Buggered

So I tested. I'm fucked, again. Er, I mean, it was negative.

14 days from the IUI today but still no sign of my period. I assumed it would show up right after the negative reared its ugly head, but as yet it has avoided me. I'm trying to assume that all is not lost until my period appears, but I'm kidding myself, aren't I? It's like a double edged disappointment -- I'm disappointed now because a negative pregnancy test is never good, and I'll be disappointed in a moment when I get my period.

The Dude is upset, again. Again again again. He spouted his usual, "Please don't feel guilty, it's not your fault!" sentiment, but amazingly I remain unconvinced.

With each failed cycle I wonder more and more how people even get pregnant, because it seems like such an elusive, unattainable bastard.

Oh yeah, and for added spiteful measure, IUIs suck and I wish I never would have wasted my time. To all reading this that will be/are presently undertaking that course of treatment, I apologise. I'm sure I'll have a little less vitriol for the procedure in about 800 years' time.

To test or not to test

Sorry, I know that's the lamest subject title ever, but that's all I've got. Today is day 13 post IUI, which I'm sure I could abbreviate like "13dpo" or whatever, but I don't do that sort of thing because I rarely know what it means. I'm trying to leave the testing to the final moment, because I know that my period will magically appear minutes after a negative test. It almost never fails.

I've been paging through previous blog posts, trying to gauge when my period may or may not be due. During IUI cycle #2 my period showed up 11 days after the insemination, and for IUI #3 it appeared 10 days after insemination. Naturally my little mind is getting carried away, now that I've made it at least 2 days longer than my previous times. However, all of this could be false hope because a) GLCP was shooting up all that sperm in IUIs 1, 2 and 3 to my kidneys b) I had a completely different medicinal regimen this time round.

Every once in awhile I think I feel a bit crampy and I panic. When I go to the bathroom I have to psyche myself up before looking at the toilet paper. Additionally, my lower back hurts which is almost always indicative of an oncoming period. Ugh. This whole infertility thing is a lot of work, you know? It's bad enough I've got The Dude breathing down my neck every time I step out of the bathroom. I feel like if I don't give him enough hints as to the outcome via body language that he's going to start trying to catch a glimpse of the toilet paper before I flush it. He also keeps saying, "I'm nervous." Yeah, no shit pal. Thanks for the added guilt trip.

Anyway, that's what is going on in my head at the moment -- do I pee on a stick, or do I just wait for the bleeding to come? Apologies for the lack of humour in this post as well. This is why I avoid talking all business; it even makes me want to yawn.

Oh, in reference to the word verification in the comments section...I apologise. I'm sick of blog spam and that's the only way to get rid of it. So far so good.

I'm going to go ponder stick peeing again.

I was a closeted lesbian before my time

I'm a trailblazer. I was using the term "googling" at least 4 years ago in reference to that much-underrated pasttime of gluing yourself to google and typing in the names of everyone you knew (those you liked/disliked/expressed ambivalence for) in high school and college. Fast forward a few years later, and "googling" has become part of our heavily techno-influenced vocabulary. I like to think that had I patented that statement I would now be lounging by a pool wearing marabou stork feathered heels, a bikini with transparent chemise, martini in hand, watching a half-naked tanned Adonis fish leaves out of the pool in which I never intended to swim. The Dude, eh...we would have an "understanding".

This brings me to my other concept which has recently garnered some popularity -- the notion of the girl crush. Yet again, years ago I would tell friends and various internet mailing lists about my "Lesbian List". This list was comprised of famous women that, if I were so inclined, I would totally get with. At least a few times a year I would modify this list and publish it for those who cared, which wasn't too many. I would then encourage others to give me their lesbian lists, which I would scrutinise and often mock. Pamela Anderson?? No! Women don't find her attractive, only men who have delusions as to what a real woman looks like do!

