Pod person

Help. me. Help. meeeeeeeeee. (said in the tiny, squeaking voice of The Fly). I'm turning into one of THEM.

Throughout this infertility journey...nay, mindfuck (I call it like I see it folks), I have taken great pride in the fact that I have not sacrificed my lifelong ambivalence and general dislike of children. I have not allowed myself to become all gooey and sentimental at the mere sight of a swollen belly or a gurgling infant. It's not who I am, and three long old years of infertility have only slightly weakened my resistance to all things children.

However, during my recent meltdown I had a moment of clarity. I came to the realisation that I do in fact want a child. I don't want someone's else child, so the random stranger pushing a pram down the street can keep her screaming brat without making me wistful. I was stressing about my paper, work, and every other little thing in my life, and it dawned on me that all of that paled in comparison to my desire to have a child. Given that I'm 27 and already staring down the barrel at IVF it may not be a biological child, but I'm fine with that. Cynical, embittered, innapropriate sense of humour-having, me.

I know it seems like a foregone conclusion that someone with an infertility blog would want a child. I am an enigma people, you should know that by now. In all the time that I have been attempting to get pregnant I haven't actually acknowledged that I *could* get pregnant and that it *could* lead to a real, live, breathing human being. Because of that denial, I haven't actually confronted the idea of being a mother. Now that I have realised that this appears to be the most important objective in my life at the moment, I'm forced to confront the fact that jesus...I might genuinely want one of these baby things. You know, to mother. Mind-boggling stuff.

Tune in next week, when my rapid descent into corniness finds me showering you all with babydust, buying dozens of Anne Geddes prints to plaster on the walls of the flat about which I will screech, "Oh isn't that just DARLING?" Consider yourselves warned.


C'est moi

For a limited time only. Me. Yes, I've altered the colouring a bit, but only because it makes me look far better.

It's a reference from "The Office", as requested by my Cheese Wife. I modified it slightly for the viewing public. This will only remain up until I wake up tomorrow morning and check my emails, whereupon I expect to see at least 40 emails expounding on my unearthly, all-consuming beauty. Recognise.

EDIT: This is the new me. I have been trying to get the real photo down all day, but Blogger was being a complete asshole. Go figure. However, I must admit I liked all the nice comments. Aww...I feel all warm and tingly inside. As far as the alteration of the original photo, the only thing I did was lighten it a bit and scribble out my name. It's amazing what the proper lighting can do for a girl.


The Secret Handshake

Before I launch into my newest IF-related diatribe, I thought I'd mention that re: my last post about Young Martha, it has occurred to me that she might be one of us. She's been married for at least 2 years now, and as someone who wanted to drive her 8 kids around in a minivan it's suspect that she has not yet spawned. Additionally, there is weight gain. Even if she is a member of the hypercool, ultratrendy IFers 4 Lyf club, I still don't like her. So there.

Onto the matter at hand...because my attempt at writing my project failed miserably, I was cajoled by The Dude to submit an extenuating circumstances form, citing my mystery, most likely Metformin-related illness which unconveniently stuck around for the wrong month of the year. Adding to that the failed and final IUI, and it was just a bad time all round.

When I was filling in the form, I had to use the word "infertility" and it felt wrong. Not that I'm still coming to terms with being ovulatorily shortchanged, but sharing it with strangers made me feel shameful and defensive. Shameful because I hate talking about infertility outside the blog and The Dude. Defensive because I know the form will be looked at and queried. No doubt it will be assessed by Smug Fertiles, or alternatively the Contented Childless. I don't imagine there will be an Emotionally Ravaged Infertile present to weigh in on the matter.

People that have not experienced infertility, whether firsthand or indirectly by way of close friends/relatives, tend to be so blase and infuriatingly patronising about infertility that I don't think my explanation of my poor performance will be taken seriously. It's funny that something that is so central to our lives is diminished so much by people outside the IF circle. I felt as if I had to write a page long explanation as to how very all-consuming infertility, and in this particular case, the side effects of the related medications, truly is. To think we wonder where all the bitterness comes from...

