuff that rattles around in my head and makes me laugh. Either that or right now, you’re 100% certain that I am going to hell and are just hoping I can get a few more posts in before that happens. Either way, you laughed. You can admit it. I won’t judge.

I’m hoping to post again before the holidays – ambitious, I know. And so I won’t leave you with any well wishes for a glorious holiday just yet…

 Until then, I’d highly recommend downloading Silver Bells, performed by the Christmas Cats.

You’re welcome.

Remember this summer, when The Reckoning was supposed to happen? People were quitting their jobs and giving all of their money away and putting down their dogs – which, why would you put your dog down? Even if you were confident that LBJ (and by LBJ I mean Little Baby Jesus and NOT Lyndon B. Johnson – just as a point of clarification) was coming to get you – surely you have friends who you suspect would not be making the trip? Could they not take care of your dog for you? I mean, what kind of friends are those if they won’t even take care of your dog when you’re taken to heaven and they are left here? Jerks.

I mean, like me for example. I actually was upstairs when at the time that the actual Reckoning was supposed to happen and Marty was downstairs and when I came downstairs it was very quiet. And I thought for a second…huh…maybe he went and I didn’t. He did log some time as an altar boy – but alas, he was outside and is, for the record, still walking among those of us on this planet.

I logged some time in Catholic school. Just a few years. Colossal waste of time. And I’m not knocking Catholicism – I mean…I am but this isn’t the venue for it so I won’t except for that passive aggressive comment that I just made. That is all. But anyway, I hated Catholic school in grades 1-3. Yes, even as a third grader, I had the spunk. I really have no good memories from that time – mainly all bad. And not in like the, “nuns beat me” kind of way – in the…series of embarrassing moments kind of way. Like once when we had to go to church during the week, which was pretty much every single day – maybe even multiple times a day – any way, we had to leave the school and walk across the way to the church. I distinctly remember that my mom, on that particular cold, winter day, decided that it would be a good idea to send me to school in a snowsuit, rather than a regular jacket. She’s not Catholic – she doesn’t know about the whole church every other hour deal.  But for real – I was horrified. Mom, seriously, I know you value warmth but…what’s up? So… I did what any kid would do, I tried to hide in the bathroom while the other kids went to church. But you see, those nuns were hiding big brains under those little hats, and they found me. And made me put on my snowsuit and walk into church, after it had already started but was still quiet. In a snowsuit. I tried to tell them that I could just go without a coat but no – those nuns were hellbent on me entering the church in a snowsuit. “Psh Psh Psh Psh Psh Psh” as I entered. Awesome.

I  also hiccupped really loud once during a quiet moment in church, in front of the whole school. My friends wonder why when we play Jeopardy and we hit “the Bible” category I don’t even make a guess. They always say “didn’t you go to Catholic school?” Ya, I did, and many bad memories of snowsuits  have washed away the teachings of the bible. I did always secretly think I’d have been the May Queen had I made it to 8th grade. Which entails a crown made of flowers and…well, that’s about it. I could have been a contender.

Anyway, I really think that the Reckoning doesn’t even need to happen. Humanity is going to end because of the super market. Truly. Uncertain people like myself – and trust me – there are more and more of us – go to the grocery store after working all day and then going to the gym and muscling our way through the men in the freeweight area who hog the 10 and 15 pound hand weights like a bunch of sissies. Seriously, dudes of the world? The 10s?

Anyway, we go to the store on Monday night because Sunday at the grocery store is marked by the Beast (how about that Biblical reference, huh??) You don’t dare go on Sunday.

So you go, on a Monday – and you think that you’re smart – even though week after week on Mondays you go and you are endlessly fascinated by how much other people’s children annoy you.

And I know we’ve talked  about this – and I know, my friends have said it’s different when they are your own but…I gotta say, it looks rough.

I was there last Monday -  – and it was like some type of nightmare dream sequence. Because you start out your journey with the same people – and there they are – no matter how you alter your pattern  – you inevitably cross paths. That night, I was plagued by two particularly annoying boys who looked to be 10ish. Who thought that everything was funny – in that “I’m going to pick up this box of tampons and laugh because I don’t know where they go but I know they go somewhere in girls way.” Or, “I’m going to pick up this hair gel and laugh because hair gel is funny.” Apparently, in addition to the usual things that would be considered funny (toilet paper, sausage, hot dogs, potatoes - am I the only who sees the potential there with potatoes?) – all three million items in the store were funny.

And though I desperately tried to escape, from these children and the fact that Gary Glitter was on the speaker system (do do do do do, HEY! And also, I believe that GG is a known pedophile, which…man – really?) – I couldn’t get away from either. And at one point thought that I might be part of some type of hidden video show. It’s a good thing I wasn’t because by the end of our journey together I almost pulled little Junior aside to say “Hey, those tampons? They go in the vagina. The first and last one you saw is most likely your mothers, given how annoying you are. Good luck, kid.”

