Smelling like baby

A dear friend of mine, who I've known and admired, like, forever, is adopting a baby through DCFS. She completed the piles of paperwork and got licensed in March, I think, and has spent the last two months or so waiting for the phone call that would change her life. Because she is my dear friend and I love her, I have also been waiting for her special phone call. I imagined that she would sound a little deer-in-headlights overwhelmed. Her voice would sound far away, but once she conveyed the news we would both giggle like we were back in high school.

And then I had six IUIs that failed, and every time we spoke I could hear how much she shared my disappointment and heartache. We visited the Lincoln Park Zoo a few weeks ago, and the joy of that special place was tempered a bit with each of our unknowns: My friend was waiting for a call where a stranger would give her another stranger to love, and I was waiting to learn if I was, or was not, pregnant. We walked, and laughed, and my friend indulged me a visit to the polar bears, despite an absolute downpour that soaked our clothes and flooded our shoes (you can't not see the polar bears, I mean, seriously). It was fun, but it was not carefree. We used to be carefree, but by this time we were each too busy waiting to be without worry.

I remember feeling envious of my long-time friend. At least her wait was a given: That call would come eventually. Me? Well, let's just say that I have a whole different take on what a 15% success rate can mean in real-life terms. After that day at the zoo, I began to worry how I would respond to friends' pregnancy / adoption / foster placement news. Would I be jealous? Angry? Cry? Would I be mature enough to be happy for my friends, even if I wasn't pregnant? I spent hours at night, lying in bed, practicing the scenario: The phone rings, I go searching through an overloaded purse to find it, answer it, and then listen breathlessly as a beloved tells me that they are going to be parents, that they have won the battle. And left me to fight it alone. Each night, no matter how hard I tried, I wouldn't be able to stop the self-pitying tears.

But you know what? The reality was nothing like my imagination. In fact, it was the polar opposite of what I'd thought it would be. When my friend called, this is what happened: I thought she was calling to rehash some email discussion we'd had going on earlier in the day. My friend, always the generous soul, let me blather on for a while. When I shut up for 2.5 seconds, she said, "I got the call. I'm picking up a baby on Tuesday."

Internet, it took a few seconds to process this. My first response was, "Oh, really? Boy or girl?" as if I was asking about the weather. But then, before my friend - a new mom - could respond, I jumped up, nearly dropped the phone, and started screaming, "OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD," over and over again, I'm not even kidding. I couldn't stop screaming, and my poor friend just laughed and tried to give me the baby specs (age, name, gender, history, etc etc etc) while I continued to scream, "OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD," at the top of my lungs. My neighbors must have thought I was dying.

I eventually pulled myself together - and it was a challenge, let me tell you - and we agreed that I'd come visit this weekend. I made sure to call her through the week, to make sure she was ok and not losing her marbles, all sleep deprived. I counted the days until today, and cooed at the pictures in my inbox, pictures of a beautiful, healthy, smooshy baby girl with cheeks that just beg you to kiss them. That child is darling, let me tell you.

And you know what the biggest revelation of all of this was? My friend is a mom. From this moment onwards, my friend will always be a mother. I listened, enthralled, as she proudly told me all about her daughter's bowel movements, watched as she tried not to take Baby Girl from me when she fussed, and was happy for my friend when Baby Girl quit crying as soon as I handed her to her mother. New adoptive moms especially need that confirmation, that their children want them more than anyone else.

Yes, I'm still sad for myself. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't feel twinges of... not envy, exactly, and certainly not jealousy, but more like disappointment. Disappointment that our children might not grow up as playmates, disappointment that I'm listening to diaper stories without anything useful to contribute to the conversation. Disappointment that I can't look at Baby Girl and think, "In X months, I'm going to have one of these." There are no guarantees in fertility treatments.

