The itching. The MOTHERLOVING ITCHING. I had to be on some jacked up birth control for 3 weeks to start this whole IVF business. It gave me a super rash. It's normal. I have NEVER been on the pill in my life. This was all too much for me.
Forget about a vibrating device, a wire brush is my best friend these days. I have never felt more pleasure than rubbing that bad boy all over my itchy body.
People say stupid ass things. Here are a couple of my favorites:
- Relax. It will happen when it's supposed to (or some iteration of that nonsense).
- Careful what you wish for.
- Do you want my kids? You may change your mind.
Most conversations lately are like this:
People: "how are you feeling?"
People: *STARES*, "Well have you tried this or this or how much longer or let's talk about me and how I would deal with that."
I'm having many different hormones shot through many different needles into my body. It's not pleasant to feel like a human pin cushion. I feel squishy. Nothing is going to make that more pleasant. I feel nauseous all the time. And I'm incredibly sore. That's my story. It's ok, I will be ok, but it sucks right now. Deal? It's ok, let's all just agree that I'm not very good company right now and you are off the hook as far as talking with me.
Way too many people who aren't my husband have been all up in my vagine lately. I'm not OK with it. There have been approximately 645 people sticking the ultrasound wand up in my junk and then looking around in there. I mean, what am I gonna do, right?
I hate having blood drawn, like every other day, but there is the Latino Older Gentleman at Northwestern (can I call him LOG?) that has his Latino music on every time I go and he's so nice to me. It's comforting. It makes looking like a junkie with bruises up and down both arms and my entire torso that much more enjoyable.
I am overcompensating. I feel like shit, so I am doing my best to look SUPER CUTE! every damn day. And logging that shit on a Pinterest board. That's right. I want that reminder for when I have a belly and can't wear my cute dresses any longer, but really, I'm just trying to feel somewhat normal. Hint, TELL ME I'M CUTE.
This is what I typically do in a self pity and pin cushiony induced haze on the weekends right now because I'm in NO MOOD for being social. Ass on the couch, watching Franklin and Bash reruns hoping for a Zach Morris naked butt shot getting outta the hot tub. Brothers and Sisters. Jesus God. Kitty and infertility and then cancer and how can I relate to this skinny white WHITE girl with these jacked up lips first on Ally McBeal with the clunky white girl 90's shoes we all wore and now on Brothers and Sisters? Am I getting cancer next? I want to crawl in bed with Sally Field as my mom and call it a day.
My mom is so far away and she writes me notes every day trying to make me laugh and encourage me and even one last week said that she wants to punch someone in the face for me having to go through all this bullshit. She didn't know who she would punch, I suggested me as I'm responsible for my life, but in a nutshell she didn't like that idea, she wanted to blame someone else. She's so little, my mom, and yet such a powerhouse. My dad calls her Woodstock. And every time I think about her lately I ball like a baby.
Try to explain to your cat that he can't be on you because your stomach is ripped to shreds and you feel vomitous all the time. Go on, try it and report back how that all goes for you. My other bff at home besides my brush to scratch is my heating pad. I cannot believe I'm turning into one of those "it's chilly in here" broads that I always want to smack on the head, but goddamn, is it chilly in here? And then Sally Boy gets really excited when I get up and he gets on the heating pad and is all, "oh hey dudes, did you know about this magical ball warmer for my little tiny cat balls that are long gone, but dammit this is so warm on my bum?"
All this funny bitchiness aside, I am so grateful to even be in a position to try this. With a man I love so hard it should be a crime. So I complain and hurt and cry and laugh, all knowing that I am so blessed to be able to even be here. The moment I start thinking life owes me anything, I'm fucked. Everything I have is a gift. Period. If life were fair, I would be dead. I got the better end of this deal. Baby or no baby. Hormones or no hormones. I win!
AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, I give you Sam from Bitches Gotta Eat. Which is in my top 3 favorite blogs of all time. I am HOOKED. I mean, I'm flabbergasted she would even ask to joint post, but she's on the fucking hormones too. She's proud to say she's my friend (winks) and I bow down to her mad funny, raunchy writery skills. She called me her spirit animal once, I will take that shit to my grave.
Yes, this is really happening, I geeked the hell out meeting Sam.
We are BOTH on the hormones. Different hormones for different reasons, but damn, it can fuck with a girl. This lovely and colorfully raunchy version is from Sam. That's your warning, if your virgin ears can't handle too much, bow out. But I know most of you will thank me after for introducing you to her if you don't know her work already, which I bet most of you do. She's Divine. Please for you to enjoy.....