And I must say – though it seems like I don’t – I love kids. I love my nieces and nephews – I love my friends’ kids. I just…I don’t know. Other people’s kids. Whew, they really make you think.

And I’ve been thinking….and thinking…and nothing yet. No decisions. No epiphany  – and this is in the time of Beyonce’s pregnancy – which is apparently cause for international celebration – though I’m not sure why. Apparently she’s carrying the Christchild. You’d think her royal impregnation would inspire me – and yet, it does not.

It actually annoys me. She did that whole big reveal thing – like…”take it in world, it’s the moment you’ve been waiting for all of your ever loving lives. I will produce the royal hip hop heir that the world so deserves!” Personally,  I couldn’t care less about her or her kid. Sorry  Be, can I call you Be? I just don’t care about your baby and I know you probably thought that your triumphant pregnancy announcement would change my mind – but…it didn’t. I feel kind of bad for her sister, actually. She got a really weird name, I mean not that you’re going to look back on high school and say “Oh, I knew a Beyonce” but…I mean you’re not going to know a Solange…so Solange is a double whammy because she has that stupid name, and she’s not as pretty – and then she has a baby and no one cares. Her dad didn’t even care enough about her to try to rip her off like he did with Beyonce. How rude. When your own dad won’t rip you off, you know you suck. Poor girl.

I was talking with one of my friends about the pressure on the lovely Princess Cate, married to the increasingly not lovely Prince William. The immense pressure on that poor girl to reproduce makes me scared for her. I keep seeing the tabloid rags that say “Desperate for a baby” or “Extreme pressure to have a baby” or … “Too thin to have a baby.” What about the headline that says “Doesn’t want to have a baby.” Or “Might want to be married for five minutes and enjoy Will’s fleeting looks before he completes the transition into becoming his dad?” Or “Cate doesn’t care about Beyonce’s baby” – where’s that one at?  I guarantee Cate doesn’t care about Be’s baby. I have to wonder if poor Cate went through some type of fertility olympics before even being allowed into that family. I’ve been to the fertility olympics girl, call me. Don’t call Beyonce, she doesn’t get it – Be probably got pregnant via the hip hop gods – she and JayZ didn’t even have to have sex. He simply laid down a rhyme and knocked that shit up. So Cate – can I call you Cate? Call me. Or call Solange – she knows what it’s like to be handed a shit sandwich, though she hasn’t been through the fertility olympiad. I’m like that female athlete Dara Torres – who went to the olympics like ten times. Although she medaled a whole bunch – and her body at 40+ is RIDICULOUS, and I’m more like one of those degenerates who went to the olympic village and partied my ass off and wasn’t able to perform. Like that guy Body Miller – he is more similar to my olympic story.

But what we REALLY thought was interesting was that Prince Harry, though to the naked eye may have seemed to get the bum end of the deal – is going to live the life. As my friend pointed out, while William is commemorated on a keepsake plate, Harry will be in the bathroom somewhere having anonymous sex while wearing a beret. No pressure. No responsibility. No one will ever expect him to have children, and for as unattractive as Wills gets as he gets older, Harry seems to be getting cuter. He looks like he totally gets it, too. Like he’s kind of like…you go ahead and be the king, I’ll be over here having sex with as many women as I can and partying my ass off. Cheers!

I kind of feel like Prince Harry. I feel like, I’m so far away from the world of fertility, and I kind of don’t care about it anymore – and I’m kind of just like…you all just go ahead and do that….I’lll be over here enjoying life or should I say Celebrating Life.

Sounds kind of vapid, I know. But I just…I don’t know…I just don’t care about this anymore. I want to and I’m trying really hard to because I think I feel like I should…but I just…can’t seem to drudge up the energy to start up another round of IVF. If we had some frozen kids hanging out in storage – sure, let’s thaw ‘em out and throw ‘em in and let’s see what happens. But the fact is, that’s not true. There is no easy way for us to just say “We’re going to try one more time.”

It’s like pushing a boulder up a mountain for us to even try. And when you don’t have that burning desire, you don’t have the strength to push it. It’s like being forced into a snowsuit when all you want to do is hide in the bathroom.

Sigh.

As I’m sitting here, putting this blog together in my  mind, I can hear football on in the next room. The seasons are changing, and it’s time for fall -undoubtedly my favorite time of the year. More important than football, Fall signifies the return of the Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte. The Cadillac of seasonal, over-priced calorie-bomb drinks.

And I love them.

As the summer of fun is almost officially over, I find myself really struggling mentally with what to do next. As flakey and “fly by the seat of my pants-y” as I am- and I am – I really am – I like to know what I’m doing next, when possible. And right now, I can’t figure out what to do next.

We’ve talked throughout the summer about what to do next…with no real plan. As time has gone on, Marty has had time to move past the desperate need to continue on with the madness that is IVF.  I have remained where I was at the beginning of the summer, planted firmly in the uncertainty. Certainly the air of desperation is gone – replaced simply by confusion.