My friend, one of the kindest people I've ever met, is still hoping for me. In fact, she wanted me to hold Baby Girl as much as possible, so that her baby-ness would rub off on me and encourage my ovaries to just do their thing already. We've talked about how superstitious we've both become in our respective baby-making journeys, and if there is one thing we agree upon, it's this: Babies are contagious. So now, here I am, a few hours after snuggling Her Royal Smooshiness, still smelling like baby, still marveling at how my friend is a mom. A mom! And hoping that maybe, just maybe, some of that baby juju will influence my appointment with the new RE tomorrow morning.

Winners Winners

This giveaway was totally fun! We hit a record number of entries!!! This suggests, at least to me, that there are a lot of people who either 1) like perfume or 2) are looking to improve their social life. Alas, only two lucky winners get to smell like roses... or daisies or sandalwood or patchouli or whatever is their personal gig. And these two lucksteriffic ducks are....

Shelly T.

and

Cherry Blossoms

Internet, let's all give them a rousing round of applause!!! Shelly T. and Cherry Blossoms, I'll be contacting you to let you know how to claim your fabulous prize.

And Internet, since you're in a blog reading kindof mood, go on over to these fabulous contestants' blogs and give them a read! A big thanks to all for playing, and I'm working on the next giveaway. When details are finalized, I'll let you all know.

Deanna
MFA Mama
Maria
Kathy
areyoukiddingme
Neas Nuttiness
Tanya
Meg
Jenn
Leslie
Dani'
Kristin and Christa
Kristin
Maria
valerie2350
jamaise
Shelly T.
throuthehaze
Shell
Nina
casey aubut
Laney
joannaonthelake
cdziuba
Catherine
missy
fashionfrugality
Which Box
Meegs
K
one frugal lady
Martha
Cherry Blossoms
Spamgirl
bison61
Halifax
Beth
Twincere
Anonymous
Nuts: May Contain Nuts
Sarah
Nad
Shel
Lilly
Treasia
spitfyr323

This FAIL is full of WIN

Today is the very last day to enter the giveaway! You could win yourself some perfume!!!

This is so awesome that I want to visit New Cuyama, just to have my picture taken next to it.


see more Fail Blog

I forgot I'm fat

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You know how fat people are supposed to sit around eating Twinkies all day? Woops, I mean shoveling Twinkies into their gaping, cavernous holes 24/7? Well, I must have forgotten about that. I really need to read more fat hating blogs to remind myself of who and what stereotype I'm supposed to be. Seriously.

On Sunday I woke up at 6AM feeling like CRAP (in warm weather, my body wants to wake up with the sun, which, again, is me being a Bad Fatty). I had a headache, and given that I'm (barely technically) in the 2ww, I chose not to take aspirin. Instead, because I was unbelievably thirsty, I drank 4 glasses of water (and barely peed the rest of the day). That didn't help. Then, a few hours later, I laid down and cuddled with my Cuddly Schnookums and Hooghly Wooghly. An hour after that, I got out of bed with my headache approaching the Splitting level of misery and my cats protesting the loss of their fluffy furniture (aka me).

So I finally broke down and swallowed one half of a Tylenol. That didn't help either, and in fact, it made things worse: I barfed. Only, I barfed on an empty stomache, so, um, yuck. As if just barfing isn't bad enough. And sorry if you are a visual reader.

That's when I realized I was hungry, that all I ate was a couple of bites of ice cream on Saturday and nothing on Sunday and very little dinner and no breakfast or lunch on Friday. (Yes, yes, I know, it should have been Twinkies all week long, but that Menopur makes me lose my appetite.) So I drank another 4 glasses of water, didn't pee at all, and ate 2 dim sums. And WAAA LAAA!!! Fifteen minutes later, I was dancing a jig in my little condo in the sky and putting on my shoes for a nice, long walk along the lakefront.

Which just goes to show you: If you are Fatty McFatsalot, be VERY CAREFUL to be a good fatty and make sure that you shovel lots of Twinkies into your gaping, cavernous hole every second of every day. That way, you won't waste 1/2 of your Sunday with your head in a vise. Oh, and only walk along the lakefront if you are on your way to a Twinkie sale at the grocery store.

There. I've helped you. You're welcome. Now go spread the lard, I mean love.