The concept of a girl crush is not an exact parallel, as it is more in reference to a woman you know that you admire rather than a woman you find attractive in a non-sexual/but-if-I-was-a-lesbian kind of way. I admit, I've had a girl crush in the past, way before it was the trendy and hipster thing to do. I have only recently confessed this to The Dude, because as he knows of my Lesbian List, I thought he'd really start to have doubts about my sexual orientation. Not surprisingly, being male, he thought it was hot. He grinned stupidly with a dazed expression on his face and asked the specifics of Girl Crush's appearance. Pig.

Girl Crush worked in the same bookstore as me. She started a few months after I did, and from the moment I saw her I wanted to be her friend. She was beautiful and intelligent, and just as the article I have linked mentions, I was totally nervous around her. I felt in awe of everything about her and though at the time I didn't equate those characteristics with a crush, I suppose it was in a manner of speaking. Not long after we met I had a sexually oriented dream featuring Girl Crush and myself, which made me even less comfortable around her.

It's odd really, because I could easily see myself having another girl crush in the future. I think my Girl Crush was the epitome of everything I felt I was not, and that admiration manifested itself in this need to be around her. I view the sex dream with Girl Crush as a bit of a fluke, since I genuinely don't like thinking about women intimately. Sure, I'll chat about vaginas, mucus, discharge and all the other fun things that go hand in hand with IF blogs, but I don't want to have sex with any of you. Well, not until we get to know each other anyway. Or if you give me money.

Since I'm sure I'll be asked, here is my Lesbian List. I'm curious as to who other bloggers might want to shag...you know, if that was the way your bread was buttered. This list is not in any particular order, aside from the first.

1) Gwyneth Paltrow - Gwyneth has been atop the list for years now. She will never be dethroned!

2) Molly Parker - I like to stare at her when I'm watching Deadwood. Beautiful.

3) Linda Cardellini - She's looking a bit lollypoppish at the moment, but I still think she's gorgeous. Plus, she was Lindsay Weir.

4) Sophie Ellis-Bextor - In the UK the media always slags her off for having a wide face as well as being pale. From one moonpie-faced pasty person to the other, I salute her.

5) Kate Winslet - I'm amazed when people don't find her attractive. Let me just say...Kate Winslet + Joaquin Phoenix in "Quills"...I think I have to clean off my chair.

So that's at least 5. If I really strained I'm sure I could think of more. So, in an effort to keep my mind off the conclusion of the 2ww, c'mon you lezzers -- who would you have on your list?

Housekeeping

Note to self...posts regarding feminism go down like a lead balloon. Avoid any mention of the "f" word ever again. However, still free to use "fuck" librally and as often as possible.

I don't have one straightforward topic to talk about now that I have the "f" issue out of my system, so I figure I'll just use this opportunity to talk about a few different things, with no reliance on segue.

Pussaries...still wondering what their deal is. I push it in as far back as I can, yet the bulk of it just spills out eventually. Given this rather irritating and gross situation, what is the point of pussaries? I can't imagine there is much of the progesterone left where it needs to be, so I'm just shoving shit up there for the hell of it. Also, we're technologically advanced now. Why can there just not be a pill form of these cursed things?

Pussary pt 2: Despite my insistance that he would regret it, The Dude insisted upon fornication post-pussary. I was not surprised when he later complained that his penis became all smooth and waxy. I called him Ol' Wax Cock, but luckily for him evidence of the pussary was dispatched of quickly. Some of us are not so lucky says old Crusty Wax Pants over here.

I have an extraordinarily stupid question. I know this will likely give fodder to those who rebel against my ignorance is bliss IF policy, but the hell with it. I have a fear that my period will show up significantly before the end of the 2ww. In previous IUIs it has emerged about 11 days post IUI, so there was no tension regarding testing on the 14th day. However, it has also been the case that after 15 days post-IUI my period has still been incommunicado, yet the pregnancy test was, of course, negative. So my question is...when someone has unpredictable cycles, a la fucked up women with PCOS, posterior ovaries, tilted cervix and occasionally invisible uterus, how does the doctor know when they have ovulated? My concern is that given that my periods are regular in their irregularity, how do I know if the IUI was done even remotely close to ovulation? I asked Good Lady Cooter Poker this once, and she looked at me as if I asked her how babies are made. I don't know, perhaps I'm embarrassing myself yet again by asking it.