Last weekend we ran the half marathon – and the night before the race, we went out for pizza – and beer. I know, doesn’t sound like what you’d eat/drink the night before running 13 miles, but trust me, something about  it works. Anyway, as we were sitting at dinner, I was looking around us – at all of the happy hour goers. It was a nice fall evening, we were on a nice patio – and everyone was having drinks and blowing off steam. And then, I saw a woman timidly peeking at those of us on the patio…with a stroller. And then one, two and then three little blonde heads popped up behind her, followed by a tired looking dad. Four boys looking to be under the age of 5. I felt her nervousness – wondering if it was better to bring these tiny men onto the patio, or to keep them confined in the indoor portion of the restaurant. I saw her lecturing them and going over the rules “do NOT get out of your seats.., etc.” And of course, they sat right next to us, so that I could observe them more closely.

Just as they were getting settled, three attractive young girls came in, and one of the attractive girls recognized the mother of four, and the commenced an extremely awkward conversation, one of those types where you either a) have not seen each other in at least a decade and ask something stupid like “so how have you been?” or b) had nothing to talk about ten years ago and are now trying to find a common ground or c) a combination of both. It looked like this was an A situation, further complicated by the fact that attractive girl looked young and refreshed – out for drinks with two other girls who looked young and refreshed, probably just stopping by here before going out to do something fabulous. And mother of four was … well….looking tired…and haggard…and probably … just trying to get through this dinner without significantly reducing the number of children present because she looked on the verge of killing one or more of them. I was watching two worlds colliding.

On a side note, I always hate those conversations, where you haven’t seen someone in at least ten years, and someone asks “how you’ve been” or “what’s been going on?” How do you effectively answer that?  “Good?” “Nothing much?”

It’s been a DECADE???  Even if the decade had been totally boring, it was a DECADE ago that we last spoke???

Hence, why I will never go to a high school reunion. I mean that’s not the only reason, but it’s one of them.

I wish I could have a high school do-over. High school is such a difficult thing to endure – trying to fit in or figure out who you want to fit in with. If I could do it over again, I would have definitely hung out with different people – rather than the cheerleaders (EFF you, Taylor Dayne!) I’d probably have hung out with the drama kids – you know, the creative lot who listened to Ministry (Mom, Ministry was/is a very moody and gloomy band from the 80s/90s) and wore rose-scented water as perfume and ox blood Doc Martens. Inside, I was one of those kids. Actually, I didn’t quite fit that mold either, because while my popular friends all liked country music (barf,) I was secretly listening to Fleetwood Mac in my room. And James Taylor. And Marvin Gaye.  And Paul Simon. Who listens to that music in high school? This girl.

But anyway, those people, the Minstry kids, they were true to who they were. They weren’t line dancing in agony like I was, while wearing cowboy boots and holding the hand of a sweaty, 40+ year old partner in the dim lighting  of a volunteer fire department social hall on a Friday night. I served my time in boot scootin’  hell. Yeehaw.

Sigh.

Where the hell was I going with this? Probably nowhere. Anyway, back to the restaurant.

So, after that awkward exchange with the mother of four and her long-lost, attractive friend, in came another family, which effectively made me wonder if God purposely always seats me next to children when I’m out because he’s trying to tell me something. I can’t figure out what he’s trying to tell me on any given experience, because sometimes he’ll put a really cute one in front of me, and I’ll feel pangs of wanting one just like that one. And then other times, he’ll put the son of Satan right next to me, and I’ll not only not want one, I’ll actually want to have my tubes tied, not that that’s necessary. (buh-dum-ching  a little fertility humor- I’m here all week – try the chicken.)

Anyway, after the awkward exchange, in came the couple with twin toddlers – God has quite the sense of humor, no? These parents looked less uncertain – they looked in control of the situation – and they had grandma with them. What could go wrong? Apparently everything – because one of the toddler twins decided to go rogue, and out went the dad with that screaming, flailing bundle of joy. Once he calmed that one down, the wheels came off of the whole operation and the mother had to take the other one out because it had launched into a series of blood curdling, exorcist-like screams - and as she was leaving, the one previously taken out decided that it wasn’t done raising hell…which…effectively, left grandma at the table with two waters and two sippy cups. And just like that, they packed up and left.

I observed all of this through conversation with Marty about whether or not we wanted to try it again. And I kept saying…that looks miserable. Out loud – “that looks really miserable.”

And so, now I’m left wondering what to do – and I really don’t know. I’m going to turn 35 in a month, and that puts me in a whole new fertilty-challenged group. My age has always been on my side, but … I’m starting to lose that battle, too.  And I don’t feel nearly as morbid about it as that sentence sounds - I’m not like, picking out what I’m going to wear to my funeral or anything – I don’t think I’m on the threshold of geriatrics - I just mean, that’s the truth – new age bracket. Though truthfully, given that Marty’s motto for my wardrobe is “nothing can be too short, or too tight,” perhaps I should have that outfit picked out – just in case. There have been mornings when I’ve dressed in skirts (with tights - so that makes it marginally less inappropriate) of questionable lengths and come out and asked Marty, who was busy  shaving or doing some other important man work, if something was too short,  only to have him answer- with not even a glance my way: “nothing can be too short, or too tight.”

