WARNING:  This post is rated NC-17.  It contains adult themes, including but not limited to a detailed discussion of my cervical mucus.  Those squeamish about bodily fluids and/or those persons who have recently ingested any food products should move on. 

Seriously, move along folks…there’s nothing here for you to see.

Annnnndddd…for everyone else:  hold on to your hardhats people, because I have some Big News.  I think, think, that I am currently ovulating and Holy Hannah, it’s only CD17!!!  Now, ordinarily, this would not be anything to write home about.

In fact, that would be an odd and somewhat disturbing letter when you think about it.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I am having a really awesome time at Camp Wanamukka!!!!! I heart my new best friends  a lot a lot.  We go swimming, braid our hair and make s’mores.  And learn how to use a bow and arrow thing which is totally fun. The mosquitos are bad and the boys are icky. Oh!  I almost forgot!  I think I am ovulating now, just like the other girls.  Cool, huh?  Anyways, send me some more Bonnie Bell lip gloss and some brownies and I’ll see you in August!!! oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo, Your Daughter Watson

So, yes, normally ovulating mid-cycle would not be something to get all hot and bothered about.  BUT. I have not ovulated anywhere NEAR mid-cycle since, like, the mesozoic era.  Yes, back when I was a cave woman and the plates were moving and new species of large-fanged cats chased me every day.  Seriously, not since then!

Since I was not expecting to become among the ovulated for another week at least, I made plans to be out of town for one night this weekend. WITHOUT THE HUSBAND.  So, as you can imagine, once I noticed some egg-white consistency material being distributed by my previously-uncooperative nether regions, and then shock of all shocks saw the OPK turn positive, I  freaked out!

Freaked out like:  "For some reason I am feeling quite amorous this morning…."  "BeBop! OMG!  We mustmustmust make the sweet love DO IT NOW!!"

So after our emergency, how shall we put it? session, I was trying to relax for just a few moments before rushing off for the rest of the weekend.  Because, as any infertile will tell you, relaxing will TOTALLY help. Um, yeah.  Anyhoo, as I was trying to relax, BeBop happened to think of a little good luck mantra which he chose to share with me.

"Good luck my little seedlings…"

"BLECH!  That is so gross!  Why are you calling them seedlings??  It’s like something out of a horror movie."

"Oh!  Like in The Fly, remember?  When she gives birth at the end and you hear the baby cry, like waaaaaa  waaaaaaaaaa…..bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

"That is SO not helping."

So that’s my late great breaking news.  It must be the needles and the herbs, people, it must be.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.  Ba DA Buhm.

So here is my pitiful tale of the Chinese herbs and YES, I do realize that many women have been through much worse, and that I’m just a little cry baby, but it’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to…

After stewing the horrible concoction because HELLO!  no one told me I should ask for the powdered version of this crap, which literally took about two hours, I screamed at BeBop to get his fucking ass downstairs and for once in his friggin life friggin HELP me with something sweetly requested the presence of my dear, supportive husband.

His ‘help’ consisted of holding my nose while I drank, not realizing that while my mouth was occupied with liquid, with a blocked nasal passage I could not BREATHE.  As I sputtered and choked out "can’tbreathecan’tbreathe" he figured out that I was quite literally drowning in Chinese herbal tea.

Then, his next retarded idea helpful suggestion was to yell at me while I’m trying to take tiny sips which is, granted, not a good idea. 

"Just pound it. One big gulp like you’re shotgunning a BEER!" On a helpful scale of 1-10, that was about a 3.  The tea tasted nothing like a cold beer, and I was having a hard time conjuring up images of being at a toga party wearing an adorable pink sheet to set off my tan, surrounded by hot frat boys, my best girl friends around me and a kicky version of Love Shack playing in the background.

Next was:  "Do it for the family. Think of Fredo."

This was a 2.  Rarely do random quotes from The GodFather inspire me, but at least bring it with the mattresses quote, or the one about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer.  Who the fuck is Fredo and what does HE have to do with me drinking this God awful tea??

