That, and when they meet each other. Bloody hell, life is so unfair sometimes. Don't get me wrong, a meeting of the minds between Deborah and Suz was likely a fascinating affair culminating in much cynical and witty repartee. An ideal situation was bound to be created, after all, we learned recently that Deborah is always looking for a little action from any willing party.
I understand the tryst was arranged in D.C., which is not too far where I'm from originally. The East Coast is overrun with our kind, desperate to conduct covert dinners where cervical mucus can comfortably be discussed over seafood linguine and a glass of wine. I have moved to a location 4000 miles away which seems to have distinct abundance of fertiles, with nary a barren uterus in sight. I know some of the people that visit my blog are in the UK, but they're all miles and miles away.
Please, think of the profound effects on the husbands involved when wives are not able to socialise with other cool blogging infertiles. Situations such as the one The Dude and I found ourselves in over dinner in a nice restaurant the other night will arise:
Me: Soooooo...Molly got her period yesterday, I felt horribly for her. Before she got it she was conducting intensive am-I-pregnant boob inspections daily. I even asked about her areolas in an email.
Him: Not...so...hungry...now. I can't tell you how much I don't want to know about her areolas. What are areolas?
The rest of our dinner conversation consisted mainly of me prattling on about various bloggers on my blogroll, updating The Dude on the status of people he has never met, most likely will never meet, and whose parts he is now acutely aware of much to his chagrin. Don't worry though ladies, he won't remember details. He has enough difficulty keeping up what is going on with my vagina without busying his brain with arcane knowledge of other womens' lady parts.
Actual conversation as heard by The Dude: "Vagina blah blah yadda yadda ultrasound blah. Yadda blah yadda wandmonkey, yadda yadda yadda blah fucking hell etc. Blah blah blah uterine lining yadda blah yadda!
This has provoked me to devise my own infertile friend personal ad:
You: Embittered, cynical, jaded infertile. Successful procreation not insurmountable. Sufficient time of suffering required. Must be prepared to indulge in occasional discussions about cooter-poking nurses and so-much-attempting-to-conceive-sex-my-bits-are-chafed talk without turning beet red or choking on food. Use of euphemisms such as "baby dust", and "baby dancing" strictly forbidden. Swearing a must.
Me: Pessimistic, eternally pissed off infertile with PCOS. Enjoys dancing in kitchen whilst listening to Violent Femmes. Likes to glare at Smug Fertiles and sigh loudly when passing them pushing prams and taking up the entire sidewalk. Seeks person to commiserate with and forge a bond of everlasting infertile bitchiness. Has slightly irreverent sense of humour which may at times seem inappropriate. Slight Swedish Fish obsession.