Although at 35, I’m not sure that will still apply.

So here I am - at the impass. I had a friend who was going through IVF when I was – and she may be reading this and if she is, I hope she knows that I”m so happy for her – because hers worked…and I was happy for her even though mine didn’t work – having it not work for both of us would have really sucked. And then we crossed our fingers together again that mine would work the next time, and that was when I went through a string of no frozen transfers working. And then…I kind of drifted off and wasn’t able to check in all the time and see how she was because, she had crossed over to the other side. And I was still waiting to get “red rover-ed over.”  I wonder what advice she would give me now? Though I see her beautiful son on Facebook and I know she would say to do it – she looks happy – thrilled even.

But then there are times, like the happy hour incident, where I see these parents, and they look miserable, and their kids seem miserable – and their lives seem miserable – and …. I’m not sure that I want that. I really look at people who have kids – and analyze them. A small portion of the people I observe in random settings (my friends and family excluded) look happy around their kids. The vast majority look like they are permanently confined to the fiery pits of hell by the dark lord himself.

We live on a cul de sac, and for the longest time, we had no neighbors. And I hated it. And then, neighbors starting popping up. Neighbors with kids. Neighbors with kids who think it’s fun to come to my house. Neighbors with kids who come to my house several nights a week to pet my dogs. Neighbors who have kids who have forced my boobs to be confined by a bra for an extra two hours a night.

Thanks a lot, neighbors! The point here is that, their kids annoy the living Christ out of me. And I know that sounds mean and they don’t annoy Marty as much as they annoy me – but they just DO. They come over and ask me things like “Why the cat is standing?”  What the hell do you want him to do? Float around? He’s a f*cking cat??? Last time I checked, he’s not doing anything all that original, kid! Don’t you have books about cats and other animals that indicate that they stand???? I mean even the Cat in the Hat stood? And sure, it was on two legs and as an adult that whole situation is extremely bizarre because if a giant cat walking upright, talking and wearing a hat came into my house while my parents weren’t home I don’t know that I’d let him in??? But that’s beside the point!

I mean, I know parents can endlessly answer this line of questioning with the patience of saints - or the help of medication - BUT I DON’T HAVE KIDS – AND I’M NOT MEDICATED (YET) AND I DONT FEEL LIKE ANSWERING YOU REGARDING WHY THE CAT IS STANDING OVER THERE, LITTLE GIRL?????HE’S PROBABLY STANDING “OVER THERE” BECAUSE YOU ARE SO *modifying expletive*, *expletive* ANNOYING THAT HE DOESN’T WANT TO DEAL WITH HEARING YOU ASK SUCH STUPID QUESTIONS OVER AND OVER AND OVER. HE WANTS TO LAY ON THE COUCH AND WATCH ME WATCH PROJECT RUNWAY…SO MAKE LIKE A DRUM AND BEAT IT! MAKE LIKE A TREE AND LEAF! JUST GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE SO I CAN UNHARNESS MY BREASTS FROM THIS DEVIL’S CONTRAPTION!

Ahem. Whew. Sorry about that. Been carrying that one around for a few weeks. Can’t wait for winter!

Anyway…

It’s a gamble. I could carry on the way that I am now, and I”m fairly confident that life could be about having a husband that I love, rescuing dogs, hanging out with my wonderful friends, some who have kids, some who don’t – and just…being.

But then I also know that if I laid eyes on the product of my husband and I…that I’d be forever changed and fall in love with what would probably be the world’s most stubborn human being. Seriously, when we first got married there were arguments that could have gone on for an entire year because neither of us could let go of anything.

I wish there was some type of magic 8 ball for life – or that someone could just say – do it – you won’t regret it. Because right now, I’m not sure. And I know that having kids is a huge gamble for anyone – most people just typically don’t have this much time to think about it. The rest of the population, in my approximation, not only DOESN’T have to spend any time thinking about it, they can reproduce just by bumping into each other in the morning. Or just by being in the same room with each other.  And they then spit out perfectly healthy children who go on to be the valedictorians of their high school and college classes and then work for NASA, all while being devastatingly beautiful/handsome and being extremely gifted in athletics.

Actually, I did consult a magic 8 ball at the beginning of all of this – and I asked a general question like, “Is this going to work??” and it came up “Not likely.” However, I wonder if I should have clarified, meaning, not THIS time but…EVER? Does the magic 8 ball need more information? It should really come with directions as to how to get the most out of your question/answer.

Anyway, we have all of this TIME to think about it. And we’ve lived a child-free life for so long, and we’ve done a lot of really fun and exciting things. Will that all be ruined?