With me gagging on the tea, pathetically whining about how reallyI’mnotkiddingittastesworsethanyoucanimagine, I start to realize that in clear violation of the laws of physics, somehow the TEA WAS REPLENISHING ITSELF — each tiny sip was actually creating MORE in the cup!!!!!!!!!!!!!

BeBop’s last suggestion was to think of Fear Factor, which of course just made me think of really disgusting things those freaks eat in the hopes of making it to the next round where they can be hung by wires on the face of a 20-story building over the teeming streets of Los Angeles or swim through a cesspool populated with alligators or try to escape from a plexiglass covered body of water where it really really looks like you’re going to drown ANY SECOND. Not that I’ve actually watched that show. Please. I just read about it. In the New Yorker.  Anyway,  NOT my idea of a good time, so this did not constitute a helpful idea AT ALL.  Probably a 1.

Clearly, he was not catching on.  The idea of say, quietly cheering me on, saying how this would work, that I’d be healthy and would somehow (again,  in a clear violation of physics) be able to get pregnant, was just not on his radar.

So for the rest of the weekend I skulked into the kitchen and, hurling a barrage of insulting comments at BeBop, silently sipping my tea, a peaceful sort of calm came over me as I realized this was the first in a long line of guilt-inducing insults I could one day (fingers crossed!) fling at my offspring.

Much like what Zee mentioned in her comment, this could be the go-to martyr claim-to-fame.  My own mother had a litany of these she used as weapons against my sister and me for years.  It has almost become a fill-in-the-blank game, since she has so many statements that end with the words:

Until I had you little brats.

For example: 

I had perfect B cups, Until I had you little brats.  Or, I was always a size 10, Until I had you little brats.

So, just to carry on the family tradition, my very own collection of therapy-inducing parental statements could be something like:

I used to like tea, Until I had you little brats. 

Or,

I used to like Chinese food, Until I had you little brats.

Feel free to add your own ideas in the comments section!

Okay people, my morning has NOT gotten off to a great start.

I woke up v. v. late because I managed to wrench my back somehow last weekend and by Friday night it was KILLING me.  I decided that just what the dr. would have ordered, had I called one, would be a couple glasses of wine and a Tylenol PM.  Or two. 

Fast forward like twelve hours later and I’m a groggy mess, wondering what day it is, why my hair is all matted to my forehead and WHY IN THE FRAKKIN’ HELL is the dog licking my arm with a look in his eyes that says  remember the story of the French lady who supposedly accidentally overdosed on WINE and SLEEPING PILLS and fell into such a deep sleep her dog ATE her FACE??  Remember??  Her dog was only trying to help, to make sure she was okay…chomp, chomp, chomp.  Mmmmmm….owner’s face. Yummy.

Once I finally roused myself from my slumber and wiped the dog saliva off my arm, I decided I had to start boiling the evil herbs from my new acupuncturist.  Good Lord.  They are even more disgusting than I remember.  It is seriously a brown paper bag filled with all kinds of dried berries, twigs, and completely unidentifiable objects — animal?  Vegetable?  Mineral?  I have no clue!  There is a brown object in there that looks, I swear, like something from an alien autopsy.

And the Smell.  Sweet Jesus the SMELL.

You have to boil them twice, and the whole process takes about two hours.  Like I have two hours to spend boiling up a witch’s brew of lord knows what and then drink it. I am gagging just thinking of the drinking part.  Wish me luck, I will need it.

In other news:

My new BFF has joined the wonderful world of blogging, so grab a house warming present and head on over to Bitsy (aka Zee)’s new place in the blogosphere.

Off to gag on/choke down/curse my husband for not having to deal with this  delicately sip my tea.

Since we don’t have kids to distract us, nor are we pregnant or have a plan in place to GET us pregnant, this is the kind of drivel that occupies our minds:

BeBop:  If a seeing eye dog was going blind, what kind of seeing eye animal would he have?

Me:  Is this a riddle?

Him:  No, seriously.  Would he have like a seeing eye squirrel leading him around while he led a blind person around?

Me:  I don’t think so, no.  Think about the dog-human relationship. What’s the equivalent of a loyal dog to a dog?  Maybe a bunny rabbit…or a beaver.