HALP!!! Advice, I needz it

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All things pointing to the contrary, I could be pregnant. I mean, stranger things have happened, right? I'm highly doubting it, but, well, you never ever know. I'm told that I have to start progesterone supplements on Monday. Internet, help me out here: Should I take them? I don't want to take them. They turn me into an absolute lunatic. I get hot flashes, nausea, hypersensitivity to smells (I barfed in a grocery store last cycle), headaches, and vicious, violent mood swings. They make me cry. Alot. So you can imagine that I'm not too keen to take them, but then on the other hand What If, you know? What would you do?

Where I'm at

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On Friday, I left the RE's in a kind of traumatized stupor, unwilling to believe that this cycle really did happen. I was glad that I had plans for the evening, plans that required a smiling face and a show of Oh hai! My life is normal! I needed to pretend for a while, to not think about the same. damn. thing. for yet another evening. To be around people who didn't have a clue who I was or what I've been trying to do for the past year.

I got home around 11:30 and went to bed around midnight. At 6AM, my ovaries woke me up. I was in pain. I came downstairs, drank some water, responded to a few emails, then went back to bed at about 7AM. And I didn't wake up again until 3PM. The only time I sleep like that is when I'm sick.

I guess you can imagine that I didn't do much on Saturday; all my To Dos were cancelled on account of my girly parts. My ovaries were like two huge aching lumps, and every movement was enough to make me cringe and gasp. I've gained a significant amount of water weight, so much so that when I was walking down my stairs, I felt like I was going to fall forward. Each cycle this has been getting worse and worse - more pain in my ovaries and back, more water weight in my abdomen, more unquenchable thirst with very little peeing. My body is telling me to stop for a while. And I am going to listen.

And really, I don't have much choice in the matter, do I? It will take me some time to switch REs and start a new cycle, at least a month. I'm really sad that I have to skip at least one cycle, probably two. I feel like I'm wasting time, precious, precious time. Time that I don't have: In October, I'll go from the <35 category to the 35-40 box.

I've decided, though, that lemonade is a tasty beverage: I'm going to spend the time in between REs productively. I'm going to use this time to relax and destress. I'm going to focus on being the world's greatest pleasure seeker: I'm going to get lots of sunshine, take lots of long walks, go to tons of neighborhood festivals and street fairs (I soooo love Chicago in the summertime!), maximize my pool and beach time, float at least weekly, go to the gym, take advantage of all those Groupon massage sales, eat way too much ice cream and gelato, dance outside in thunderstorms, drink lots of water and marvel that it comes out the other end ON THE SAME DAY, take pictures of nothing important, drink lots of wine and frooty cocktails and just generally enjoy myself. I'm not going to What If? or overanalyze gas pains or count the hours until the next injection. Nope. I'm just going to be.

Man, ya'll ROCK

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Today was the futile IUI from hell. Let's just say that it involved forcepts and a clamp and an overwhelming CERVIX ON FIRE feeling and quite possibly tearing and me trying not to pass out or vomit or scream holy murdering obscenities at all and asundry. Unpleasant, at best. Don't worry, Internet: I've googled post traumatic stress syndrome, and I'm keeping an eye out for symptoms.

Then I limped bow-legged into work (at 1:30PM mind you, because how the heck could my 9:30AM appointment start on time when clearly, it takes a while for the forcepts and clamp to be brought up from Dante's third level?), feeling miserable and like every last molecule of the universe hates me. Like, really hates me. Like wants me to suffer, hates me.

So I checked mah bloggity blog to read the comments, and what do I find? There you all were, my internetty friends, roundly abusing the ASSHAT that put me through all this useless torture. And I smiled. And I sighed. And I thought, "Yeeeeessss." And I fell in love with all of you all over again, because the one thing I needed was for mah peeps to understand that THIS WAS NOT RIGHT. And you did. You all Got. It. And I thank you, thank you thank you thank you.

