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Monthly Archives: June 2012

One Lovely Procrastinator

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A few of you have given me a One Lovely Blog Award, and due to the absolute chaos of the past couple of months, I have been remiss in both thanking you, and posting my random fun facts about myself. There are many things to hate about my procrastination in posting my blog award, namely: I can’t remember everyone who bestowed the award on me! My most recent bestower is What Viola Did Next. This lady is smart, sassy, and her blog is fantastic. For the others who have been so sweet in giving me a Lovely Blog Award, please accept my sincere apologies that I have not thanked you personally. I have been a self involved cystic bimbo the last month or two.

There are a lot of you I would like to know more about. Rather than call out specific bloggie friends I would like to invite anyone to answer this question in the comments threads: If you could be “top of class” at anything (and I mean ANYTHING) and you would get to do this and support yourself and your family very well doing this thing, what would that thing be?

Fun Facts About Me:

1. My “top in class” job would be as a writer of Tony Award winning musical theater (book and lyrics), which I would also direct (and star in, because I’d also be a top in class singer/actress). Ok, that’s like 5 things….but I heart musical theater. Watching amazing musical theater makes me weep, laugh, and sing along. Bad musical theater makes me want to beat my brains out that I’m not writing a better musical than the drek I watch on a regular basis (Addams Family Musical SUCKED!). My favorite musical is Les Miz, followed by Company.

2. I was a damn fine gymnast as a kid. Except strangely enough, I have no childhood pictures or videos of anything involving me performing gymnastics, or at meets. It makes me sad my parents didn’t capture this part of my life.

3. I just bought a violin and took my first lesson on Tuesday! It sounded like this.

4. I feel like I’d be a better “boy” mom than “girl” mom, but it may be that I’m terrified of raising a girl given that I remember very clearly what I was like as a teenager (sexually active with a college boy and sneaky/somewhat irresponsible about it.) I also dated a lot of older guys in my early 20s, naively thinking I was “mature” when what I really ended up being was “used”. Being a girl is hard.

5. I have always thought, even before I ever got my period, that I would have a problem getting pregnant. Sometimes I wonder if it was a self fulfilling prophecy, or if my body was really trying to tell me something.

6. I have kept a diary since I was 6 years old (well, it’s more like 50 diaries at this point). I have been performing some of these diary entries in a show called Mortified (getmortified dot com) for about 7 years now. I read my most humiliating childhood diary entries in front of complete strangers, and make people laugh hysterically.

7. Used Q-Tips really gross me out. I have no idea why they gross me out more than other things that are far grosser, but they do.

Will you get better?

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It occurred to me today that I haven’t accepted that I may never recover from this. I know that it seems irrational, like I should know by now that PCOS can’t be “cured”, but no matter what the facts of my situation are (FACT: I have not ovulated in 9 months) I still hold on to this hope that one day, I will wake up, and my body will somehow magically decide to work perfectly. I have never managed to move past the stage of grief that is “anger and denial”. I cannot accept that my body is broken, and will never work properly. I cannot accept that it has never worked properly. I have never had regular cycles ever. Today, I got so angry at every single woman out there with perfectly predictable cycles. It was a completely irrational anger, I know…I am angry at both my sisters, my best friend, my old college roommate, basically, every woman I know. Aside from the blog community, I have not met one other woman who does not get predictable cycles. It enrages me that I was dealt this hand, and then I feel guilty because in the crap shoot of things you can be dealt with in life, irregular periods is certainly no where near as bad as some other things.

Today, I cried because I am angry that after years as a teenager telling my mom and doctors that something was wrong with my cycles, I was told that this was just my body “adjusting”. Irregular periods were “normal” because my mom had them, and my grandmother had them, and THEY had kids. I feel angry because there wasn’t one doctor who thought to test me further. Instead, I was just told to go on the pill.

There are some days when I feel so strong about this, and other days like today where the sadness I carry around about it completely overwhelms me.

So my question is: Do any of you still carry a belief that one day, you will get better? Do any of you who have PCOS feel like you have truly accepted the fact that you may never ovulate “normally”? Do any of you cling to the hope that one day you will find that magic bullet–that one recipe or supplement or exercise that kicks you into gear? Or that you will eliminate that one food that has been the cause of all of your problems without even knowing it?