Veering completely off topic now, my Cheese Queen Molly tagged me to do this:

1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five people to do the same

I said this: "In reality, I think I'm massively unprepared despite the great lengths I'm going to in order to make it happen."

Such a boring sentence, especially as most of my blog posts are feeble attempts at being humorous. The post itself was centred around my questions concerning my suitability as a potential mother, doubts that I still have. I mean, I only wrote that in February of last year, so of course not much has changed. However, this exercise did make me realise that my early blogging is cringeworthy.

I'm going to totally not play along, as I will not tag anyone. Ha. Mainly because I think all of the people that read/comment here have already done it and I'm too lazy to really research who has and hasn't. I can't help it. I'm an infertile, and we are all selfish, drug-addled she beasts that just need to relax.


Dodging the bullet

Question: What is worse than yet *another* unsuspecting drive-by at work?

Answer: A secondary source drive-by via email at 3am when you have been staring blankly at a computer screen (with some intermittent typing) for 18 hours and are starting to hallucinate. I rubbed my eyes but the text remained the same: "She did not look as if she was in the condition to be pushing a shopping cart." Innocuous enough, perhaps, but...but...

The person that was being spoken of is an ex-associate at the large bookstore I often speak of. Satan incarnate in the form of a young Martha Stewart. I'm talking Gap on speed -- khakis all day, every day, conservative jewellery, modest yet stylish sandals, and the piece de resistance: the ever-present sweater carefully draped on her shoulders and knotted. When she would sport this look I'd put on my posh "old money" voice and say to my co-worker (and current spy), "Dahling...that look is so Martha's Vineyard circa 1986."

Yes, she could be forgiven for her sincere crimes against fashion. However, you must know that anyone who dresses like this also is in severe need of behaviour modification by way of electroshock therapy or thumb screws. Young Martha's hair was always perfectly curled and coifed, and she had a predisposition to exaggerated facial expressions. Lots of looks of wide-eyed wonderment, mouth agape, and that limp-wristed "Oh I don't belieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeve it" motion of the arm that the dramatic often utilise.

Naturally Young Martha loved children. In fact, she was going to college to be a first grade teacher. My belief was that she pursued this career because anything past that level would be a bit too mentally trying for her. I often despaired for the children that would be taught by this vacuous puffhead. Young Martha supervised the Children's section of not Barnes and Noble and delighted in speaking in apparent child-friendly voices during story time, naturally making full use of wide eyes and mock surprise.

My favourite Young Martha story occurred soon after my second and "real" wedding to The Dude. I have never been the type to fantasise about my own wedding. I had a beautiful dress and was able to get married in a 13th century church. That's all I needed. We had a very small reception with no frills and we left for our honeymoon in Lille within a couple of hours of arriving at the reception venue. I was drunk and don't even know what our family did after we left, nor did I care. Anyway...when I got back to work post-marriage, I was showing my photographs to my co-workers, most of whom were polite enough to "oooo" and "ahhhh" in the right places. Not Young Martha. Young Martha, who was in the early stages of planning her own preppy hell country club wedding said, "Oh Pru, I wish I could not put any effort into my wedding. I've been stressing out majorly when all you've done is show up. I wish I could have the courage to do that." Bitch.

So back to the drive-by in question. Deflated, I emailed my source and asked if he was in fact insinuating that Young Martha has found herself with child. I anxiously awaited his reply and this infertile for once, has not been dealt a swift kick to her polycystic ovaries by the powers that be this day. Young Martha is not pregnant. She's. just. really. fat. As my friend said, "It seems she is following a high carb diet." I really shouldn't be this pleased. The stars have realigned, if only for a moment, and this made me smile. I am the definition of evil.


Pot. Kettle. Black.

Thanks for all the anti-female friend solidarity expressed in the last post's comments.