He may be Dr. Hottie Pants, but he is most certainly, without question, no doubt about it, OFF MY CHRISTMAS CARD LIST. And Internet? If you feel the need to continue with the abuse, well then, by all means, I don't want to stop you. I mean, heck, get it off your chest, it's best to let it go, you know? Because unexpressed anger can lead to high blood pressure, and so if abusing Dr. Hottie Pants helps you with, you know, your cardiovascular health, well then, at least he's done something good for someone. I'm just saying.

Anyway, I'm on to new RE shopping, oh you betcha I am, one that is ugly so that I don't blush and giggle and make excuses for him when he tortures me needlessly because he has golf plans and a date with rib tips. This cycle was absolutely freaking ridiculous, the fertility equivalent of a deal breaker. Originally, Dr. HP wanted to trigger ovulation when my follicles were 14, 12 and 10. I was all, Um, no, no I don't think so. Then he let me wait 2 days, at which point my follicles were 16, 13 and 12. Which was yesterday. And no matter how much I begged, pleaded, whined and irate-ed (I think that's a word, dammit), he just dug his heels in harder. Because my E2 was at 1,200. And the office is closed on the weekend.

And what kills me is that ok, if the follicle size wasn't enough to convince him I wasn't ready, and the fact that I usually ovulate 3-4 days later didn't sway him, oh no, a COMPLETELY CLOSED CERVIX wasn't going to dent his determination, not for the love of His Noodly Goodness, oh no. So on top of having to waste all that money in sperm, and miss work, and go through with a procedure I knew wasn't going to work, my cervix was violently pried apart and is still complaining. And what really gets me is that I had no choice in this matter. I couldn't cancel, because in order to have either another IUI or IVF, my insurance required 3 out of 4 injectible cycles to have an IUI completed. And I couldn't find a midwife or strange fetishist to do the IUI over the weekend. I was stuck.

And since my cervix wants you to know that IT IS DYING OVER HERE, I thought a little self-pity would be in order. Here's the running total of my Fertility Casualties, and in the comments, feel free to expound on yours:

1. Thor (my left ovary), who just doesn't want to deal with the whole follicle-growing thing.
2. My dignity. You can only experience the dildo cam and specifically request the Long Narrow speculum so many times before blogging about it becomes no big thing.
3. My modesty. One can never forget that half of Chicago has seen my privates, and, um, Dr. Hottie Pants has been all up in my uppity at least twice that I can recall. Did you catch that, Internet? I HAVE FORGOTTEN HOW MANY TIMES DR. HOTTIE PANTS HAS SEEN MY SNATCH.
4. My cervix. Where once it was shy, but at least, shall we say, open to possibilities, now it's, um, decidedly zenophobic.

I'm so glad I'm taking a break. My girly parts are exhausted.

ICLW: The May Edition

Don't forget to enter the giveaway! You could win yourself some perfume!!!

Welcome, once again, to this month's edition of ICLW. I am in a decidedly less optimistic place than last month, so my apologies if, after reading my blog, you need a drink. Believe me, I've been drinking while writing it. Here's a little bit about me:

• I'm on IUI #7, now with added Menopur! And because my doctor is a golfer who likes his Memorial Day cook out, I'll be having IUI #7 tomorrow. This, despite the fact that my largest follicle was 16mm this morning. You see, the lesson from this cycle is that jerk chicken is way more important than good medicine. God forbid my cycle get in the way of barbeque.
• To risk stating the obvious: I'm bitter. Very, very bitter.
• After this cycle, I'm taking a mental health break.
• Hmmm... what else is there? You know what, Internet? I've been so consumed by trying to get pregnant that there really isn't anything else.

Happy reading!

Escaping & rip offs

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After my last real post, the one about how baby making sucks and my ovaries are inverted assholes and my uterus is a barren wasteland and blah blah blah, I've kinda not wanted to post about anything. I mean, it's like the last cycle just kinda sucked all the enthusiasm out of me, you know? I'm not even cautiously optimistic anymore; I'm resigned.

So I guess you can understand me when I say that I'm not the most enthusiastic SMC-wannabe this cycle (and yes, I'm in the middle of a cycle). I wish I could give updates, and numbers (because it's always all about the numbers), and maybe even pictures, but at this juncture (BUSHISM), it just seems like a hell of a lot of work.