I say that as if it will actually work if we try again – you know, it hasn’t worked in six tries but SEVEN could be the one. Lucky number seven right? If we do try it again and anyone utters that phrase to me, I”m punching them. Or whoever is closest to me. You’ve all been warned. Gramma, that includes you.

What to do…what to do…oh magic 8 ball of life…can you help???? ( Not likely.)

Hi, it’s been a while. I’ve been busy having a fun summer…well, I was busy with that the first half of the summer. Then, sometime around July, I started being busy being anxious.

The first half of the summer was clearly more fun.

This summer, I’ve made a new friend - anxiety. Anxiety is a bad friend. Like a friend who squats at your house and then never leaves and never gives you any money for utilities or food. And always eats the last ice cream sandwich but never buys more. Or one that wears your favorite shirt without asking and then gets a stain on it, kind of like in those stain stick commercials – but your bad friend doesn’t use stain stick and it’s ruined forever. I have two things to comment about in regard to the stain stick commercials. One – stain stick has never rescued a shirt from the fiery fate of the Salvation Army bin for me.  Never. Do I do it wrong? Or do I just always get things on my shirt that just render the stain stick defenseless? The other thing that I have to say about the stain stick commercials is that I really don’t like the one where the mother borrows the daughter’s shirt – and then goes out with her friends and gets ice cream on it. First of all – the shirt is so ugly – it’s lime green – and has horrible ruffled sleeves. And second of all, the mother looks terrible in it. And then after the daughter gets the shirt back, none the wiser thanks to the miracles of stain stick, she looks bad in it, too. I want to shout at the screen – and did when I wasn’t working -  “Put it in the Salvation Army bin!!! You both look terrible in it????” Which, as we have covered before, sent the dogs into a “it’s time to eat dinner” tizzy.

Sigh.

Anyway,  there are a few theories about my anxiety floating around. My mom thinks that I am unable to process anything stressful anymore because I’ve had such an obvious stressful thing to process for so long and I, for the most part, handled it like a champ. I mean…I think I did? Yes, I cursed a few people. Which – oddly enough, remember when I cursed Dr. Diarrhea? With the gastro problems? Well, let me tell you something – putting the Italian Malook on someone is not an exact science. I just confirmed this by asking my grandmother for her opinion, as I know she too, has put the malook on people. I didn’t wish for Dr. D to have her husband, who is also a doctor, which makes him Mr. Doctor Diarreah, leave her for a much younger version in the form of his office assistant. Like…a 20+ year younger version. That wasn’t my intention, but as my very wise grandmother confirmed, you never know how it will turn out when you curse someone. That curse took a while to come to fruition, and much like a hurricane, seemed to have gained some momentum somewhere out at sea – and then materialized as a Category 4.  And yes, I feel….sort of bad for her. I mean, yes, it looked so perfect when I would go in there and she’d have her pictures of she and Mr. Doctor D with their beautiful children in Italy on the wall, while I was on my second round of Chlomid, and completely crazy. It was great to look at their perfect family pictures any time I glanced up from the book of babies that she had delivered, which included several of my friends’ babies.  It all looked so perfect in the waiting room and then the photos of Italy sans D family that were beautiful, lovingly taken landscape photos. Actually, couple those photos with what a complete asshole I think she was, and multiply it by how DEAD WRONG she was – and I kind of don’t feel bad about her husband leaving her. If I was still with her – she’d probably still be telling me that I just need to relax. Well, maybe she needs to relax, too – though it looks like she won’t have time since she’s got the kids and her husband is boning a 20-something- probably 24/7.

Ahem.

The other theory, that I think is probably correct, is that with our IVF adventure, and pretty much all adventures related to trying to reproduce, the worst-case scenario has pretty much always been what we’ve gotten. And now, as I try to navigate an IVF-less life, I anticipate the worst-case scenario for everything. I won’t go into what I’ve set my sights on the second half of this summer to obsess upon – but I’ve found myself asking myself – and some of my friends – was I always like this? No, I don’t mean this sarcastic and bitchy. I mean this…crazy? Was I always like this? Didn’t I do better with stressful things before?

And in case you’re wondering – the answer was yes, to sarcastic and bitchy. And no, to was I always this crazy.

Smart friends, they are probably lying, but they know I’ll obsess over why they think I’m nuts if they answer with anything else.

So that catches you up on what I’ve been up to for the last month.

Recently, the question of whether or not we will try again has been banging around in my head. And fortunately, that question is no longer accompanied by a frenzied timeline of trying to get through all the crap that comes with it and get pregnant and hold onto it before a specific timeframe inevitably is upon us – ie, see the last year of my life.

Now its just kind of a question of …are we ever going to do this again? I think I may have used the word “never” at the beginning of the summer if asked that question. And truthfully, when I think of it now, and what goes into it and the emotional ups and downs that go with it, “never-ish” is the word I conjure up.

