Thursday, December 30

I feel so dirty.

Really, I do. I mean, here this is, "The Year of the Blog," and what am I doing? Blogging. I normally eschew these types of pop-culture trends, sometimes vociferously. (Occasionally, even violently, as I've leapt for the remote control to turn off one more show about wife-swapping.)

I don't watch 'Survivor,' though I confess to having seen the last 5 minutes of the first season, just in case it came up in water-cooler conversation the next day. It didn't.

I've never seen 'Desperate Housewives,' 'The Sopranos' or 'Six Feet Under.' To the best of my knowledge, I've never heard a single song by Kanye West or Clay Aiken or Lindsay Lohan (and thank heaven for that!). I've never seen the 'Star Wars' movies, or even the 'Lord of the Rings' trilogy. My TV watching consists, mostly, of 'Law & Order,' any version, any episode. And my personal favorite, 'The Golden Girls.'

Not exactly hip, I know. So how did a nice girl like me get to be involved in a trend like this?

Monday, December 20

Parenting by proxy.

We are becoming parents, it seems, at least of a sort. We are the godparents/designated guardians of our youngest niece, and now it turns out the U.S. military will see fit to send not just one, but both, of her parents to war at almost Exactly. The. Same. Time.

So, the young miss is coming to stay with us, unless her mother (the later of the two to be deployed) is granted some miraculous reprieve. Wow.

Saturday, December 18

The Pope can kiss my ass.

The Pope says gay marriage is an attack on society. I suppose rampant child molestation by priests--who are then sheltered and protected by the Church--is just the height of moral rectitude.

Friday, December 17

It has nothing to do with fertility...

...or even infertility, really, except that I am constantly amazed that we're trying to bring a child into a world where stupid stuff like this goes on. Australian authorities are hunting a shark after a "savage" attack on a surfer. I understand the perceived need to protect humans in our natural environment, but it's the shark's natural environment, too, and he can't choose to leave the ocean and go get a job in a beer-bottling plant. You can choose not to surf in shark-infested waters, though. The bad journalism is what really gets me. The anthropomorphization of this animal into a brutal killer is a bit crazy. The shark DID what sharks DO...eat meat. Surfer, you are the meat.

Making the shark sound like a plotting serial killer with moral standards and a human conscience (or lack thereof) is just silly.

Wednesday, December 15

The eagle has landed.

When I picked my numbers for the Lifemate Lotto, did I get lucky or what? Poor Lisa phones me this morning, on her way to work, and tells me that due to an illness in a coworker's family, she will not likely be able to drive to my work when the FedEx man brings the box o' baby ingredients today, so that we might accomplish a mid-day attempt at catching Mr. Egg. (You wouldn't think an egg would be male, but these are. Crafty, elusive and reluctant to commit: Male.)

On top of it, I've forgotten to hand her a syringe to take with her in preparation for the magical moment. She swings into Target, picks up some kind of needleless syringe (she said they gave it to her, but I didn't ask who "they" are or why they gave her anything). And then, she phones to say "The eagle has landed."

My poor girl had to lock herself in her office and do the first go all by herself, which is a story in and of itself, but one which I don't yet have permission to share. One more try tonight, and I fear it's too late, but I'm much more easygoing when I only paid about $80 for the extender and the FedEx shipping, versus the $650 we were spending every month at the office of Dr. Let's-Get-You-Pregnant, Dr. Why-Are-You-Not-Pregnant-Yet, and Dr. Are-You-Still-Here. Not to mention the nurses who turned a critical eye every time we even dared to ask how much something would cost. Our donor is frugal like us; if we could figure out a viable way to ship this stuff via Media Mail, we'd do it!

Tuesday, December 14

You're shipping what?

Oh, our donor is a very, very special man. He'll be a great uncle but has no interest in being a parent to our (future) child, and has been nothing but accomodating throughout the process, no mean feat now that her whole cycle is kerflooey and we've been as vague as can be about giving him projected timeframes for donations. This morning, for example, the little monitor showed an egg. Excuse me, Mr. Egg, you are not supposed to show up for at least one more day, preferably two.

So, I call our donor--we'll call him Gatsby--at 7:30 in the morning, leave him a message and ask if he can accomplish the task and deliver the goods to FedEx tonight. He e-mails from work saying, "Crank up the baby machine." ("Is he referring to ME," Lisa asks, "or himself?" I think he was referring to himself.)

He goes home from work, makes the donuts and delivers the sealed carton to FedEx. And the FedEx guy says, "Just a couple of questions. What's in it?"

He started out by just saying biological specimens, but when the guy inquired about blood, Gatsby just told him what it was. He's right. They probably ship all manner of weirdness every single day. What do they care if a gay guy in the Midwest is trying to knock up his lesbian friend's partner in Texas?

Thursday, December 9

The recipe.

  • Take two women, mix, allow to stand for 12 years until one couple is fully formed.
  • Once couple is formed, it should have four ovaries and two wombs. At least one ovary and one uterus must be in working order. If not, see recipes for "Adoption," "Surrogacy," or "Donor Eggs."
  • If necessary, insert HSG test to ensure presence of ingredients.
  • Add, in turn, donors--4 unknown, one known.
  • Stir in:
  • -1 fertility monitor
  • -4,158,321 ovulation predictor kits
  • -3,187 home pregnancy tests
  • -1 fertility clinic
  • -1 credit card (large)
  • -1 sperm shipper
  • -1 website (must include charts, graphs and chat circles)
  • Sprinkle liberally with frustration, disappointment, anger, hopefulness, hopelessness, and love.
  • Bake at 350 degrees until it's done. You'll know when that is, but I can't tell you.
  • Makes 1 baby. Eventually.

Tuesday, December 7

Mr. Pee Stick Speaks His Mind

The home pregnancy tests are talking to me. And they're the old-fashioned one-line/two-lines kind, too, not even the fancy digital type. Yet they are clearly speaking to me, saying more than just "positive" or "negative," believe it or not. Just a few days ago, for example, her period was several days late and while we somehow knew in our hearts she wasn't pregnant, we felt like it called for peeing on a stick anyway, if for no other reason than to stay in practice. So, she pees on the stick, rests it on the edge of the sink and goes about her morning business, planning to peek in on it sometime between the prescribed 3 minute minimum and 10 minute maximum.

It was my misfortune to walk in the bathroom shortly thereafter, and while brushing my hair I heard it. "Psst." A quick look, then back to my grooming routine. Again: "Psst. I've got some bad news."

"Are you talking to me?"

"Well, there's no-one else here. And I hate to tell you this before the three minutes are even up, but you're not pregnant."

No surprise there, so I told the little pee stick. "Thanks, you know, but I KNOW I'm not pregnant. It's my partner who peed on you."

"Oh, your partner," said Mr. Pee Stick. "How 2004. Well, sorry, she's not pregnant either, though I don't know why I'm apologizing to you. You're just the lazy one who's letting her do all the hard work. You think it's easy peeing on a stick first thing in the morning?"

I slunk out of the bathroom. Screw you, Mr. Pee Stick.