I have selected my "End of 2ww-->negative pregancy test/period that arrives right after blindingly white second window is viewed" music. Unlike those who like to be uplifted when they are depressed, I prefer to wallow in the doldrums. I like it down there. Happy shit when I'm depressed just makes me homicidal. So yes, I will be listening to Antony and the Johnson's Hope There's Someone over and over and over again. Sometimes it's Johnny Cash (god bless his dressed in black little soul), other times it's a mixture of The Smiths/Morrissey and The Cure. I know what you're thinking...I know how to have a good time.

Finally, I've added some new links to my blogroll. Some are new voices, others have been around awhile and I've somehow managed to miss out on them. Go and leave them some comments, because deep down, you know we're all comment whores.

Sugar and Spice

I was recently reminded of a concern of mine after reading a post by Nico over at No Period Baby. Nico mentioned how she has been reading The Beauty Myth, and how it has made her realise how important appearance is in the lives of women. Nico questioned how she could raise a daughter without perpetuating these inequitable, skewed ideas centred around image.

This idea resonated with me, because every time I let a pregnancy thought enter my little head I ponder this question. I always tell The Dude that I would prefer a son (yes...yes...a healthy baby, regardless of sex is what I should want, yadda yadda yadda), and this is the primary reason. I consider myself a strong woman, but image is where I have failed any feminist ideals that I possess.

I insist on being called Ms Pru, never "Mrs". When men marry, they never have to change their title, nor do I think women should. Some of you may think of this as a very paltry detail and hardly cause to call myself a feminist, but UK culture is OBSESSED with formality. I am never addressed as "Pru" in a casual situation such as WHYBAML's office, but rather Mrs Pru (I corrected him, fyi...curious glances were exchanged). I do not want my marriage to signify the end of my life as an individual, of which my real first name is rather indicative. Mrs Pru is my mother-in-law. I am not a 56 year old housewife and grandmother of 4. In case you were wondering, I did take The Dude's last name. Lest you think you've caught me in a hypocritical trap, you haven't, at least I don't think so. A female professor of mine once said that most Western societies are patriarchal, and as such, most women are given the last name of the male side of the family. Since this is the case, my maiden name ("maiden"...no heavy symbolism there) is yet another last name forced on me by males. That, and it was way too clumsy to keep.

I can also never envision myself being a stay-at-home mom. It's fine if others choose to do this, but it isn't the life for me. I can't bear the thought of surrendering my financial independence that my job affords me, limited as its salary may be. I am also uncomfortable in assuming the traditional female role, as I feel like others would also treat me differently, ie presuming that I'm not educated, lack the drive to succeed professionally, and that my main goals in life are to raise my children and keep a nice tidy house.

I'm not trying to prove myself as a feminist. There's no point. I only used the examples above to juxtapose my own interpretations of feminism as it relates to my life with my all-consuming battle against my appearance. I would struggle to raise a daughter to not have these issues, because I cannot even conquer them myself, despite being an educated, cultured, and aware woman. You know, if I can say so myself. My confidence is supremely affected by how I look, and I can't see that this will ever change. When I was thin, I hated my nose, freckles, skin tone and a host of other things that I no longer consider problem areas. Now that I've gained weight I focus mainly on that issue, and all the things I hate about my body are weight-related. I have no doubt that even if I lost weight that I would find more features to despise to replace the disdain for my weight.

That said, how could I ever teach my daughter that looks aren't important? How would a woman such as myself, one who went home and nearly threw up upon finding out her weight at the doctor's office two weeks ago, convince a young girl that appearances are trivial? I would never be the type of mother to slyly say, "My, someone is getting a bit chubby, aren't they?" to my daughter, because I fully acknowledge that sort of behaviour only adds to this insurmountable social issue. If my daughter did come home crying after school, miserable because other kids were calling her fat, how would I console her? I'm sure I'd tell her how these kids are assholes and to ignore them, but if in my own mind I'd know that this poor child was in for a lifetime of such ridicule.