That's the attitude I went to sleep with last night, and that's the attitude I woke up with this morning. At 5:00AM. Because I had a 7AM ultrasound. But, Internet, I'd like to point out that despite my current dislike of all things reproductive, I still 1) woke up in time for my ultrasound appointment, 2) injected post-menopausal urine byproduct into my abdomen, and 3) left Chez Shanz with every intention of being accosted by a woman wielding a dildo cam.

But, well, life being what it was, I didn't actually make it to the RE's. An ATM RIPPED ME OFF at the train station. I needed cash for the RE-to-work cab fare, and wouldn't you know it? The ATM pleasantly instructed me to "Take your cash," but didn't actually, you know, provide said cash. Or a reciept. This meant that the rest of my morning involved phone calls to 1-800 numbers that didn't work, CTA workers who disavowed any association with the thieving ATM machine, and a trip to the bank to put a hold on my walking-around-money account. The upshot of all this is that, while I have to cash checks until the whole ATM-thing gets sorted out (I'm told 7 days), I still had a better morning than originally planned.

My vagina would like to thank that ATM machine.

GIVEAWAY: TWO $50 GIFT CERTIFICATES TO PERFUME.COM

Hey Internet, do you stink? Do random strangers fall over dead - three states away - when you remove your shoes? Have you been told your pits smell like the very bowels of hell? If so, then boy oh boy are you going to be pleased with this month's giveaway!

The good people over at Perfume.com understand why you never leave your house, and aim to make you more sociable with 2 - count 'em, TWO - fifty dollar gift certificates to their amazing online store. And wowsers, those dollars will go pretty darn far, as the site has some serious discounts on all your favorites: Amarige, my absolute favorite perfume, can be had for 50% off retail! And if you, like me, are a skin care addict, well then, there's stuff for you, too. Got man parts? NO PROBLEM! Perfume.com has cologne, and it's the good stuff: 26% off Dolce & Gabbana. (Are there any lovelier words than Dolce & Gabbana? I think not.)

So Internetty friends, you know the drill:

One entry:

Leave a comment on this post.

Two entries:

Two entries will be given for each of the options below.

* Follow Musings and leave a comment on this post saying that you have done so.
* Add Musings to your reader and leave a comment on this post saying that you have done so.
* Visit Perfume.com and browse. Pick out your favorite item and comment on it in the comments section of this blog.
* If you are already a blog/Twitter follower and/or have added Musings to your reader then include that in your comment for extra entries.
* Twitter or Plurk this giveaway and leave a comment saying you have done so.

Three entries:

Three entries will be given for each of the options below.

* Add this giveaway to Digg, StumbleUpon, Delicious, Facebook or the social networking site of your choice, then leave a comment saying you have done so. A tip: SocialMarker.com will let you add this to several different social media sites at once. 3 entries will be given for each add.
* Blog about this contest with a link back to this post, and leave a comment saying that you have done so.

Stay tuned boys and girls! I'll be tallying up all the entries and posting TWO winners here on May 29.

Don't forget....

The giveaway starts tonight at midnight!!! The prize: TWO $50 gift cards to perfume.com. Be sure to check back and enter!!!

Laughing through the bitterness

If I can't join them, at least I can MOCK THEM.



Thanks Sharon!

In the Vortex

I have sat in the RE office's waiting room far too many times. I arrived early yesterday with the intention of channelling a Marine: Get in and get out. Instead, I sat and sat and sat, staring blankly at dust floating in the air three feet from my eyes. My shoulders were hunched; sitting upright was too uncomfortable because my ovaries were bloated and achy. I'd left my crocheting and Fertility Socks at home. I just didn't care enough to go looking for them.

It didn't matter, I didn't need these distractions. I wasn't at the RE's office expecting to be pregnant in three weeks. I was at the RE's simply because I had been told to be there. I sat and waited because I was told to sit and wait. My visit held no other purpose for me.