Never is a strong word. Though there are several things that I have said I would  never do again and am 100% positive that I really never will, including – but not limited to:

- Getting a perm – for obvious reasons. Can a person even get a perm anymore?

- Driving in Manhattan – which I have done twice and will say with complete certainty will never happen again – especially thanks to my new anxiety issues.

- Watching E.T. – I know – that sounds crazy because that was such a cute movie. But I can’t handle the part where the scientists take E.T. and his heart light is fading. I just…I can’t. I can’t turn on my heart light for that movie ever again. And you know they will make E.T. again because there is very little ingenuity left in Hollywood – and now classic movies are just remade. I won’t be watching the new E.T., either.

-Parasailing – because Marty and I did it on our honeymoon – on my birthday – and I absolutely hated it. It could have been because the line that connected us to the boat had been duct taped. You know in the islands they are way up on technology. (That’s sarcasm, obviously.) I actually asked our guides if they had ever lost anyone on one of those excursions. They said no. I don’t know that I believe that.

-Watch a movie starringKate Hudson – I loathe Kate Hudson. I had originally written that as “Watching a movie with Kate Hudson.” That implied that I would be watching any movie, alongside Kate Hudson. So I changed it to clarify that I don’t want to watch a movie alongside Kate Hudson OR starring Kate Hudson. She is my celebrity nemesis. I think she is such a fake – with her whole moonbeam thing. If she was really such a modern-day hippy, she wouldn’t date ONLY celebrities and musicians. She’d date guys who had no money and worked at Starbucks. Or not even Starbucks, because they have healthcare. I read somewhere that her former husband, Christopher Robinson, of Black Crowes fame’s band mates hated her when she came on tour with them. Doesn’t speak to her being such a fun-loving free spirit, does it? Especially because they actually ARE modern-day hippies – they have a big banner over their stage that says “LEGALIZE IT.” If those guys think you’re an asshole, chances are – you are. I also feel like she’s kind of a whore. There. I said it. I mean she’s dated (slept with) an impressive roster of men in a very short period of time – A Rod (or was it Derek Jeter? they are basically they same person – whatever,) that guy from Muse (current baby daddy,) Owen Wilson (who then became suicidal – coincidence? I think not,) Dax Shepard, Lance Armstrong (fellow serial celebrity dater) I dont know who else, I’m sure there are more but it makes me tired to think of it.

-Taking a non-cruise ship sponsored excursion. Also done on our honeymoon. We let complete strangers take us out on a boat, in a foreign country. About halfway out I realized that we probably all were going to be held captive by this possible/probable drug cartel gang. We weren’t obviously – but I believe we got lucky.

-Drinking a White Russian. If you’ve read this blog – you know why. Though they are delicious. Maybe that’s a never-ish more than a never.

Sitting firmly in the category of “never-ish” is another round of IVF. I suppose that could be the root cause of some of my recent, self-imposed anxiety – masquerading around in the form of a host of other things. It’s hard to say.

But as the (half) summer of fun comes to a close, I’ve started to wonder more about the if/when of another round.

I also said I’d never run another half marathon…and yet, I find myself having completed the worst part of the training and am preparing to run another one in a few weeks. That was brutal the first time around…and yet satisfying at the end. And here I am – preparing to do it again.

So maybe I have another shot in me. (Ha, no pun intended – look who is a punny girl – it’s me.)

Sigh. Stay tuned.

Sticks and stones may break my bones – they may not – it depends, I’d say, on the angle with which you are approached by them. And words, though they may never hurt me,  will undoubtedly annoy the living $$$$ out of me  on a regular basis.

The world is a strange place – and the people living in it are even stranger.

Admittedly, people don’t know what to say to me in regard to our situation. It is human nature to want to ask, or want to say something encouraging – which I totally get and appreciate. I really do.

But there are times…when people say things that leave me scratching my head…for days after…trying to rationalize…why or how that comes into someone’s mind – and more importantly, why or how they let it leave the safe, cozy confines of their mouth.

It is in the spirit of these bizarre conversations that I bring you – the list of things to never ask a person or say to a person - and the potential reaction that you may receive for saying said thing:

