Maybe I went too far
Yesterday the nurse who drew my blood told me this story as she swabbed my arm:
And I thought, yeah, all the children running around unsupervised in the infertility clinic.
I said, "I hope you told him, 'No, we store it in a big open barrel surrounded by balloons and streamers and a big blinking sign that says, Bob for Prizes Here!'"
She laughed nervously and changed the subject.
Hey, look, people name their kids Brandy and Chardonnay...
Just on the infinitesimal chance that last night's connubial tussle produces a twin pregnancy, I am already prepared with names:
Who says I'm a pessimist?
Spent too much time dicking around online: -1
When my friends want to comfort me, they tell me, "You'll be a great mother." The unspoken "...someday" doesn't bother me. I prefer to focus instead on the affirmation, the confidence that I might not ruin my children beyond repair. Not immediately upon returning from the hospital after their birth, anyway.
Because, see, I have my doubts. At bedrock I'm a very selfish person. I have moments of breathtaking irresponsibility. I care too little about what other people think, especially important people, especially authority figures. I'm careless about money. I still call my brother names, and I don't like to share.
I seldom floss.
Sometimes I try to look objectively at my fitness to be a parent. Some days are better than others. Today, so far, I appear to be coming out ahead.
|When awakened by the hungry cat, grouchily swatted him away, muttering, "Jackass, you can wait."||-5|
|Remembered not to use all of the hot water, conserving it for Paul’s shower||+7|
|Added to hot water reserves by flushing toilet during Paul’s shower||-2|
|Successfully soothed scalded husband, avoiding an inconvenient trip to the emergency room||+6|
|Put on yesterday’s clothes again today because, hey, I didn’t sweat much||-1|
|Carefully separated lights from darks before loading the washer||+3|
|Missed a red dish towel||-3|
|Did not rebleach the load, deciding that wearing pink underpants would not significantly undermine Paul’s masculinity||-2|
|Baked a batch of brownies just because Paul hadn’t had a treat lately||+6|
|Surveying the chocolate supply, said, "Fuck it," and used the Callebaut||+8|
|Said "Fuck it" aloud||-1|
|Ate breakfast, the most important meal of the day||+2|
|It was brownies…||-1|
|Four of them.||-3|
|Upon receiving new school pictures of every child I know, mounted them dutifully on the refrigerator||+3|
|Tossed the older pictures in the garbage instead of lovingly preserving them in acid-free lightproof boxes||-1|
|Paid the monthly bills….||+2|
|December’s monthly bills||-5|
|Swigged deeply from the week-old bottle of wine on the counter before tipping the remainder down the drain||-3|
|Had a week-old bottle of wine on the counter to begin with||-3|
However, I cannot say what the rest of the day will bring. Every moment is ripe with possibility.
See you in Stockholm
Infertile women complain bitterly about how easily other women can get pregnant. No one is more grievously maligned than the poor misunderstood crack whore. "If a crack whore can get pregnant," goes the thinking, "then why can't a well educated, legitimately employed, legally married, thoroughly respectable member of society?"
Well you might ask.
Never one to leave a scientific puzzle unsolved, I have come up with the answer: Infertile women don't smoke nearly enough crack.
I'd say more about it but I've signed a non-disclosure agreement with Ferring, who have expressed great interest in my discovery.
Back to the old drawing board
I was discussing my newest theory with Paul the other night. I was driving, and he wondered why I insisted on cruising slowly through the crimey ghetto streets of our small New England town. "Why, I'm looking for crack dealers," I told him, squinting into the icy fog, trying to suss out whether one of those immaculate Victorian facades concealed a crack den, preferably one that welcomed newcomers and novices to the sport.
The only thing to do was to explain.
Paul is the brains of our operation. He quickly spotted the flaw in my theory. "I think," he said, "it's more likely to be a highly localized version of Murphy's Law."
"Explain," I commanded, slowing to a crawl so that I could peer into the big bay window of the painted lady in front of us. I was disappointed to see that the occupants were engaged in an activity no more nefarious than watching Fox News, a sure sign that they'd already consumed whatever crack they'd been able to acquire.
"Well, do you think crack whores want to get pregnant?"
According to Paul's theory, which has supplanted mine in plausibility, crack facilitates pregnancy only in those least desirous of it. It follows that turning to crack would only render me less fertile than ever before.
This theory, while useful, has fewer commercial applications. I doubt the pharmaceutical multinationals will be clamoring to hear about infallible birth control for infertile women.
Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
Do you ever feel like the infertility game is rigged?
Here's your chance to play like a real high roller. Dole out the cash, line up your dainty silver shoe, and join me in a spirited game of Infertilitopoly.
Like the classic board game that inspired it, completing a single round of Infertilitopoly takes forever. And like the classic, you'll end up paying an awful lot of money to people you don't even like. And like the classic, you'll seethe with the urge to commit mayhem against those who are lucky enough to win.
You'll shell out the big bucks every time you land on those desirable blue properties right next to "Go": CCRM and Cornell at this printing, but subject to change upon release of the new CDC stats. You'll grumble in annoyance when you happen to land on the cruddy brown spots baby showers for your sister-in-law and your least favorite co-worker. And you'll yodel with joy when your opponents land on the pink areas if you're holding the cards for First Response, EPT, and Answer!