The waiting room was a little crowded. There were two couples, each hanging on each other in the way that screamed We Are Going To Have A Baby. They smiled, and giggled, and wanted to show everyone that their love could overcome any fertility issue. There were two women, one with a ring and one without, each with clipboards. Newbies, all of them. The six of them were actively ignoring me, convincing themselves that I was an aberration, not a vision of their future. They stole sideways glances, shuddered, then went back to their dreaming.

And I remember the days when my posture was better, when I carried The Socks like a talisman, when my ovaries didn't require ibuprofen and my heart didn't require alcohol. I remember when the road ahead wasn't so much a road but a destination within sight and reach: I Was Going To Have A Baby. I was excited and hopeful and certain. There was no What If?, no hours spent reading - at best - dubious research from Dr. Google, no lying in bed sobbing, no blank, empty stare. I remember when I was a newbie, when I tried to ignore the despair surrounding me, when I believed that I'd become a mother in 2009. I remember when I believed. And hoped.

In those days, I all but sold my soul to avoid the RE waiting room, and the abject despair rolling like waves off the old timers. I named the RE waiting room The Sucking Vortex of Misery and laughed nervously about how I preferred to sit in the "specimen collection room." I was sugary sweet to the nurses, and in return my appointments were right on time. They, too, hoped that my time in The Vortex would be short and fruitful. We all skipped along with the assumption that I was young, my ovarian reserve could be compared to the stars in the sky, and I had purchased vials of gold. It all looked good; I was nothing like those other women. I would never become one of them, and so I crocheted like a maniac just in case eye contact was the vehicle of contagion. I'd be out of that office and at the OB's within 8 weeks time.

That was back in August of 2008.

Yesterday, as I waited over an hour for my ultrasound, I watched as a steady stream of optimistic women and couples marched off with the sonographers within minutes of their arrival, while I was the last to be called. When the tech finally shooed me through the door with a "You're back again? Last cycle-" I coughed loudly, and unnecessarily, so that I didn't have to hear the rest of her words. As I plopped myself down on the bed/chair/torture device, I wondered when my optimism had left me? At what point did this become a sick sort of hobby, lacking in meaning or purpose or an end? When did the goal just kind of fade away?

And when, when did I become one of those Other Women, the women who stare blankly, with empty eyes, at nothing? For whom sadness has replaced hope? When did I go from avoiding The Vortex to creating it? And why, when so many women have it twenty times worse than me, did it take me less than a year to get here?

Un-Mother's Day

Well, I definitely, without question, got mah moonly. Just to rub it in, , I peed all over my hand and that confirmed it: Not pregnant.

I'm sad, but grateful that I at least have a definitive answer. Today I'm going to hole myself up in my little condo in the sky, avoid Hallmark commercials at all costs, and scrub my floors. And then tomorrow? Tomorrow I will go to the RE and start all over again.

I'm a big fat maybe

So the last update was that I was not pregnant, correct? I couldn't even possibly maybe be a little teensy bit pregnant, right? I got my period, duh. Right?

Wrong.

Nurse Debbie disagreed with me. She said that I'm having "heavy spotting" and that unless the proverbial flood gates open, I still could possibly maybe be a teensy bit pregnant. I was told that I had to continue taking the progesterone (DAMMIT!) and call her back the next day with an update. That was on Wednesday.

On Thursday, I called to say that I was back on the progesterone, and that although I was spotting heavier, the red tide was still at bay. Nurse Debbie told me to take a pregnancy test on Friday morning, and call with the results.

Internet, when I got a negative result on that jerkheaded pee stick last Monday I cried. Alot. As in, I cried for FOUR DAYS. By Thursday night, I was thinking clearly again (not so much progesterone in my system because I didn't take it on Wednesday), was no longer a sobbing, raging lunatic, and decided that since I felt like I'd get the Woooooomanly any second now, I'd wait for that to be my answer. I just couldn't deal with the emotional meltdown of yet another negativo. Besides, I expected Friday to be CD1.

