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My bread is leavened–again.

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Another couple of months….another yeast infection. I had a meltdown in bed yesterday and broke down sobbing about it, mainly because I’m just so damn sick of my body and everything that seems to go wrong with it, but also because with the dry, itching, burning I was feeling, I knew that there was no way that I could remotely attempt to have sex in the next week if I didn’t do something about it quickly. I was worried that Diflucan isn’t safe to take while TTC, but after doing a bit of poking around on the internet, Hubs read on multiple sites that it leaves your system in 3-4 days, which is fine timing wise for us right now. So I popped yet another Diflucan this month, and this morning my symptoms have magically disappeared. I should be happy, right? The truth is, I’m just pissed. I’m pissed at the whole situation. My body feels like the rusted 1988 Toyota Carolla hatchback I drove in in high school that would only go 45mph up hills on the freeway, and whose transmission was so shot that the car jerked every time it changed gears. I remember driving home on the freeway one day, and just seeing all of these cars whizz past me…this is what it feels like to be left behind.

To add insult to injury, I spoke to my mom on the phone yesterday, and gave her an update on where I’m at with all of the fertility meds and stuff. I should preface this by saying that my mom’s remarks are never done to be malicious, spiteful, or know-it-all. She feels incredibly bad and anxious for Hubs and I, and is genuinely concerned with how I’m coping with this. The problem is, my mom is fertile. At 53 years old, she gets her period like clockwork every month, and it’s still as heavy and crampy as it was when she was 20. She tries to put herself into my shoes, but it’s an impossibility. When I was first trying to figure out my PCOS and any sort of natural remedies for it, her advice was to “relax and eat whatever I wanted. Gain some weight, and you will ovulate.” Thanks, mom, but I’m well within the normal weight range, and have 25% body fat. I’m not some gymnast or Olympic sprinter or something.

Last night, after telling her about my second round of Clomid, the HSG, and how stressful this whole thing was, she tried to be helpful by saying that I should try not to put a lot of pressure on having sex at all the right times. I should just “relax and have sex when I feel in the mood, and see what happens.”

Advice for the two fertile people who read my blog simply because they are riveted about my cervical mucus: This is not. I repeat. Not. The advice you want to give an infertile who has just finished 100mg of Clomid–or any person struggling with infertility, to be precise.

Needless to say, I unleashed.

Me: Have sex only when I’m in the mood??? In the mood? Gee! I didn’t think of that! Maybe then,  a magical mood baby will appear in my uterus.

Mom: Ummm…

Me: So you’re telling me that after pumping my body full of ovulation inducing chemicals, getting my uterus scraped, and doing everything I can to figure out when I can actually catch an egg, because FYI–there’s about a 36 hour window that this can happen, I should scrap all of that, and cross my fingers that these magical 36 hours my egg is viable match up with my mood?

Mom: Hmm. I guess that wasn’t a good idea….

Me: No. No, it wasn’t. I can’t expect you to understand about this. You didn’t even know what a two week wait was. (she didn’t, by the way. Did you know that many fertiles don’t know about the TWW? They just miss a period and then take a pregnancy test.)

Mom: I’m sorry. You’re right…that was a bad idea.

I know she’s sorry. I know she doesn’t know what the fuck to say to me that will make it better, and she’s grasping at straws here to try to connect with me, but it just makes me so damn sad. If she had one iota of a clue about how much I miss having sex with my husband when we’re relaxed and in the mood, she would never have said that. Hubs and I are struggling right now to keep that spark alive, but it’s so hard. He had to jizz in a cup in a cold jizz room at my RE’s office a couple of days ago to get his sperm checked. This is not the kind of association he wants to have with sex, but there it is, staring at him from the bottom of a plastic cup and a chair diaper (did you know they make the guys jerk off on a big chair diaper in case of spillage?) I miss my marriage the way it was, and I want it back. I want my sexy husband back, too.

Pillow Talk

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OPEN ON: Sunny and Hubs’ Bedroom, 10PM

After a long day battling 2 hours of traffic, temperamental animation creators, a Chemistry night class, and an 85 degree house with no AC, we see Sunny, sprawled out on the unmade bed in a ratty t-shirt she’s had since 2001, and a pair of white granny panties.

In a cruel joke played on her by the universe, Sunny can never tell when she is going to ovulate. Therefore, in the off chance it happens, she and Hubs have been “doing it” for five days straight.

On a scale of one to ten, her horniness meter tonight is at “Eunuch”.

Hubs walks into the bedroom wearing old boxer briefs and nothing more.

Hubs looks at her.

She cracks one eye open and looks at him.

Hubs fist pumps the air, flexes comically, and flops into bed.

SUNNY (deadpan): Hawt.

Both lay next to each other as the ceiling fan whirls.

HUBS: Ready to bring it?

SUNNY (yawns): Yeah…I guess…

HUBS (also deadpan): Yippee.


SUNNY: And this, little Jimmie? This is story of the night you were conceived…




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.