I am pondering doing my thesis on an aspect of feminist art historical theory, because I think its a riveting subject. I would like to do something involving this idea of Wolf's so-coined "Beauty Myth", as the visual arts are overflowing with innumerable portrayals of feminine imagery. I'm also hoping it will bring me to some realisation, finally, that who I am is not mainly constructed around what I look like. I would like to genuinely feel that "It's what is on the inside that counts." is not a trite saying doled out to children crying on their mothers' shoulders but a statement that can does contain some truth.

Uterus = AWOL

IUI #4 started just as promisingly as the previous three - panties were stuffed in purses, tables were mounted, a white cloth was carefully draped over netherregions. WHYBAML adjusted his lamp to give him a 60 watt view of what I have to offer, and proceeded to insert the catheter, as per normal. But...but...there was a problem. Can't...find...uterus.

WHYBAML: "Does Good Lady Cooter Poker generally have trouble finding your uterus during IUIs?"

Me: "Uh...the first time, but it only took a moment. Where did it go?"

WHYBAML: "Nothing to worry about...I'm just surprised that you haven't had trouble before when this is proving so difficult. Oh, hey...you have a very good mucus situation going on at the moment though. I'm pleased to see that. Did you realise the quality of the mucus?

Me: :::instantly envisioning myself playing with said mucus and scientifically evaluating its strength and consistency:: "No, I can't say I have!"

:::in the background, the macho man to my right who considers himself impervious to all disgusting matters medical, throws up in his mouth a little:::

This is where the fun started. WHYBAML crouched down, peering into my cooter, which, for someone that tries to forget that there is someone down there, did not do much for that attempted thought diversion. For all those who think having the forceps plying you open for a good solid 20 minutes is a non-traditional way of having fun, I am here to say it is anything but that. Three different sized catheters were given their go at finding the elusive uterus, with the final one having the golden touch.

Catheter three did not find the uterus on its own. WHYBAML had to wheel over the ultrasound machine and give me an exterior ultrasound to figure out what was going on. Eventually my uterus was pinpointed, so it had not gone shopping for shoes as I had been theorising. WHYBAML had some difficulty trying to balance holding the ultrasound thing (if it's not an ultrasound wand, I'm clueless) and inserting the catheter simultaneously, so he asked me to hold it in this very specific location on my stomach while relaxing sufficiently to allow the catheter to be united with my previously thought to be absent uterus.

As someone with a posterior right ovary and a tilted cervix, this recent development of yet another delinquent sexual organ is not surprising by any means, but I am a bit concerned. WHYBAML kept insisting that most people don't have a trouble with catheter insertion all of a sudden, which makes me wonder -- where the fuck was all that sperm deposited in previous IUIs? I feel like that elephant that was mentioned on some blogs a few months back. The poor thing had IUIs for about 20 years and the staff at the zoo only just realised they had been inseminating her in completely the wrong place, like her ear or something. No, not really her ear, but very far off from where the sperm needed to be. Did GLCP shoot the sperm into my kidney or something? I'm baffled.

With the IUI complete, I today had the pleasure of my first interaction with the progesterone pessary, or as I have cleverly coined it, pussary. Get it? Uh, yeah...Do you ever think how infertility drives one to try to create new puns? Seriously. Whenever I'm trying to think of titles for posts, they generally revolve around attempts at puns or wordplay. Yet another reason to hate infertility...an over reliance on puns.

So pussaries...what's the deal? I hate them already. I feel dirty being at work and going to the loos to squat in a cubicle and poke stuff all up in my business. What good does it do anyway? I could feel it sliding out of me as I walked down the corridor and I was desperately hoping the warhead-shaped vegetable fat conglomeration didn't plop onto the floor having fallen out of my underwear. Perhaps it's like an airplane hangar up there and there is nothing to hold the poor pussary in place to give it a chance to dissolve. I'll tell you one thing though. My inner thighs are all waxy and smooth now thanks to the...er, leakage.