Do you hold hope that one day, you will get better? That your ovaries will be as clear as a baby’s bottom? That you will have regular cycles?


It’s Monday, people!!

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Let’s get our blood pumping with some absolutely freakishly AMAZING aerobics competition footage from the 80s since that’s the decade I seem to be stuck in as of late.

It’s never too early in the morning for spandex thongs and ‘stache.

This is how I’d like to remember 1988.  I worked out to my mom’s Jane Fonda VHS tapes back then.

Sizzler update:

Garlic bread was NOT as great as I remember it! It was less nuclear orange, and the bread they used was cheap and under-toasted  (they used to use this thick loaf that was perfectly crunchy on all sides.) Salad bar was also a bit more lack-luster than I remembered, but that could be due to the fact that green Jello really excited me when I was younger. The shrimp, however, did not disappoint!

Judging by the staggering levels of obesity in nearly every single one of the other people that were eating along with us at Sizzler (wish I was exaggerating, but sadly, I’m not…) most Americans enjoy Sizzler much more than I thought…Where’s Jillian Michaels when we need her?



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In the 1980s, my grandfather used to take my sister and I to our favorite restaurant once a week. That restaurant was Sizzler (I’m not sure if Sizzler is a country-wide chain, but for those of you familiar with the 80s commercials, don’t forget: “Sizzler” has to be said in a creepy whisper.)

Sizzler had it all….the salad bar, the garlic cheese bread with a thick crust of orange cheese…the all you can eat shrimp…(wipes salivation from side of mouth).

It was the all you can eat shrimp that got me every time. You mean, I can have a plate of shrimp? And then ask the waiter for more? And then…still more?? ANY TIME I WANT?????

Today, Hubs and I will be going to Sizzler for a date night. The first Sizzler I’ve been to since I was eight years old.

Bring it.

Watch the end of this commercial and tell me that the announcer who whispers “Sizzler” doesn’t sound like he may or may not have a chain saw ready to slice and dice you with.

I hate myself for this post

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This is a mean old ugly Working Infertile Bitch (WIB) post, so if you’re in the “happy positive bright side of IF everything looks up” kind of mode, I wouldn’t recommend reading further. My “happy place” levels have been fluctuating drastically. I’m sure I’ll be content again one day, but not today. No sir, not today. I blame this post on the 12 chin/neck hairs I plucked over the weekend, and the facial hot waxing kit I ordered off Amazon which arrived in the mail today. Fun times! Nothing screams “feminine” like piping hot face wax. My PCOS symptoms are getting worse…I can feel something is totally off in my body, and it’s driving me insane to be unable to put my finger on it.

The post I’m about to write has me cringing in shame just a bit because it’s about my sister who may be one of the nicest human beings ever. She lives a quiet/”crunchy” life in Santa Cruz and volunteers with Downs Syndrome kids. She has suffered from dyslexia and seizures her entire life. She is medicated for depression. She was abusing opiates and pain killers in her teens, and was “homeschooled” by my certifiably insane stepmother who failed to teach her basic math, so at this point, my sister can’t even do long division. In those ways, I don’t envy my sister. She has had her fair share of hard knocks.

But there’s one thing she can do that I can’t.

Can you take a wild guess?

Play mah jong?


Dance the watusi?

Good guess, but no. And for those of you interested in learning, click here. Or better yet, click here for a real 60s couple watusi-ing.Quite riveting.

My little sister, who was supported financially by my father until she got married at the age of 24, and who has never had to shlep her ass to a full time job in her life, is good at getting pregnant.

She and her hippie do-gooder husband have barely enough money to get by, but she was able to get pregnant the first time they “tried”. Her husband goes to work helping mentally retarded adults for little pay (he’s another incredibly lovely and selfless  human being) and she stays at home with  my 13 month old nephew making him organic baby food, going on play dates to the aquarium, and keeping the house nice for her husband.

Meanwhile, I’ve been pulling ridiculous hours at my job this week, driving 2 hours a day in work traffic, and dealing with a myriad of annoying office personalities that I have to grin and bear so that I can keep my paycheck. All while seriously contemplating shaving my face and trying to find a new marriage counselor.

