I'm destined to be a mother, and a good one. Ok, so I don't like kids. Though this may seem like a slight stumbling block, I don't think it is. "So..." you say, "what makes you think you would be a good mum?" Simple. I have this innate maternal instinct that has manifested itself in a most unusual way -- I don't lust after good looking 20 year old guys anymore, I just want to mother them. As I work in a university I have constant contact with a plethora of 18-22 year old guys and yet I find that I'm not attracted to them, but I do have the urge to take care of them. I want to snuggle them to my breast and sing them lullabies. Yeah, so that last part might be a slight exaggeration.
Oddly enough, I had a singular moment of clarity on this matter. The university had a preview day with dozens of potential applicants invited, mostly male. I looked around the room and realised that I didn't find any of them hot, but cute in a "oh, isn't he an adorable kid" kind of way. May I just add at this point that these were 18 year old boys, so I'm keeping it legal. Am I getting way too old for my 26 years, or is this the empty womb talking? Combine this issue with my recent revelation that all *celebrity men I find attractive are 40+ and you've got one fucked up Freudian mess on your hands.
*For instance the delicious Carlos Bernard (Tony Almeida in 24), my beloved Gary Oldman, and the getting-vastly-better-looking-as-he-ages Johnny Depp (Jack Sparrow could pillage me anytime) . I think one of the few exceptions to the age thing is the gorgeous, intense Joaquin Phoenix. Yum. I think I came in my pants when I heard he was going to play Johnny Cash. Ok, I'll stop now before I repulse anyone else.
3/08/2005
Hatefest 2005
Evolution is a glorious process. I find that I have quickly vaulted from emotional basketcase to embittered, hateful, vengeful bitch. I confess that most of these qualities have been latent for quite awhile, emerging mainly on my blog or popping up during crazy-eyed postwork rants to The Dude. I'm wondering if this is a gradual reaction to IUI related injectionables --
stage 1: moderate irritability, emotional distress usually at the provocation of cute puppy, small cut on finger, etc...
stage 2: increasing irritability, severe emotional distress brought on by car insurance commercials, bra that I wanted to wear being dirty and the like
stage 3: beyond the point of return emotionally. Deep hatred for co-workers, family members, non-family members, passers-by, celebrities, babies, small children, amoebas, American Idol contestants, farmers.
The other day I was seriously considering going home "sick" from work because every single thing other people did annoyed me to a level to which I was previously unfamiliar with. I wanted to crawl out of my skin I was so frustrated with every word that was uttered and every action carried out. This doesn't seem to be subsiding either. The only people/pets I can tolerate at the moment are The Dude, my precious canary, and most bloggers. Consider yourselves lucky. No defamatory comments about America's Next Top Model or asserting that Vincent Van Gogh was certainly nuttier than a fruitcake vs just being quite a sad, lonely little Dutchman or else I shall add you to my list. It's a very long list of course, but there is always room for one more.
stage 1: moderate irritability, emotional distress usually at the provocation of cute puppy, small cut on finger, etc...
stage 2: increasing irritability, severe emotional distress brought on by car insurance commercials, bra that I wanted to wear being dirty and the like
stage 3: beyond the point of return emotionally. Deep hatred for co-workers, family members, non-family members, passers-by, celebrities, babies, small children, amoebas, American Idol contestants, farmers.
The other day I was seriously considering going home "sick" from work because every single thing other people did annoyed me to a level to which I was previously unfamiliar with. I wanted to crawl out of my skin I was so frustrated with every word that was uttered and every action carried out. This doesn't seem to be subsiding either. The only people/pets I can tolerate at the moment are The Dude, my precious canary, and most bloggers. Consider yourselves lucky. No defamatory comments about America's Next Top Model or asserting that Vincent Van Gogh was certainly nuttier than a fruitcake vs just being quite a sad, lonely little Dutchman or else I shall add you to my list. It's a very long list of course, but there is always room for one more.