I was amused by one thing pussary related though. The little leaflet that comes with it indicates that you can insert it vaginally or anally. They use "rectum", but then follow that word with "(back passage)" for the anatomically uninitiated. Not even "(anal)", but the ever-so-British and correct "back passage". Oooo er missus.

The 2ww has officially commenced today. I'm hoping my recent addiction to PlayStation 2's "Def Jam NY" will see me through these trying times. Nothing gets a girl's mind of infertility like a little bit of virtual streetfighting.

For the love of IF

As I have mentioned before, Puregon Pen is (was) my new pet. I have no need for it any longer, but I've kept it in my fridge for a rainy day. You know, if I randomly feel like stabbing myself in the gut with a faux pen for the rush. I do not, however, have the same feelings for the evil Cetrorelix (Cetrotide for Yanks) injection, which butchered my stomach, rendering it unrecognisable. Er, or bruised it a bit.

Gather round, gather round:
I know, ew. Also, I apologise for the unbuttoned pants. The bruise was at the beltline and the only way I could flaunt it was by undoing my cords. Molly should be pleased though, she's always trying to get me to take my clothes off. I also wanted to take a picture of myself with the syringe between my teeth whilst wrapping a bit of rubber just above my elbow, but The Dude thought it would be in poor taste.

Apparently Cetrorelix requires you to give the injection at a 45 degree angle, and I was never very good at geometry, hence the botched job. I was a bit concerned too, as I had to give myself one Cetrorelix injection every night for four days on the left side of my stomach. The right side was reserved just for the Puregon Pen. I envisioned a multi-coloured left side of my stomach, and as pretty as that would be, I didn't really want that to happen. It was bad enough that with the one bruise I had to keep pulling my shirt down at work to cover it. How would one explain such an oddly-placed bruise? Luckily, I somehow mastered the 45 degree angle and now all that's left on my stomach are the odd injection marks and a gradually fading yellowish-brown bruise.

All of these injections and pills (for those keeping score at home: 8 total, not including the pessaries yet to come) lead to one thing - IUI #4 that is to take place tomorrow. I'm quite ambivalent about it at the moment. I'm so accostomed to disappointment after these three very long years of nothing that it's hard to be even the slightest bit optimistic. I think I have a bit more faith in this cycle than the previous IUIs because it's a completely new regimen for me. This is the first one we have had to pay for as well, so it is yet another reason to hope it doesn't fail. I feel like I'm just going through the motions, and whatever happens, happens.

No doubt WHYBAML will pat me on the back tomorrow for yet another ovulatory well-done. I might even paint my toenails.

Infertile ho-bag

Yup, that's me. So here I am thinking I'm a modest person; I've got big boobs but I don't like to show them off, I've never worn a bikini, and I haven't had innumerable sex partners over the years. However, it seems I have misread the situation and I'm full out skank.

I had a wanding session with Dr WHYBAML today. WHYBAML, ever the gentleman, left the office while I was stripping off, arranging myself in the chair and getting stirruped up. I draped the cloth over my nether regions as always, situating it just so and preventing me from revealing too much, but yielding enough cooter to be wanded. WHYBAML saunters in, makes some small talk, then moves to insert my little friend. While he's doing this he says, "Let's cover you up a bit more." Uh, que? Either he's saying that this shit needs to be covered up because I have cooter issues (cosmetic or physical...I'm unsure), or because I was putting it all out there for all three of us to see. Personally, I don't see either of these as occuring but apparently WHYBAML was offended by cooter action of some description. It was covered up, I swear! Hell, I don't want to look at the bloody thing, why would I assume anyone else does?