Him:  {Scratching of head} Hmmmmmmmmm….

OR

The following e-mail from BeBop this morning, with the subject heading of:

You Should Never Doubt Me

Him:  Hey remember when I told you that Anthony Michael Hall’s character in Sixteen Candles was named Farmer Ted? And you didn’t believe me??  Well I looked it up on IMDB.com and guess what sucka…

Sixteen Candles (1984) …. Farmer Ted, ‘The Geek’

Me:  I can barely remember that conversation because it was SO inane. YOU are inane.  And only a total geek would know that or care.  AND that’s NOT EVEN A REAL NAME.  Who even says that in the movie?

Him:  Actually if I’m not mistaken (and I’m not) he refers to himself as ‘Farmer Ted’ at least two different times! 

Me:  What, his first name is ‘Farmer’ and his last name is ‘Ted’?  That’s ridiculous.

Him:  Suck it!!

Yes. We are a paragon of maturity. 

GAWD.

I have been having nightmares the last few nights. I think I have post-traumatic stress disorder.

Okay, so that’s a touch melodramatic. But really, what’s a blog without the melodrama, right?!

The short version of the story is: 

Who am I kidding?  There is no short version. 

But here’s the medium-sized version:

Boy meets girl in San Francisco, they fall in lovelovelovelalala and decide to move in together.  Girl is all:  DUDE.  I do NOT want to live together for freakingever without getting engaged.  Boy is all:  Doy.  I know that. It’s all good.

But Boy has issues with wanting to be a good provider and all that.  He wants a successful career underway, with a good salary, before he gets married. (Cue music that says:  FORESHADOWING.  This  will be IMPORTANT later in the story!!!)

Girl says:  Whatever. I can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. (Even though it was Fakin’ Bacon because she was a vegetarian at the time, but now she’s not and mmmmmmm…bacon!  WHAT was I thinking, foregoing bacon???  I’m hungry. Maybe I should have a BLT for lunch.  Mmmmmm lunch.) 

Where was I?  Oh yeah, the story.

So anyway.  Boy gets GREAT new job, it’s a big promotion with a big raise and Boy and Girl celebrate with champagne and pizza.  Not long after, Boy proposes by stuffing ring in a box of cracker jacks and surprising Girl on Christmas morning.  (Which?  Is weird, the whole Cracker Jack thing on Christmas morning thing, and she doesn’t get the holiday connection–why not candy canes for example– but it’s really sweet and she says YES and off they go to plan a wedding.)

And then.  Then, just before Valentine’s Day, the Boy gets laid off, along with half the adult population of the Bay Area, thanks to the Great Dot Com Implosion of 2000-2001.

The Boy uses this opportunity to be very introspective, which is good, and realizes that instead of getting a JOB, he will go back to school and switch fields and basically not earn another penny for the next five years, which is not so good.

So the girl, former partner in bacon-bringing and -frying, becomes the sole breadwinner of the family.  (WHY OH WHY SO MUCH FOOD?!?  Mmmmmm….bread.)

Anyhoo, they continue planning their wedding and eventually get married and face some difficult times ahead, including but not limited to the following:

• Adjusting to the idea of being a one-income family in the freaking Bay Area
• The Boy’s adjustment to not only NOT being a provider, but relying solely on his new wife to support him
• Canceling their dream wedding that was planned for Sept. 14th, 2001 (thank YOU family "psychic" who confirmed that, astrologically speaking, that was a blessed day to get married but OOOPS! didn’t catch the whole terrorist attacks thing)
• Instead of said dream wedding with 100 family and friends present, getting married with 17 people and feeling horribly depressed the entire time
• And, let’s not forget…the JOY of struggling to get pregnant soon after all THAT

But. Life moves on and so did the Boy and the Girl.  They got a dog.  They got another dog.  The Boy studied hard in school and finally graduated, and the pain was not QUITE over thankyouverymuch and he spent a year looking for a job.

And today, the Boy has a job offer and another interview today, which I talked about in the whirley-gig post a few weeks back.  So the Girl (OK, it’s ME) should be happy and relieved. 