Today she emailed a link to her new blog that details all of her home schooling methods she’s using on her son, complete with pics of their trips to a Santa Cruz nursing home where she totes along my nephew to give the old folks something to coo over in their last dying days.

It’s so fucking perfect I want to vomit.

My jealousy and anger that she can wake up to the sounds of her son vs am alarm clock, that her day is spent adjusting to her son’s needs, and not an alcoholic boss’s demands, that she doesn’t have to work from 8-6 in a window-less office, and instead can push a stroller outside and smell daisies with her son while she preps her fertile uterus for another child which I’m sure will be coming down the pipe soon makes me so green with envy that I hate myself for thinking these thoughts. I want to be happy for my sister…and I just can’t be. Not right now, at least. Right now, I’m a Working Infertile Bitch who looks at maternity leave not just as a happy occasion to spend bonding time with a newborn, but as an excuse for a PAID VACATION. And puh-lease don’t tell this WIB that having a newborn is hard work, harder than I’ll ever imagine, harder than any full time job in the world, because I seriously would KILL to wipe up baby shit and spit up right now for a myriad of reasons one being that I would avoid rush hour traffic. Plus, I don’t sleep through the night anyway. Bring on the colic.

I know there are many women who stay at home with or without kids…I know that some of you are staying at home, and planning to after your children are born, and I feel so bad that I have such a chip on my shoulder about it all right now. I hate myself for feeling jealous about this…I hate that I have barely spoken to my sister since she had my nephew…I’m pretty much the worst aunt in the world. I also know that logically, I would go absolutely ape shit bananas if I didn’t have my job and was left to my own devices at home…. But reading about how my fertile sister gets to meander where the day takes her, keeping a schedule only for her and her son, sleeping in when she wanted to while she was pregnant, meditating, journaling, contemplating the meaning of the tiny human she was making…I just want to look up and scream at the sky, “Look at me! Am I not doing enough???? Can you throw me a fucking bone, please? Is three meager months of MAT LEAVE too much to ask?”

I’ll let you all know how my facial hair wax goes this evening. I’ll be sure to watusi when I’m done.

GOD life is awesome right now.

Please excuse this WIB.

Maca: Nature’s Speed

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I have been struggling with some of the worst insomnia EVER the last few nights. It’s as if my brain and body are on a speed ball (not like I’ve ever been on a speed ball, but I’ve seen Intervention, ok?) Anyhow. As I explored the wonders of the internet at 3AM this morning, it suddenly occurred to me that for the past 4 or 5 days, I’ve been adding Maca powder to my daily Green Vibrance Drink from Hell. It’s supposed to be a hormone regulator. It suddenly occurred to me as I clenched my jaw and gnawed on a ring pop while listening to Trance and flinging around glow sticks in my kitchen at 3AM this morning to Google:

“Maca and insomnia”.


So, looks like I’ll be decreasing my dose if I ever want to sleep again.

The Mockingbird who won’t STFU

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There is a fucking mockingbird in a tree in our backyard, right by our bedroom window. Said mockingbird does not sleep. Ever. Instead, it chirps incessantly starting from 12AM-4AM. And I lie awake along with it, my mind on the same chirping feedback loop, imagining that my ovaries are hardening like stones inside of my body. It’s a terrifying image…I go through bouts where I’m “ok” about PCOS, and other times like tonight where I feel absolutely disgusted with my body, realizing there is some process that is deeply flawed in me, yet unable to be pinpointed. After 2 hours of this nonsense, I decided to wake up and blog.

Marriage counseling wasn’t a total bust, but to be honest, I wasn’t totally impressed with our therapist. She was nice and all, and didn’t play favorites, but part of her technique (I guess you’d call it a technique?) was asking a lot of what I call “yes or no feelings questions”. Rather than ask, “How does that make you feel?” and get us to open up on our own,  she’d say, “I can sense you’re feeling really under appreciated, is that right?”Me: “Umm…yes?” Or, “It sounds like you’re really hurt about that.” Hubs: “Yeah, it really hurts.”


I just felt like I could have come up with that “insight” after taking a stroll through the self help section at my local Kindle store.Not to mention, yes or no questions make it hard to explore feelings.

I am still confused on how we are going to sort through all of our shit. I’m currently still feeling quite maritally constipated. The anger I feel at being kept off the deed to a home that I help pay for, and the anger Hubs has at me for being asked to be added to the deed feels enormous.