I am not one to obsess over follicle size, so don't ask me how big my measly two are at this stage (day 11) of my cycle. WHYBAML did tell me that he's not worried that I only have two, as he believes these two to be particularly strong. Go Team Ovary! I almost laughed at WHYBAML's parting sentence today, said whilst shaking my hand: "Well done Pru. Well done." I automatically pictured myself sitting at home, staring at my stomach and coaching my ovaries into action - "C'mon ladies, do it for WHYBAML! I know from previous behaviour that you would tell me to get fucked, but we're talking about WHYBAML. Goooooooooooooooooooooo ovaries!".

WHYBAML has prescribed two more medications prior to scheduled IUI day on Tuesday. One is to delay ovulation until the "right" time, and the other aims to keep my progesterone levels up. This brings my drug count to 7 this cycle. Yay me. The Dude sometimes mocks my extreme medication-taking, regularly offering to buy me a lovely pill box so I can show it off to any elderly friends I might make. This is becoming increasingly difficult for him to do since a few of my meds are injectibles now, which I don't suppose is really anything to brag about. I am becoming concerned about my genuine excitement when it's Puregon Pen time. Yes, I am getting some sort of perverse joy out of jabbing myself in the abdomen every night. Simple things for simple folk.

My next scan is Saturday morning. It is at that point we will know for sure if Tuesday will be the day. Rest assured, I will be keeping my bits covered appropriately so as not to cause further offense.

As cool as I am

Thank you, all ye who commented and made me feel like maybe someone or two out there actually doesn't hate reading what I write. I guess regardless of how old we get, there is still a geeky 13 year old with braces, pimples, and long, stringy, greasy hair* hiding inside that desperately wants to be liked.

Recently the lovely Amyesq asked her readers who, amongst the IF blogging elite, they would like to meet and why. The delusional Molly said that she would like to meet me, though for less than friendly reasons. I believe her exact quote was, "I'd love to be able to call her a bitch in person." Fair enough. Anyway, it made me ponder whether or not I would actually want to meet any fellow bloggers. It's nothing personal of course, except in Molly's case where it just might be. I digress...

My primary concern is that anyone who met me would just be disappointed. Sure, I talk big, but I'm a shy ol' shrinking violet in real life. An in-person meeting would provoke major performance anxiety in me, and I know I would come across as a completely different person. I think how I portray myself on my blog is quite a good approximation of my true personality. Unfortunately, that personality likes to hide until it knows someone for, oh, about 10 years. Otherwise, it stays under a rock with perhaps occasional peeks to the outside, but quickly scurries back to its safe haven.

It used to be easy when I could drink. Get a few drinks in me and you couldn't shut me up. I know it's not a good thing to say that you are only cool when you drink, but sometimes these things are true. Afterschool Specials lie. People really ARE more exciting, funnier and interesting when inebriated. Basically, I need to be drunk or typing on a computer to be myself around most people. How fucked up is that?

I wonder how many of us would be representative of our blog selves in real life? Would Lumi be so potty-mouthed and perverse? Would Julie be so effervescent? Is Panda as zany? Is MM as cynical? What do you think?


*: Not that I would know what that is like of course...I was born this svelte and statuesque, with strong cheekbones and long, luxurious locks. Duh.

Where have all the bloggers gone?

I'm again beginning to wonder what I've done to piss people off. My traffic is beyond abysmal lately and I can't figure out why. Perhaps it's the sudden shift in newly pregnant bloggers and blog readers and my constant whinging and neverending cynicism having driven them away. Maybe it's because it's the summertime and people aside from myself have far better things to do than read blogs, I don't know. Back to these pregnant bloggers...seriously, what is with this wave of fertility? Of course it's fab, and I'm particularly thrilled for longtime IF blogging stalwarts like DeadBug and Jen at FertilityNow! because lord knows they've paid their dues. When I first stumbled upon IF blogs I visited DeadBug and Jen a bit obsessively, so for them to finally have something to be happy about makes me happy too.

This oven, however, remains empty. The temperature isn't even on. It don't go. I'm thinking of starting a programme - No Infertile Left Behind. Who's with me? As long as I'm not the last infertile standing, I think I'll be fine. I'll still bitch though, because...well, that's what I do.