It wasn't. On Friday afternoon, I called Nurse Debbie and received quite the tongue lashing because I was too cowardly to take the pregnancy test that morning. The spotting had slowed almost to nil (thanks progesterone!), and we agreed that if I didn't start mah next moonly by Sunday, I'd gather up my muster and do the frickin deed already.

I came home, absolutely positively certain that I'd get my period before I went to bed. I felt it coming on, for God's sake. I checked before bed, nada. So I prepared myself for getting it over night, taking the necessary precautions so that my sleeping arrangements wouldn't resemble a crime scene in the morning.

And here it is, Saturday morning, not exactly bright but certainly early. I am, once again, experiencing "heavy spotting," and still feeling like the gusher be comin without it actually, you know, getting here. What. The. Hell.

So, the lesson here is that 1) I don't know what is going on with my girly bits, which a friend tells me I should get used to, 2) it could be the progesterone screwing with my cycle, or it could be a baby doing it's thing, and 3) I'm already a bad mother because I gave up on this cycle on Wednesday.

Internet, I didn't just give up, I grieved. Hard. Of course the supplemental hormones didn't facilitate rational coping, but still. I cried. For FOUR DAYS. And I mean the kind of crying where you can't stop. I was the Crazy Crying Lady on the morning and evening commute. For FOUR DAYS. And now I'm told that I should be optimistic, excited. Even though I spotted in 2 different cycles previously, Nurse Debbie says that this may be different.

And I am optimistic, at least cautiously optimistic. I am prepared for either result, although I admit to being more than a little fearful. I guess what it all boils down to is that I have no place to put this, no framework through which to process it. I have always been not pregnant, it's the only thing I know. Now I'm told that all prior experience pointing to NOT pregnant could be misleading.

I guess I'll just have to wait and see tomorrow. Part of me hopes that I'll get my period so that I don't have to take that damn test. Yet, on the other hand, I am afraid to sneeze, afraid to move quickly, to cough or even pee. What if that little motion is all that's needed to swing the gates wide?

So I'll just continue on with what I'm doing, which is to say waiting for tomorrow. And the crying jag that may or may not follow. On Mother's Day.

Dear Googler:

I feel your pain. Really I do. Clomid is such a nasty, nasty substance. While I cheer for the 40% of women who have successfully gotten pregnant with it's assistance, I have to shed a tear for the other 60% of us: We are the majority of women for whom Clomid was, as the professionals say, ineffective. It didn't produce a positive outcome. It was not shown to be efficacious.

In a word, it sucked.

Oh my little Googler, we all started out so hopeful, absolutely sure that those little white pills were Baby Magic. Swallow five and POOF, pregnant! It sounded so fantastical that it just had to be true. It just had to be! And when those five didn't work, hell, 10 would certainly work.... or maybe 15? 15 would work? Pretty please?

But 15 didn't work. Instead, Clomid was our gateway drug: The Gateway to Hell, and we were like low level demons trudging through the insanity of hot flashes, mood swings and night sweats. I feel your pain, and I trust that your search for "Clomid explosion PUBLIC BATHROOM" was perhaps more fruitful in websites than the actual drug was in knocking you up? Because I'm assuming that, by "explosion," you are making a reference to said side effects. Using a colloquialism, perhaps?

I hesitate to form mental images of what, exactly, said explosion would look like in a PUBLIC BATHROOM. I do, however, fully agree that PUBLIC BATHROOM should always be typed in ALL CAPS, because, dear God, those can get mighty... unsanitary. And now that I think about it, I can see how one might liken Clomid to a PUBLIC BATHROOM, as both most certainly conjure images of unpleasantness.

Finally, might I ask that if you, dear Googler, are still floating around my little speck of the blogosphere, could you please tell me: Did my blog answer your questions / help you commiserate / give you a little smile / thoroughly confuse you in your search for all things Clomid and PUBLIC BATHROOM? I hope that you have been at best, satisfied, or at least mildly distracted by your little stop at Musings. I only hope that whatever incident began your personal google adventure has resolved itself... sanitarily and expediently.

Your friend,

Shannon
aka
Fat Chick

Thanks for the picture, Butkaj!