3/05/2005
Confessions
1) I am seriously considering buying Guns N' Roses Greatest Hits. Hearing a bit of G n' R takes me back to being 13 years old, feeling rebellious for ditching Jordan Knight (NKOTB for the uninformed) for Axl. Ah, just the thought makes me daydream of big bangs, acid washed jeans, double mismatching socks and other hallmarks of late 1980s fashion. Anyone yearning for 80s nostalgia should definitely go here.
2) I am completely, utterly, absolutely addicted to America's Next Top Model. We're only on series 3 here (season 4 has just started in the US), and I even know who wins, yet I eagerly tune in every Saturday night. Since I am confessing, I will also admit to getting excited about viewing the next episode days in advance. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?
3) I am a recovering Sims addict. Back in the days before I was employed in this country I would regularly spend 8 or 9 solid hours a day Simming. I've intentionally killed a few Sims in my time, and many of the murders were premeditated. They got in my way and prevented me from progressing at the rate which I had wished to, so I wasted those bitches. They asked for it. Tip: My favourite method is one which involves building a room, putting the offending Sim in it, then not putting any doors in the room. The Sim will die a slow, horrible death. Not only will they starve, they will also piss themselves. This, my friends, is entertainment.
4) Like Mollywogger, I'm a total celebrity gossip whore. I do wonder about Brad and Jen's marital relations, I care what Kate Winslet wore on the red carpet, and I certainly am concerned with Courtney Love's mental state (certifiably fucking insane btw). I could easily spend my entire workday on gossip sites, not that I do of course. Pfft...as if!
5) When I was about 12 my neighbour and I would film our own versions of "Star Search Fashion" videos, because really, how would Star Search not be expected to influence children so heavily? Our videos were shot very tastefully, with us sporting badly applied makeup and attempts at creative hairstyles. Flamenco was our chosen musical accompaniment, which we thought suited both the swimsuit and formal portions of our videos. I cringe at the very recollection of me posing in what I thought was a seductive manner in my blue polka dot bathing suit on the hearth of the fireplace to the guitar strumming of Ottmar Liebert.
So, tell me my children, how long has it been since your last confession? What embarrassing secrets are in your closets?
2) I am completely, utterly, absolutely addicted to America's Next Top Model. We're only on series 3 here (season 4 has just started in the US), and I even know who wins, yet I eagerly tune in every Saturday night. Since I am confessing, I will also admit to getting excited about viewing the next episode days in advance. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?
3) I am a recovering Sims addict. Back in the days before I was employed in this country I would regularly spend 8 or 9 solid hours a day Simming. I've intentionally killed a few Sims in my time, and many of the murders were premeditated. They got in my way and prevented me from progressing at the rate which I had wished to, so I wasted those bitches. They asked for it. Tip: My favourite method is one which involves building a room, putting the offending Sim in it, then not putting any doors in the room. The Sim will die a slow, horrible death. Not only will they starve, they will also piss themselves. This, my friends, is entertainment.
4) Like Mollywogger, I'm a total celebrity gossip whore. I do wonder about Brad and Jen's marital relations, I care what Kate Winslet wore on the red carpet, and I certainly am concerned with Courtney Love's mental state (certifiably fucking insane btw). I could easily spend my entire workday on gossip sites, not that I do of course. Pfft...as if!
5) When I was about 12 my neighbour and I would film our own versions of "Star Search Fashion" videos, because really, how would Star Search not be expected to influence children so heavily? Our videos were shot very tastefully, with us sporting badly applied makeup and attempts at creative hairstyles. Flamenco was our chosen musical accompaniment, which we thought suited both the swimsuit and formal portions of our videos. I cringe at the very recollection of me posing in what I thought was a seductive manner in my blue polka dot bathing suit on the hearth of the fireplace to the guitar strumming of Ottmar Liebert.