1. I can’t believe you don’t want to adopt….I know, you’re probably thinking…she doesn’t mean that that has been said to HER, she means not to say it to anyone else. No, my dear friends. It has been said to me  — many times. It’s also been said in terms of “my friends who adopted can’t believe you dont’ want to adopt…” This is a question/statement that angers me to my very soul. And I say question/statement because it really is a question, disguised as a statement. Like when Garth Brooks went into disguise to no longer be a country singer but to be Chris Gaines, singer of…music that you hear while in the dentist’s chair. Does anyone other than me even REMEMBER that? Probably not. Why must I be cursed with the heavy burden of remembering that???? Everyone knew it was Garth Brooks with a bad (bad) wig. Which I never understood – if you want to stop singing about tractors and start singing about the tender moments of love that occur in the warmth of the sunset on a summer night – you don’t have to put on a bad wig, and a utilitarian silk suit to do so, Garth. You just…do it.  No need to turn into a different person, though if I spent that much time singing about tractors, I might want to turn into a different person as well. Anyway, The originator of the statement wants you to address it. Truly – and the fact that I’ve contained the rage that bubbles beneath the surface is a true miracle (thank you, Baby Jesus, for taking time out of blessing everyone else on earth with the ability to have intercourse and produce life to not give me that blessing, but to give me the patience to not light people up when they ask me this question or demand that I explain myself.) Adopting isn’t like going to Target to get a plunger – it takes time – and emotional investment and a huge leap of faith. I’ve invested what little emotional cashflow I have left into IVF. I’ve leapt - I’ve leapt and leapt and leapt. I think that if someone who actually HAD adopted children asked me if I’d ever considered adopting children, I’d receive it differently. But it’s always people who have had children, with little to no issue, who ask me that question. And they always cap it off with things like “Well, I know myself, and if I couldn’t have children, I’d just adopt.” No, you wouldn’t – not necessarily, but thanks for talking about something that you are completely clueless about as if you are an expert.

2. I know how you feel….This one…defies all reason and logic. I’d liken this to me saying to someone who has cancer – “I know how you feel, I had a cold once, and I felt like I was never going to stop sniffling.” No one knows how any one else feels about anything – ever. Marty and I have traveled this road together for years, and could I tell you that I know exactly how he feels? No? And he’s my HUSBAND – he sees me pee regularly – we don’t hide much from each other. He knows me better than almost anyone – could he tell you EXACTLY how I feel? Or even..give you an approximation of how I feel? Probably not. I recently had a conversation with a well-intentioned, clueless person with three children (of her own – NOT adopted children -and cute ones, too!) that went like this:  ”I know how you feel, it took me nine months to have < the identities of innocent babies will be protected despite the acts of their idiot parents. > And at that point, I won’t lie. I had to dig deep. It’s kind of like seeing your life flash before you…or having an out-of-body experience. I saw myself…holding my beer-pong style plastic cup full of Skinny Girl margarita – I saw myself throw it ever so expertly into said person’s face, and then claim that I had a kink in my arm and that sometimes I couldn’t control it – and then possibly punching her just to further illustrate how unpredictable that trick arm could be. Her point was, she experienced disappointment, for all intents and purposes, nine times. My heart bleeds. Truly – my heart bleeds that it didn’t happen for you immediately. That must have been brutal. Let me take time out of feeling bad for my situation to feel bad for you for those nine months of trying, which were then followed by three babies – and the fact that you just told me that you’re “going to do it one more time, because you’d like to have a girl – God willing.”  Yes, GOD WILLING. God willing I’m not going to completely lose my sh*t and start windmill kicking and punching you right now. GOD WILLING.

Ahem.

But ya, nine months of trying and nine disappointments. Going by that math, take 6 years times 12 disappointments a year…carry the one, sorry I”m horrible at math…which is 72 disappointments, not to mention the colossal disappointment of then having three of those be miscarriages. So by the laws of MATH AND SCIENCE AND EVERYTHING ELSE THAT IS LOGICAL IN THIS WORLD I CAN SAY WITH UTMOST CONFIDENCE THAT YOUR NINE MONTHS OF TRYING TO HAVE A  A BABY BY HAVING INTERCOURSE WITH YOUR HUSBAND IS NOT THE SAME AS MY SIX YEARS, THE CAST OF THOUSANDS INVOLVED IN MY SIX ROUNDS OF IVF AND THREE MISCARRIAGES. It’s not even remotely close. It’s not like when they replaced the old Darren with the new Darren on Bewitched and thought no one noticed because they found two people on this earth who looked and acted very similarly and thought that the collective brain of the American public would think that the Old Darren possibly just stumbled into some bad plastic surgery…it’s not like that AT ALL! Not the same! (Insert a montage of me kicking and punching air to the point of falling over and then kicking and punching some more.) 

And by the way, the original Darren was the best~ and looked the most like the cartoon character – Yes, I LOVED Bewitched? What? Ahem.

3. I feel like you’ll regret it if you don’t keep trying to have a baby….I love this comment. No one ever admits that they DO regret having babies, or that everything isn’t rose-colored 24/7- but everyone will caution you that if you don’t have a baby – and embark on long periods of sleepless time, long periods of time in sweatpants (which I see nothing wrong with, see also my period of unemployment,) long periods of time being barfed on (no, I don’t mean college – a different long period of time), long periods of time hearing babies screaming, only to have those little bundles of joy turn around and ruin your life and drain your life savings and ruin your retirement- you’re really missing out. I think I”m going to start responding with “I feel like you might regret having little Bobby – look at him – he looks like he’s going to steal your car and knock up the neighbor’s daughter in seventeen years. He’s got “that look” about him. I’d think about giving him up for adoption now – let someone else deal with that headache. Sorry, Bobby.” It’s funny – these things – they are all an exercise in self-defense. It’s a jungle out there – and not just for those of us who are reproductively challenged. I have a friend who has chosen not to have kids – which I thought was the holy land. You just say “we don’t want kids” and people leave you alone. But alas, I was wrong. My friend told me that she used to tell people that they couldn’t have kids, to stop the conversation – but has, over the years of knowing me, stopped doing that because it made her feel bad. To me, I feel like, use whatever weapon is closest to you – if that’s what you’ve gotta use – use it. Whatever shuts people up in their quest to know when you, too, will reproduce is fair game. The irony of the fact that I sometimes tell people that we don’t want kids, because I think that is easier, is not lost on me.