Since you've asked so kindly, I'll tell you how my wand-waving with Dr WHYBAML went on Wednesday. May I just say, this is no fleeting romance. All you naysayers out there take heed -it's Pru + WHYBAML 4 eva. Totally. I must confess my love waned for just a moment when he said whilst wanding, "Hmm...a lot of cysts on those ovaries. Very characteristic of PCOS." Uh, no shit WHYBAML, that's why we're here. I know you think I like a good cooter poking numerous times a week for two weeks straight for the hell of it, but if I was there for the action I can get better at home. You know, if I was even up for it in the first place.

WHYBAML remains optimistic however, so as of yet there is no need to have the carving on my arm of his name covered up. The scan was only done on day 4, so aside from the numerous cysts, there isn't much going on up in here. It may all start to happen now though, as I have been given clearance for the first time in my prolific IUI career to use the Puregon Pen, or as the Yanks call it, the Follistim Pen. Regardless of its name, I get to stab my abdomen daily with relish. It is one cute pen...and the carrying case? Don't get me started. I am also loading up on the Metformin, Letrozole and folic acid, so surely some good has to come of this, right?

My next poking is on Monday. WHYBAML has conveniently arranged it for after work, so I have no need to come up with any cryptic excuses as to why I have to leave in the middle of the day to go to the hospital. As I was leaving the appointment on Wednesday, WHYBAML patted me on the back. I choose to interpret it as an "Atta girl...getting all jacked up on hormones and submitting to wandings. Way to take one for the team!" pat rather than an, "Poor soul. Poor, barren little creature. Maybe someday your freakishly polycystic ovaries will asist in the conception of a child." pat.

So that is where I stand, or rather, sit with my legs open wide in the stirrups. Same thing. I'm finding it difficult to feel anything aside from ambivalence for this cycle, despite the fact that it's the first one we have to pay for. You would think that would make me even more keen for it to work, but I'm quite blase at the moment. I know it's early days, but all this has gone on for three long years and I don't know if I have any emotion left, good or bad. At least I have WHYBAML.

Hike up your skirt a little more and show your world to me

Oh, the shock my brother would endure if he knew I quoted his beloved Dave Matthews Band. Though I hate them and would rather listen to a cow giving birth on a hot summers' day, I always found that line kind of funny. Little did I know how appropriate it would be years later vis-a-vis my Good Lady Cooter Poker dalliances.

Tomorrow I have my first cooter poking in about 3 months. Ah, how I've missed thee. While I was in the bath tonight, I got to thinking about the shift of importance in these meetings over time. At first, it was a massive deal for me and I spent about an hour the night before preparing myself -- tidying up my business, scrubbing, shaving, waxing, giving cooter pep talks...the usual. I made sure to wear appropriate clothing that would not give away too much (I'm not that kind of girl), nor would it be too limiting. I would timidly walk into the room, and blush when GLCP said, "You can take off your panties behind that curtain." because despite my blog brashness, I'm a prude at heart. When it came time for contact, I would stare at the ceiling and pretend that I was not actually being vaginally violated by a condom-covered microphone looking thing. By the way, am I the only one that thinks it looks like that stupid microphone (albeit a bit thicker) that Bob Barker used on the Price is Right? I am? I suspected as much...

Oh, how times have changed. Nary a spare thought is devoted to preparation of the Venus Mound now because frankly, who cares? GLCP has seen this snatch so many times in various states of hairiness and unhairiness that I sincerely doubt she is making mental notes. Painted toenails? For amateurs. I scoff at you. I'm barely in the room and the panties are off, hell, if I even wore any to begin with. GLCP cannot even utter a cheery "hello!" before I'm up on the chair, legs splayed and ready to go. Rather than uncomfortably glancing at anything but GLCP and the ultrasound screen, I'm making jokes and having conversations about bum ovaries.

Who said infertility doesn't help you grow as a person?