When Hubs asked her if we could go more than once a week to really get into some issues (which I was impressed with), she said she didn’t normally do that unless it was “an emergency.” Well lady,  I’m so hurt about all the deed to the house shit  that I don’t want to bring kids into this situation (not like I could anyway, because I’m infertile–an added bonus!) and Hubs and I rarely go a few days without fighting. So maybe that’s not an “emergency” in her book, but it sure as fuck is one in mine. She’s getting one more chance to prove herself on Thursday, but I’m still going to look around for someone else.

Did I mention that on Saturday morning I was awoken to the blissful sounds of rushing water? You might ask, “were you by a stream, Sunny? Or perhaps overlooking a glorious waterfall?” No, sillies…it was the sound of my front yard being flooded due to a busted PVC pipe underground near our water main, creating a geyser of fun for the whole family. We have a repair guy coming today, but this home is a source of frustration all around right now.

Also, our beloved Beta fish, Alfie, committed “suicide” on Thursday. I will preface this by saying that for Hubs and I, Alfie was our pride and joy. He came to the side of the tank when he was going to be fed, he responded when we walked by, he was even getting close to being able to nibble a food pellet right off my finger. We don’t have any dogs or cats, so Alfie was it. Thursday morning, before I went to work, I lovingly cleaned Alfie’s tank. His tank is right by a window near our kitchen sink, and is actually a nice looking flower vase that we converted into a “tank” for him. Needless to say, the vase doesn’t have a lid. In cleaning his tank, I filled the water level up fairly high, but I didn’t think anything of it. When I left that morning, Alfie was swimming around happily. Then, around 4PM, I got “the call”. It was my Hubs saying he had bad news. He had walked by Alfie’s tank, and he wasn’t there, which is odd, since, I don’t know, fish don’t have freaking LEGS. Frantically, he searched for him, and found him lying lifeless on our kitchen sink. Alfie had been so happy, so excited to be swimming around that day, he sailed right over the edge of his tank and into a cold sink with dirty dishes. Hubs had no idea how long he’d been out of the water. He picked Alfie up with a spoon, and Alfie unexpectedly started twitching. Putting him back in the water immediately, Alfie began darting around the tank haphazardly, until he nose dove into the gravel, and that’s where he was when I came home, pale and twitching, a heartbreakingly opposite version on the Alfie I had left in the morning. I cried when I saw him, this poor little creature who was dying because I filled his tank up too high.

He took his last twitch around 6PM, and we buried him in a potted plant out back with blue Alfie-colored flowers.




Marriage Counseling in T-minus 4 hours.

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I have been purposely not writing too much about my marriage right now…I need a chance to let things calm down a bit, and get my head screwed on straight. Hubs and I have a ton of shit to work on, but we’re taking the first step today and seeing a marriage counselor. The woman we’re seeing is covered by insurance, and seems like she has pretty good credentials (25 years in practice), so I’m hoping we can make some headway there over the next few months. Sorry to be so vague…I’m just needing to let things simmer and percolate here like a finely mulled wine, or a really gross banana that I accidentally left in my back pack for 3 weeks. Whichever.

With baby making on hold, I’ve been able to psychologically let loose on the restrictions I’ve been putting myself under lately, and goddamnit, it feels fucking great. Rather than beat myself up and curse myself for failing to maintain pristine health for my future as-yet non conceived child, I simply say, “Meh.” Turns out, this month, I love eating pasta (sometimes). I heart wine. I adore my morning coffee once again (with hazelnut flavored coconut milk this time around, which is supremely delicious). I am adhering pretty strictly to the no milk or cheese thing, but even that was fudged a bit a few days ago when I made some fan-fucking-tastic orzo with vegetables, sprinkled with parmesean cheese.  I also find this new me is cursing a lot, and saying “whatevs” or “fuck it.” It’s pretty great. Through it all, I’m still managing the green drink, and lots more veggies than I usually eat, but gluten/egg/sugar/milk free muffins are not in the cards for me this month. Nope. Fuck it.

