Monday, February 25, 2013

The Shine

It is Monday, my little bambinas.

And a Monday it is.

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

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

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

What?  Yes.  Your problems are solved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

The Walking Fertiles

Greetings, interwebs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Here's where I get snotty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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