Nope

Not this time. All the positive attitude in the world didn't amount to jack shit.

Update:

I am defintely, most positively, WITHOUT QUESTION in the right frame of mind to test BFNtini recipes - it will be my mission this weekend. So if you haven't already done so, go over there and leave a recipe or five. God knows I'll be drinking them. And reporting back (once the hangover subsides).

Welcome Tango readers!

Welcome welcome welcome! Thanks for stopping by, and I hope you find mah bloggity blog interesting! Here's a little bitsy about me:

• As you probably guessed from the Tango article, I'm fat. Like, really, really fat. If you want to read all about me fatz, click on the "fat" tag down below (or on the right hand side bar).
• Right now, I'm not too into the dating thing, seeing as how I'm trying to get knocked up all by myself. It's just too wierd, you know? Being on the third date and having to say, "I can't have sex with you because I'm trying to get pregnant." It gets a little uncomfortable.
• I also do giveaways, which are one heck of a hoot. The next one is for TWO $50 gift certificates to Perfume.com. Stop by on May 16ish for a chance to win.

Feel free to leave a comment or twelve. I likes da commenting, especially when there are links to blogs. I'm always looking for new blogs to read. They keep me sane. Somewhat.

Happy fucking Monday

Is 10dpo too early to get discouraged? I keep seeing all these women who got positive pregnancy tests on 10dpo. I did not.

Baby before Bonaire... sorta

If you are here from LFCA, please help a girl out and go here.

Back in February of 2008, I went diving in Bonaire. It was the trip where I finally, resolutely, decided that I needed a new camera. And Photoshop. The point and shoot of yore boasted a shutter delay that would make even the most zen of amateur photographers drop the f-bomb.

Almost all of my pictures of critters kinda ended up looking like they were glowing, I don't know why:

Except this little guy. He remained still for the eight hours it took the camera to make that clicky noise. What a nice lizard. I shall call him Bob:

There was a time in my life when I carried my Nikon FA with me everywhere. I loved that camera, and I loved the way I saw the world through its lense. Angles, light, shadow, texture... The strong, sturdy things made me catch my breath. Like this salt-maker-transporter-thingy (that's its scientific name). In Bonaire, they make salt:

They can make salt because Bonaire is a desert island:

And not just a desert island; Bonaire is a windy desert island. They have a goal of having all their energy needs come from those nutty tradewinds. It's a good goal, one that would make our President proud.

In addition to tradewinds, Bonaire has been hit by a few hurricanes. I wonder if that's why this building was abandoned? I think it was a restaurant at one time. Taking a picture of it, I felt all urban-explorer-cool. Urban exploration is just so darn cool.

I'm glad these buildings were abandoned. They were slave houses, back when Bonaire was all about inhumanity. You can't tell from the photo, but they were SMALL. As in, so small that you can't stand up and you would have been like a sardine, all crammed together. It must have been awful.

Here's the "wild north side" of the island. I've heard that the wild north side has some amazing diving, but, um, you have to deal with those waves. And it's a shore entry. And this was my vacation. I stuck to the easy stuff, so sue me.

I wish I could post a few pictures of the beauty underneath those waves, but, alas, I don't have an underwater camera. Fortunately, other people are better equipped.

But I did get a picture of the wild donkeys:

And, in fact I learned all about donkey-making, as two went at it right in front of me. Apparently, privacy isn't an issue for them. Then again, if you had a schlong that huge, you'd probably be something of the exhibitionist, too. And can I just say that I'd rather not have that image burned into my brain? So I didn't take a picture. I didn't want a picture of glowing donkeys in the midsts of donkey love. This is a much prettier image:

I think that's my favorite of the bunch.

B.08 was my last vacation before baby. Sigh. All my vacation money has gone to purchase, ship and store AJ (he's an expensive date). Even though all the amazing travel deals out there are KILLING me, and I could definitely use a little laid-back Caribbean right about now, I would much rather be spending money on sperm than diving. That damn biological clock has changed my priorities, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Well, except for a better camera. With an underwater housing. I'd take that.