In other news, (stop the presses!) I’m starting to work out again. My arms and legs felt like they were beaten with a meat pounder this morning, but it feels good to get moving again. And by moving, I mean, doing an exercise routine that has me collapsed on the floor groaning like I’m in a birthing tub. I tend to go full on pain mode when I exercise. I made Hubs take a “before” pic of me, in case I’m able to make it through the entire Insanity DVD program I’m attempting to do over the next 8 weeks. Watch the video of the program on the website, and weep for me. I will not profess to say that I will be able to complete this program, but damnit, I’m going to try with every ounce of my jiggly body.

If anyone else is of the mind to take a “fuck it” hall pass this month on TTC, please do let us know what your “fuck it” plans might be!

Input Needed: What is your favorite story from history?

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Hi party peeps, I have a question totally unrelated to fertility or TTC for you. I am interested in hearing what your favorite stories/eras/ events from history are. They could be bible stories, really obscure stories you’ve heard about a love triangle between Napoleon, Josephine, and the butler, a writer/artist/musician/physician you know about, major historical battles, murder, intrigue, some strange law enacted in a state in the 1800s that no one knows about…ANYTHING. I’m interested.

In other news, because God loves taunting me, a very lovely colleague of mine who I’m friends with at work came into my office yesterday and let me know that the “food poisoning” she had last week was a bout of “surprise pregnancy”. She’s 8 weeks along, and “thrilled”. After hugging her, and feeling really genuinely happy for her, she asked me if Hubs and I were going to start trying soon. I smiled, looked down at my desk, and started bawling about my ovaries. Fortunately she is an extremely decent human being, and did not get freaked out and run out of my office. She was actually quite sweet about it, and not awkward at all, although she couldn’t quite grasp what I meant when I told her that I had only had one anovulatory “period” in 9 months. At one point, I even used the complicated abbreviation, “IVF”, and she had no clue what I was talking about. I’d do anything for a toke off her pipe of naivete.

I also have another yeast infection since I’ve dared to stray from my diet of food that tastes like cardboard.

Will this shit never end.

The Runner Yoga Boozy chick

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With TTC off my plate, what’s an infertile blogger to blog about?

I know my cervical mucus reports were riveting, so I have a lot to live up to if I decide not to blog about them any further. Truth be told, for the last year or so, almost everything I have done has been with a mind towards fertility. What’s good for a baby, what’s bad, supplements, meds, PCOS research…Strip that all away, and what am I left with? Little ole me. The good, the bad, the ugly.

The woman inside of these fingers typing away isn’t ovulating, but she is still living, breathing, thinking, feeling, eating and shitting (quite well, with no current hemorrhoids, I might add). In all of my attempts to “fix” my body, I kept waking up each day saying, “maybe today is the day…” and being disappointed when it wasn’t the day my ovaries decided they would kick into gear. For almost a full year (and most of my menstruating life, if I’m being honest), I have lived each day as if I would be better “if only” I could be a “normal” woman.

I cannot live my life like this anymore. This much, I know. The rest of it, I’m still a little bit iffy on. Worrying about that which I cannot control has become an identity that I wish to shed, but how?

The “girl with the plan” in me has these archetypes I keep going back to as I refocus my energy on something other than ovulating and bodily functions out of my control:

1. I could turn into one of these tweaked out perky chicks I’ve seen jogging on the side of the road on Sunday at 6AM–the kind of girl that I currently flick my eye crust at while I’m barely awake, driving to get a McMuffin for my hangover. I’d blog about how “pumped” I am on life, have a kick ass body, and eat “clean”.

2. I could turn into one of these yoga types, blissed out on coconut water, and the scent of my own pit sweat. I would include lots of inspirational quotes on my blog about butterflies, destiny, and inner voices.

3. I could get really chummy with my new besties “Jose”, “Jack”, and “Jaager” for a few years, marinate my ovaries in a cesspool of nicotine and Nyquil, and blog about how liberated I am now that kids aren’t tying me down.

The key for me is going to be in realizing that these archetypes are in themselves a way that I try to assert control over my life. By having this one all-encompassing persona I can live up to, it gives me a focus, and also a way to beat myself up when I inevitably fail at becoming the “perfect” runner, yoga, or drunk chick.

I’m a little bit “runner”, a little bit “yoga”, and a little bit “boozy” with a dash of “happy homemaker” , and “sick and twisted” for good measure. I’ll never be all of one or the other.

Perhaps this is a good place to start for now.