But I’m not.  I find I am having flashbacks to the last time BeBop was gainfully employed and how that all came crashing down around us. His getting laid off was a turning point in our lives that set us down a path neither could have predicted.  And much of it?  Neither of us particularly wanted.

So while I try to have faith that things are different now, that we sacrificed and he followed his dream and now everything will finally, finally be okay, it’s hard to believe that.

I don’t want to walk through life waiting for the other shoe to drop, but sometimes it’s hard to trust that history will not repeat itself.  That we’ve done the right things, made the right decisions and now we’re set to create the beautiful, wonderful life that we both want.

I have nightmares of these jobs not working out, and being back at square one. And I HATED square one, people, hated it!  And so I’m NOT going back there, I’m not I’m not I’m not.

Oy.  The stress of growing up and being an adult, of all things.  That BLT is suddenly looking very good to me…maybe I’ll have four one for lunch.

GAWD, what kind of Google searches will find me with that title!

But seriously, you know the woman who stands in line (or on line for the non-American readers. Welcome, by the way!) at the deli counter for like 20 minutes and still can’t decide what she wants when it’s her turn?  Or the friend who keeps changing her order because she can’t make a final decision?  The salmon. No, the skirt steak.  Hmmmmm…maybe a salad? 

ARRRGGG!

It would appear that I am one of those annoyingly indecisive types, and it’s already probably super irritating that I keep whining about this psychic healer and that holistic doctor.

But really, this is all just a prelude to reporting today’s news which is that I went to…wait for it…ANOTHER acupuncturist today!  I know!  Twice in one week! 

FREAK.

But, I just wasn’t comfortable with Dr. Pain.  He was all wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, if you know what I mean.  The appointment was anxiety-producing, and part of my new plan is to relaaaaxxxx, man.  So Dr. P. was not helping.

So I tried this woman who really really like totally specializes in fertility issues (please note the absence of the dreaded I word.  That word is banned from now on — trying to stay positive people!) and apparently has some cool story about trekking in Nepal and seeing some kind of medicine woman and being told that one of her life missions is to ‘help women get pregnant.’  Since I LOVE crap like that, I made her promise to tell me the actual story next time.  So, it feels much better to go to her.  And I won’t get my herbs until next week, so I have a bit of a reprieve.  Which is awesome.

Incidentally, I have my own Nepal stories which do NOT revolve around seeing a medicine woman and being told my life’s purpose.  No.  My stories?  They all revolve around one or more of the following:

Getting horribly sick at 10,000 ft., spending three days and nights in a tent in the fricking freezing cold, vomit, diarrhea (which I had to look up, by the way, because I couldn’t spell it!), fevers, suppositories, more vomit, still more diarrhea, hallucinating and then eventually getting better, trekking a frajillion miles all over hell and back and, finally, going to the lake region and picking up a cute Canadian boy with the line:  Didn’t I see you in Kathmandu??

Those were the days. 

Minus the vomiting and diarrhea (which?  I can now totally spell!) and the freezing cold. 

And the suppositories.

So today I ducked out of work and went to yet another alternative-type:  a new acupuncturist.  I’ve been seeing a female acupuncturist for a couple of years, and haven’t been all that impressed with her.  Call me crazy, but when you walk out of the office with NEEDLES STILL IN YOU — TWICE — it’s a bit disconcerting.  I mean, doesn’t her job consist of two basic steps:  needles IN and needles OUT?  How effing difficult can that be?

The last time, I made it all the way home thinking:  Wow, that treatment must really be working!  I have little cramps in my lower abdomen and I’ve never felt that before. This must a good sign.

Turns out?  She left TWO needles in my stomach!  Now of course I’m the retard who didn’t notice the teeny tiny needles in my belly as I was zipping up my pants, but still.  STILL.  You’re very groggy after a treatment and I was obviously not searching for errant needles.  I wrongly assumed I was paying her to keep track of how many punctures she made and then to make sure she removed all the needles she stuck in me.