Step right up and roll the dice. Choose a chance card or call your doctor. Join me, won't you? But I get to be the iron.
(Note to Hasbro: Please do not sue. I am poor as an indigent churchmouse and not worth even the postage on the letter from your lawyers.)
At one time, the two seemed so desperate to incubate an egg together that they put a rock in their nest and sat on it, keeping it warm in the folds of their abdomens.
Breakfast: the most important meal of the day
After last month's ovulation fiasco, I was curious to see whether I'd ovulate on time. In unmedicated cycles you could set your watch by my ovaries at the tone, the time will be half past rupture but I don't know what my body does the month after an ovarian onslaught, so I've been monitoring my fertility signals closely.
Today is cycle day 14. Right around this time, most women produce a slippery tide of what's evocatively called egg white cervical mucus, copious, clear, and stretchy. I, alas, do not, or at least not noticeably. The only times I have were when my estrogen level was artificially inflated, and then I made enough to feed hundreds of hungry brunchers.
Not having this helpful lubricant at my disposal puts me at yet another fertility disadvantage. But I am not discouraged, for some preliminary research tells me that I could turn to a natural solution to make my cervix more hospitable to sperm.
I am disinclined to try this because it sounds like a gilt-edged invitation to a raging pelvic infection. I don't think there's any such thing as fertile-quality pus, so I'm thinking I'll give this a pass. But as long as I'm truly taking charge of my fertility, I've come up with a few other items I might profitably engulf:
- an astrolabe to improve navigation conditions;
- a heat source to create optimal incubation conditions; and
- perhaps even some nice furniture to make the place a little more homey.
Give it to Mikey! He'll eat anything. He likes it! Hey, Mikey!
Small frightened mammal seeks women for good times, bludgeoning
Any of you ladies still looking for a mate? In honor of Valentine's Day, I have exerted my most expert matchmaking skills to find the perfect match for you.
No fighting, ladies. You can share — he's looking for 2-6 women of reproductive age. He'll even pay for medical care during pregnancy "up to a reasonable amount." That'll come in handy when you're having the 17 children he desires. ("Why 17? I don't know. It just seems like a good number to have. I didn't say this earlier in the web-site because I didn't want to scare you away right off the bat.")
Speaking of bats, if the competition between wives for this ferocious hunk gets too fierce, don't worry: you can always just whale on the bitches:
All this and he's intensely erotic...and circumcised.
All I can say is thank God I'm infertile. And nearsighted.
It's the pictures that got small
In case you had to leave the theater momentarily to give yourself an injection or resituate an errant suppository, here is a list of scenes you may have missed from some of the cinema's most notable works.
Gone with the Wind (1939)
Scarlett suddenly realizes she loves Rhett after all, but only after Ashley has undergone painful reconstructive testicular surgery.
The African Queen (1951)
Spinster missionary Rosie (Katharine Hepburn) is initially horrified by the raw carnality of riverboat pilot Charlie (Humphrey Bogart). When he protests that his ill-mannered behavior is only human nature, she tells him with a chilly glare, "Nature, Mr. Allnut, is what we are put in this world to rise above!" The two later conceive a child through no distasteful physical contact with each other whatsoever.
To Kill a Mockingbird (1962)
Young Scout Finch suffers an early miscarriage on Halloween, utterly ruining her giant papier-mâché ham costume. To everyone's surprise, the mysterious stranger who saves her from hemorrhaging to death is later revealed to be noted reproductive endocrinologist Boo Radley, MD.
North by Northwest (1959)
While trying to elude a cropduster in a Midwestern field, New York ad man Roger O. Thornhill (Cary Grant) inhales enough pesticide to render every single one of his gametes chromosomally abnormal. In a surprise cameo, legendary director Alfred Hitchcock appears as the nurse who says, "Next," at the sperm bank.
The King and I (1956)
The proud Siamese king (Yul Brynner) confides in song to teacher Anna Leon-Owens (Deborah Kerr) that his entire brood of royal children are the result of a single medicated IUI. (See director's cut on the newly released deluxe DVD for expurgated scenes set in the palace NICU.)
Singin' in the Rain (1952)
At the close of the silent film era, romantic costars Don Lockwood (Gene Kelly) and Lina Lamont (Jean Hagen) struggle to make the difficult transition to talkies. When the young starlet Kathy Seldon (Debbie Reynolds) enters the picture, Lina believes her troubles are over but gets her comeuppance when Don goes public with the shocking news that her boy/girl twins are the result of Kathy's selfless offer to donate eggs.
During a massacre by Cossacks, a young woman tries to save her baby by pushing its carriage down the long decline of the Odessa steps. As the woman is painstakingly making her way through a ream of colorful, heavily decorated "Dear Birthmother" letters trying to choose who shall care for her baby when it reaches the bottom of the stairs, she is shot to death by the advancing soldiers.
In this classic psychological thriller, a cold, suave killer (Charles Boyer) convinces his frightened young wife (Ingrid Bergman) that she's going insane by doctoring her home pregnancy tests so that they all initially read positive, but turn negative just moments later.
Citizen Kane (1941)
Rosebud was the name of the buxom centerfold in the 1940 Police Gazette Charles Foster Kane stared at, glassy-eyed, while furiously trying to fill a plastic specimen cup.