So, tell me my children, how long has it been since your last confession? What embarrassing secrets are in your closets?
3/03/2005
No eggs in this basket
Today while avoiding work I decided to check my email. I typed half of my username before I was interrupted by some work-related annoyance and had to leave my computer for a bit. I returned a little while later, and when I maximised the window again I realised that I'd left the caps lock on earlier and thus I was greeted with a large box which simply read, "BARREN". Oh, aren't the fates cruel? My work PC has always had a vendetta against me, which was first brought to my attention when it spontaneously produced porn pop-ups at the most inopportune times. Many things have gone wrong since, and the IT people tell me it is all down to my "corrupt profile". Oh, the tremendous numbers of jokes that sprout from that diagnosis...That little fucker has it in for me, I know it does. Now it mocks my infertility. That's just the lowest of the low!
When I'm not blaming computers for having it in for me, I'm pointing a finger at the powers that be for orchestrating situations which make me think that life simply must be pre-ordained. I was sitting in the waiting area for my Good Lady Cooter Poker (now featuring Junior Wandmonkey) appointment yesterday, and The Dude and I were forced to spend it with Chav Family from Hell. The fertility waiting area is next to another waiting area of unknown description, and it seems Chav Family from Hell seeped over to my section uninvited. The mother was rocking a Croydon facelift, and Dad was sporting the requisite Burberry hat and tracksuit. Four or five year old Chav Jr was dressed just like Dad, because imitation really is the highest form of flattery.
Chav Jr was climbing all over the chairs, while Mom and Dad looked at gossip magazines and traded such witticisms as, "You fink Jordan is hot, innit? No she ain't!" My fists were clenched when Chav Jr picked up the notebook that is always present on the coffee table in the middle of the room, as it is used for Fertility Clinic patients to document their feelings and success stories. I'm not inclined to write in it, nor do I really want to read it, but I know how valuable it has been for some people that did not have anywhere else to write about what they have gone through/are going through.
Chav Jr manhandled the poor book, then dragged it over to one of the chairs. He flipped through the pages quickly, and started to tear out the first few. I stared at him ferociously for awhile, hoping the little bastard would put it down, or the parents would realise that I was glaring at their precious child, but to no avail. He asked his mother for a pen, at which point I was seriously considering shouting at these people to get some fucking respect for other peoples' feelings, but luckily the kid was told, "No babes, I ain't got none." A few minutes later (and little further damage to the book) they were called for their appointment. At this point the book was just sitting on the floor, a few errant, torn pages slightly sticking out. As they were getting up I walked over to the book and made an exaggerated gesture of picking it up and carefully putting it back on the table. I'm sure they could have cared less about my attempt at a statement, but it made me feel better.
It's times like these that the injustice of infertility gives me another slap in the face. It almost makes me want to give up and side with this visitor to my blog. Yeah, you and me both luv.
When I'm not blaming computers for having it in for me, I'm pointing a finger at the powers that be for orchestrating situations which make me think that life simply must be pre-ordained. I was sitting in the waiting area for my Good Lady Cooter Poker (now featuring Junior Wandmonkey) appointment yesterday, and The Dude and I were forced to spend it with Chav Family from Hell. The fertility waiting area is next to another waiting area of unknown description, and it seems Chav Family from Hell seeped over to my section uninvited. The mother was rocking a Croydon facelift, and Dad was sporting the requisite Burberry hat and tracksuit. Four or five year old Chav Jr was dressed just like Dad, because imitation really is the highest form of flattery.
Chav Jr was climbing all over the chairs, while Mom and Dad looked at gossip magazines and traded such witticisms as, "You fink Jordan is hot, innit? No she ain't!" My fists were clenched when Chav Jr picked up the notebook that is always present on the coffee table in the middle of the room, as it is used for Fertility Clinic patients to document their feelings and success stories. I'm not inclined to write in it, nor do I really want to read it, but I know how valuable it has been for some people that did not have anywhere else to write about what they have gone through/are going through.