So needless to say, I’ve been asking around and heard good things about Dr. Pain.  (I’ll refer to him as that not because it was particularly painful, but his real name sounds a lot like ‘pain’ and I think it’s a funny name for a person trained to stick you with needles.) (I know. Such highbrow and clever comedy.)

Anyhoo, I went today and was sweating like a pig the entire time. It is, they claim, the hottest the earth has been in like 400 years and we’re having a heat wave in Northern California, so the combination of global warming and our hot streak has rendered me a whimpering cry baby, dragging my limp body around until I can get home and collapse on the couch.

So there I am, sweating profusely, looking for his office which is in a completely residential area.  No offices or medical buildings for miles around. 

As I walk up the front steps to a house, I think to myself:

Self, what the fuck?  Seriously, you moron, why are you always going to strange places — ALONE — to meet strange Asian men?  Why Why Why??

As it turns out his office is in his home, which is odd, but whatever, I roll with it.  He greats me at the door and says, "Please. Follow me." I think okay, he’s either 1) a reputable Doctor of Chinese medicine and this is all very normal LALALA or 2) a broker in the infamous white slavery rings of the Far East.  (I know!  Again with the white slavery thing…)

He checks my pulse, has me fill out some forms and looks at my tongue.  For the needling portion of my afternoon, I am told to lie face down on the table, using the head cradle (is any of this sounding familiar??).

Being face down?  Me NO likey!  I want to see the needles as they’re coming toward me, not be all surprised as he jabs me in the lower back and the ankles. It’s hard to relax, and of course he soon says "relax, take a nap."  My face is straining through the cradle, just like when you’re little and pull your skin really tight and say, "See Mom? My pigtails are too tight" and she puts the fear of God in you by saying that your face could freeze like that?  Remember?  Like that.

Despite the skin-pulling discomfort, the needles don’t hurt and I do manage to relax.  Time flies and soon it’s time to pay him and get my herbs. Which?  I was dreading.  DRA-DEAD-ING. I have tried these so-called Chinese herbs before and they are, without a doubt, the most disgusting, revolting, stomach-turning, gag inducing stuff known to man.  They come in little brown bags, and you can smell the pungent odor a mile away.  When you stupidly look IN the bags, they are filled with dried twigs, berries, white things, rotten nuts and God knows what. It could be newt eyes, bunny fur, horse hooves and human entrails for how good it smells.

And I am supposed to boil and choke down drink this concoction twice a day. And go back to see Dr. Pain next week.  And stop drinking coffee.  And stop eating salads, for crissakes, because apparently I have low-functioning kidneys and poor kidney chi and if I had a dollar for every time I heard that I could pay for frigging IVF three times over.

Bitter?  Me?  No. Bitter is the disgusting tea I’ll be enjoying later tonight.

Wish me luck!

Oh!  And he said, on my way out:

"No getting pregnant this month.  Wait one month or two month."  To which I said "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA." 

Like THAT would ever happen.

I swear I am planning on wracking my brain to come up with a response to Stephanie‘s tag — thank you by the way!  LOVE being included in all the bloggy fun of these things…helps erase the memories of my sad, traumatic days of junior high when I was always left out of the fun, which I won’t go into now.  Suffice it to say the few friends I had were all on the yearbook staff and even though I was the only one not on yearbook, we all ate lunch in the yearbook room every day.  In the yearbook room.  GAWD.  Could it be any more pathetic than that?!?  I was chubby and just learning to wear make up and deathly afraid of boys and bell bottoms were in fashion…need I say more?

Anyway, what I really wanted to say today was how crazy this messed up world is.  There is much good news out there in the blogosphere, but much sad news too.  And I wish I could do something.  For Nikole and for Sube, my heart goes out to you … you both have been so supportive since I started this blog, and I read your posts with increasing excitement as you each had good news to share.  I am so sorry things have turned out this way.

I wish there was a way to harness the power of these blogs, where we reach out from our isolated islands of infertility to make friends, laugh, learn stuff and go through this journey together.  Maybe there is power in our collective prayers.  I’d like to think so.

So I send you my prayers, knowing there are others out here doing the same thing, hoping you can feel our collective friendship and support.