Testing....Testing

Greetings, ladies o the interwebs!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never been so happy to flunk a test.

31, 13

Good morning, interwebs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is how 30 started - such promise.

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

30 was the year I lost 30 lbs.

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

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

30 was the year I started a blog.

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

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

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

30 will pale in comparison to 31.

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

Babies in Ballgowns

Happy Wednesday, wombats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2013

Hola, Chiquita Bananas!

It. Is. 2013.

I think we can all agree (with a few exceptions, a happy wink in your direction) that 2012 overall sucked huge donkey balls.  Peace out, 2012.  You fucking sucked.

While yes, blah blah blah, there were moments of laughter and gratitude, for the most part my year in review looked like ass.  It's hard for a giggle here and there not to be totally overshadowed by a giant failure of an IVF followed by 6 months of energy pretty much exclusively being dedicated to not totally losing my shit.

So yes there were some good moments in 2012, but I just wanted to be clear that it overall sucked.  I am mentioning the fleeting happy moments with a stink face.  I am sick to death of attempting to grow as a person.  If anything I would like to shrink to 6 inches and pelt happy people in the face with pea shooters they can never pinpoint the source of.  But yes, I am thankful for an amazeballs husband, a Mother who is a saint, two ass-kicking albeit crazy best friends, a delightfully weird sister-in-law, you people, my truly ridiculous animals and for not totally losing my shit - in part because I'm a badass, but mostly because of all the aforementioned things to be grateful for.  Now leave me alone.

I was gone from the blogosphere because I was traveling to the best city in the world to spend holidays with the in-laws.

Some highlights of Stork Happenings since we last spoke:

• We have Stork Christmas on the 22nd.  DVDs, clothes.. I told Bubba to get me something that I don't need and that does not benefit him.  He bought us 10 movie dates.  Love that man.
• We load 2 cars full of stuff and 3 animals and head on down to the OC.  We have fake Christmas with my Mom which involves picture taking and traditional Christmas tamales.  (So normal people eat... turkey?  Right on the tail of Thanksgiving?)
• We travel to D.C. on the 23rd.  No one has a heavy bleeding episode, shits themselves, or angrily hurls a burrito across an airport terminal.  This is us growing as humans.
• When we arrive, we realize that the bathroom of poocoustics is in the process of being renovated.  For a moment briefly worry I'm going to have to shit in the front yard.  Saintly stepfather-in-law finishes it, and there is even a light fan.
• Christmas was half awesome, I made out like a bandit.  Bubella gave me some artwork & dvds, in-laws gave me stuff for house and slippers that make my feet look like monkeys.
• Christmas afternoon, we drop Bub off at airport.  He spends night at a hotel in Connecticut eating microwaved chimichangas and dutifully does his fancy spooj test first thing on the 26th (we find out in 3 weeks how that went).  His flight is cancelled on the way back because of a storm, so he drives home 7 hours in inclement weather.  I restrained myself and had a panic attack for only 6 1/2 of the 7 hours.
• I spend week tackling my sister-in-law, who just had her tonsils out, as much as humanly possible.  Seriously contemplate packing her in my suitcase.  We make art and decide to put our spit in it.
• As a late Christmas gift, sister-in-law gives me the plague.  By Friday I have a 103 degree fever and keep waking up thinking I'm in California.  I was apparently very concerned that Bub take Luna out so she didn't shit somewhere in the house. As per usual, Bubella with her evil uterine waves also gave me my period.
• We leave butt crack of dawn on New Years Day, so sad.  Plane empty, managed to sleep.  Traveling while sick:  not fun for ears.  Eat new years dinner with Grandparents who are weirdly arguing.
• Yesterday get all packed up to go home-home, everyone is ready, can't find cat.  We spend 2 hours searching for cat.  We tear apart house. I walk the neighborhood with a fever (we thought maybe she got out). We are preparing ourselves to be catless.  Obese cat wedged into secret compartment in arm chair.
• We are all home-home.  And today I am doing.... nothing.  Nothing, I say!

So that's it.  We're caught up.  I have a shit ton of reading to do today.  Allow me to tap dance my way back into your hearts.