Chav Jr manhandled the poor book, then dragged it over to one of the chairs. He flipped through the pages quickly, and started to tear out the first few. I stared at him ferociously for awhile, hoping the little bastard would put it down, or the parents would realise that I was glaring at their precious child, but to no avail. He asked his mother for a pen, at which point I was seriously considering shouting at these people to get some fucking respect for other peoples' feelings, but luckily the kid was told, "No babes, I ain't got none." A few minutes later (and little further damage to the book) they were called for their appointment. At this point the book was just sitting on the floor, a few errant, torn pages slightly sticking out. As they were getting up I walked over to the book and made an exaggerated gesture of picking it up and carefully putting it back on the table. I'm sure they could have cared less about my attempt at a statement, but it made me feel better.
It's times like these that the injustice of infertility gives me another slap in the face. It almost makes me want to give up and side with this visitor to my blog. Yeah, you and me both luv.
3/01/2005
Who here wants IUI #3?
Me me me!! What can I say...this seemingly flawless procedure failed me again. I started spotting Sunday night, and though I knew this meant a full-fledged period was impending, I held out for that .0005% chance that it could actually be implantation bleeding. Tell me, does this really exist, or does it function solely to lead us worn out infertiles on? "Ooo...spotting. Not a full period yet...could it be...?" No, it can't.
It was difficult for me to absorb all these emotions and head to work yesterday, but what choice do we have? As some of you may have guessed, I love T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Clearly the poem does not concern infertility, but I have stolen a line from it that I feel perfectly encapsulates how infertility makes me feel: "There will be time, there will be time/To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet". Infertility is such an important part of who we are, yet we all carry on with facets of our lives that run concurrent with infertility but never intersect. It can be such a chore to continue with this facade, pretending everything is ok in the aspects of your live uninvolved in infertility, but knowing once you're back in your own home that this dictates so much of who you are.
Before going to work I feel as if I have to leave so much of who I am behind in order to get through the day. I have to pretend as if this thing that drains me does not exist. It's so difficult to switch to this person in order to keep up appearances. I do the same when I have to deal with The Dude's family. It's a double life, a guarded secret. Thus far I think I'm succeeding with the faces I have prepared, as I imagine most of you do as well.
IUI #3 is my last chance before IVF. This is what is saddens me the most. IVF always seemed so far off, something which was a total last ditch effort, and here I am. The Dude made me cry in my bath tonight, as he was telling me quite nonchalantly since he was off sick today googled both IVF options and adoption. Jesus. So here we are. Wasn't it just yesterday I got off the pill?
It was difficult for me to absorb all these emotions and head to work yesterday, but what choice do we have? As some of you may have guessed, I love T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Clearly the poem does not concern infertility, but I have stolen a line from it that I feel perfectly encapsulates how infertility makes me feel: "There will be time, there will be time/To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet". Infertility is such an important part of who we are, yet we all carry on with facets of our lives that run concurrent with infertility but never intersect. It can be such a chore to continue with this facade, pretending everything is ok in the aspects of your live uninvolved in infertility, but knowing once you're back in your own home that this dictates so much of who you are.
Before going to work I feel as if I have to leave so much of who I am behind in order to get through the day. I have to pretend as if this thing that drains me does not exist. It's so difficult to switch to this person in order to keep up appearances. I do the same when I have to deal with The Dude's family. It's a double life, a guarded secret. Thus far I think I'm succeeding with the faces I have prepared, as I imagine most of you do as well.
IUI #3 is my last chance before IVF. This is what is saddens me the most. IVF always seemed so far off, something which was a total last ditch effort, and here I am. The Dude made me cry in my bath tonight, as he was telling me quite nonchalantly since he was off sick today googled both IVF options and adoption. Jesus. So here we are. Wasn't it just yesterday I got off the pill?
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