4. Are you Christian? This wasn’t asked of me directly, but of one of my best friends about me in response to other people asking how I”m doing – while at a baby shower.  And my friend – who meditates and zens herself out regularly and believes in peace and love and positive thinking - had to use the power of patience and sheer personal will to not leap over the table and put said “christian’s” head through the gift table. I laughed when my friend shared this with me – for its sheer lunacy. I’m not going to get all religious on here – but let me say this – crappy stuff happens to people of every color, gender, age, political, sexual and religious denomination. It would be sad to think that the Baby Jesus has forsaken me because I wanted to set up a Facebook page for him, and only showered blessings on those who continually thank him for helping them to find those Bestey Johnson shoes half price. That would be a real travesty. I think that reproducing really is a miracle – because so many scientific things have to go right. Is there some kind of…”magic” in there – I don’t know – maybe. But the magician in utero for me is apparently an “America’s Got Talent” (seriously, talent wise - we’re f*cked) reject.

5. Are you….<eyes pointing toward uterus> expecting? Said after possibly consuming a large burrito…This is another one that wasn’t said to me directly, but has been implied over the years. However, I do have a friend who was asked this recently – and who was not ” you know < downward look toward uterus> expecting.” I mean, can a girl have a burrito and a beer and not be asked if she’s pregnant? Why is the world so concerned with those of us who aren’t “you knowexpecting? Why does the world care what we choose to do with our uteral real estate? I personally don’t care at all what other women do with their fertility – whether they pursue it, discontinue it, put a hold on it – I don’t care! I don’t inquire about the state of affairs in there – because I don’t care! If the tumbleweed is blowing through your uterus, like it is through mine, then I don’t feel the need to tell you what you should do next? I can’t even figure out what I should do next?  Friends of the world who aren’t “you know < downward look toward uterus > expecting” – you can guarantee that I won’t be asking you about “if” and “when” that is going to happen. I’m going to ask you where you got that headband, and if you’ll be mad if I get one, too and if we’re heretofore known as the headband twins.  

6.  Have you thought about/talked about/looked into adoption? I mentioned this many moons ago in my blog – I realize. And it is similar to “I can’t believe that you don’t want to adopt” – but it’s slightly different because in this context, the offender is asking you as if they are bringing this new concept to you that you have never heard about. But it’s another thing that bears repeating. As if I will wake from my Snow White- like stupor and say…”WHAT??? Please, explain this “adoption” that you speak of to me????”

7. “I feel so bad for you.” I abhor  this comment – and this one may get you shivved by me – especially if you’re someone who has kids – because typically, people who don’t have kids, as I’ve mentioned before, aren’t up in your face all the time about when you’re going to have kids and why you aren’t adopting and why you shouldn’t give up and how sorry they feel for you! They want to know where you got that headband, and if you’ve been to “insert restaurant here” and if you agree that the salmon there is the proverbial bomb. But when someone who had kids says to me “I feel so bad for you” -  my blood boils to unhealthy temperatures. Attention people of the world who feel bad for me and have kids: DON’T FEEL BAD FOR ME. Here’s the thing – I have a great life that I am very happy with.  I still love my husband, probably more now than I did when we got married (that’s right – it’s true – IVF is a nightmare and it makes you or breaks you as a couple and we made it – and I don’t take it lightly!) I go on vacation and have drinks without having to make a deal with Satan in order to do so. When I go to the beach I don’t have to entertain kids who tell me that they want to go back to the pool five minutes after we set up our chairs and unpacked our cooler and got settled in with our toes in the sand. I don’t have to do that!  I go shopping and don’t have to worry about saving for little Ricky’s college (you’re on your own, kid!), I have lunch with my friends, I mooch off of my friends who belong to country clubs and go to their pools on weekends and when they ask me what time I have to be home I say I DON’T HAVE TO BE HOME AT ANY SPECIAL TIME! Just because I don’t have kids doesn’t mean I’m at home trying to slit my wrists with a plastic spoon????  Would I like to have kids, YES? Will my life’s worth and happiness be defined by whether or not I have them??? NO!

And so, that’s it. I don’t know about you, but I feel better.

I wish everyone out there who is defending the honor of their reproductive parts- whether by choice or by destiny – patience, strong drinks and the self-control to fight the urge to shiv people.
Godspeed, everyone!