In general, i am not a horny person. is sex interesting and enjoyable? absolutely. would i rather be in bed with a bag of korean tacos than spending an evening bird-dogging dudes with a spanx pulled up to chin in the vain hopes of dragging one home to do the don't look at my thighs and weird birtmarks awkward first sex apology dance? absolutely. there are so many other things i would rather be doing than explaining why sucking a d would be so much better if i could keep my goddamned shirt on. the thought of new sex is fucking exhausting to me. jesus christ, you want to know what the last conversation i had was about?! THE NEW RANCHERO BEEF LEAN CUISINE. i wish that was a joke, but i just spent five minutes talking about what a drag it is when the meat isn't touching the sauce and it gets all dried out in the microwave and it's like eating a tennis shoes with lowfat chipotle gravy on it. that's not the conversation of a person who is in the market for sexual intercourse, friends. that is what your lonely aunt who wears scarves in the summer wants to talk about, NOT virile young things who can't wait to find some stud to put it in her butt.
i don't ever think to myself, "goddamn, i need to get the shit fucked out of me or i'm going to freak the fuck OUT." women like that seem glamorous and foreign to me, exotic creatures for whom a jar of nutella and a bottle of champagne aren't a suitable replacement for a bearded gentleman with an erection and a checking account. the other night i went to lula with caitlin, who proclaimed, "girl, i always like to keep some dick around," over our split spinach salad. wow, what a fucking grownup. sex just stresses me out and reminds me how little furniture i own and that i should go to water aerobics more often. and that i still buy kid panties with stupid patterns like martini glasses and ponies on them. my underwear drawer looks like the chick lit section of an airport bookstore.
my uterus has always been a finicky little brat. i found this out pretty early in my womanhood when, after being the kind of moron who engaged in unprotected sex with a hot dude who sold dvd players out of the back of his truck, i kept never getting a period yet also never winding up pregnant. so, when you're nineteen and you live in a car with no adult supervision or intervention in your life whatsoever, this is basically THE BEST NEWS YOU WILL EVER RECEIVE IN YOUR LIFE. these were my "fucking in exchange for some fleeting validation" years, you see, so if i could bang dudes and not worry about giving birth to what was sure to an army of street pharmacists and designer bag boosters then it was cool, right? exactly. sex was as boring to me then as it is now, and i'm totally lazy, so not having to think about a strange little creature hijacking my womb was the icing on the cake.
a couple months ago my gynecologist suggested i get an IUD. birth control was making me a bonafied crazy person, plus i am fast approaching the age where all those fine print warnings actually start to mean something ("may cause strokes and blood clots and certain death in women over thirty-five," etc) so i stopped taking that shit. and i was all, "no need, doc. i'm only giving handjobs from now on." he eyed me skeptically before peering through the speculum at what appeared to be my re-grown hymen. he swept the cobwebs away from my cervix and blew some dust from my uterus. "you're not kidding," he said. "who was president the last time you had actual intercourse with a human male?" "ABE LINCOLN." then he scraped a bunch of junk off my cervix to send to the lab and handed me some rubber gloves to protect against catching hand herpes if that's a real thing and not some shit i just made up because it sounds hilarious.
installing that IUD business is like a surgical procedure, and it's one my doctor doesn't do. and since i don't care enough to spend hours doing research and hours interviewing potential doctors just to insert a little piece of plastic in my underground railroad i told him to forget it. he wrote me a script for some metronidazole suppositories and another one for progesterone. JACKPOT, sucka. aside from the fact that PERIOD SEX IS THE ABSOLUTE BEST, i like to have a period because it makes me feel like at least one aspect of my body is functioning properly. these guts, as you know, are on some bullshit 72% of the time. and i'm mostly psychotic, plus my arm hurts sometimes. but every 28 days as i lay prostrate atop a crimson tide, torso wracked with convulsive pain, i smile with the knowledge that at least this part of my anatomy is doing what the fuck it's supposed to. except it sometimes don't. and then i enlist the help of ten tiny little progesterone pills, and within a week that molten lava comes exploding down the side of the volcano and all is well on pussy island.
BUT FIRST. this progesterone is a motherfucker. for ten straight days all i want to do is rub my vagina on chairs and stick my fingers in the mouths of everyone i see on the street. i'm not kidding, ho. horny isn't even the goddamned word. for a week and a goddamned half i am basically MADE OF SEX. i can't walk through the produce section in the grocery store without having to stop and caress all of the squash and melons half a dozen times. i bought three pounds of zucchini the other day because i couldn't stop fondling all of those smooth green shafts. it's ridiculous. right now i have huge swollen boobs and my labia have turned into a giant pulsating fist made of deli meat and i cried at a dog food commercial earlier, and all i can think about is sticking a remote control up my vag. it's insanity. sure, i get hot and bothered sitting across from a handsome man with burn scars and calloused hands, but generally this dog is not so crazy for a bone that i can't sit through a movie without sticking my hand in my pants.
and OH MAN, THE BABY CRAZY. keep your toddler away from me, because when i'm not desperately fantasizing about horseback riding with no pants on i'm salivating after every milk-drooling tiny human kitten with limited cognitive ability i can get my goddamned hands on. all i want to do is scoop them up and snuggle them close to my heaving bosom before bursting into uncontrollable tears about how perfect and beautiful they are. i can't top kissing them and petting their soft little heads, cooing how much i love them and how i'd kill anyone who got between us. until the pills are gone, and my uterus sloughs off that layer of fetus adhesive it built up, and i'm back to running screaming from sticky little hands and green poopy diapers. and only masturbating one time a day. seriously, i have a fucking job to keep.
|look at this nonsense? CAN YOU EVEN STAND IT?|