I am, however, a stupid, ignorant cow. I go on and on about female drama, yet my entire weekend has been composed of me wailing and flailing. As I've mentioned before, I have this godawful project thing due tomorrow and I am so unprepared for its submission it's not even funny. In fact, I'm so unprepared that I'm blogging when I should be writing it. This weekend has found me mostly crying and lamenting, with poor Dude attempting to comfort me with, "You can only do your best." over and over again. It's his new mantra. Apparently he thinks that when I hear it for the one hundredth time I may believe it. He's a dear soul sometimes.

So here I am, agonising and flipping out. She who despises female drama is being melodramatic to heights yet unknown. What a hypocrite.

I shall keep telling myself that the difference between them and me is that I'm not projecting all this angst and misery on unsuspecting friends. Oh wait...so I AM. Shit.


Pimps up, ho's down

Warning: This post will contain vast generalisations about the female sex. If you don't care to read such broad, sweeping statements, piss off.

The older I get, the more I dislike women. I know I'm being very disloyal, but damn, women are hard work. Growing up I was never the sort to have many friends, choosing to associate exclusively with a group of three or four female friends. I had a lot of female acquaintances, but our relationships never extended beyond pleasantries. The friends I was close to in junior high and high school remain my main "real life" friends to this day.

Since high school, I don't think I have made a "real life" female friend. Sure, I have lovely little internet friends who are women, but throughout college and jobs I've had since graduating high school, I have not struck up a friendship with a woman. I have made friends in that time, all males, gay and straight. The Dude is not too happy with the hetero side of this, as he mistrusts my male friends, believing that all they want to do is get up on it. As it happens, this may be the case with two of them, but c'mon ladies, who wouldn't? Uh huh. You know it. Err..anyway, these male friends know that I am (usually) happily married, so the parameters of our relationships are set. No big deal.

When I moved to the UK, I figured I would attempt to make female friends somehow. Women to go to dinner with, go out for coffee, have lengthy talks about books, celebrity gossip, movies, badgers, etc. Essentially, the sort of relationship I had with my small number of other real world friends. However, this is not to be.

I have found myself involved in a friendship by accident, one which by the time I realised I was considered a good friend, it was too late to escape. This has made me realise the very reason I do not befriend women -- they are far too needy. It is drama and histrionics all the time, and I do not have time for this. I have enough going on in my own life without having to shoulder the burdens of other peoples' lives, especially when I deem their problems far less significant than my own. I don't have the emotional resources to pretend that I care about issues the people should really not be freaking out over.

For instance, said friend has panic attacks over being in a room without clear access to a bathroom. Fine. Is there really a need to weep and wail over this though? Is it necessary to tell everyone how very serious this issue is and demand they not laugh at your perceived grevious misfortune? Must there be hand-wringing and whining? I do what any good friend would do in this situation -- I shrug and walk away. I am a bitch, aren't I? Men. No drama. Not from the straight ones anyway.

I'm not saying women can't have problems and vent them. Why else would all of us blog? I just think there is a way of going about it which is not so bloody melodramatic. As I've mentioned before, I've dealt with depression and this little thing called infertility, but the only place I talk about it is on my blog. In real life, there isn't much of a place for it. I think the more people go on about things and complain about them, the more trivial their problems appear to others. I don't want that to happen to me, so I pretend it doesn't exist. This may explain the rage, anger, and bitterness that is rife in the blog. Hmm...

Thank fuck for the blogging world is all I can say. Where are you ladies in my real life?? I'll take your drama, at least you all do it right.


Drive-by part deux: Everyone is pregnant but you


I need to stop working, I really do. There are only 5 other people in my office, yet this is the primary source of the seemingly constant drive-bys in my life at the moment. I mentioned two the other day, and today provided quite a kick in the ovaries as well.

Co-worker 1: Do you want to see another picture of a baby belonging to someone you don't know and couldn't care less about?

Me: Sure. I would like nothing more than to see the product of God's illustrious bounty for everyone but me (and some bloggers).

:::Picture is shown. Baby is...baby-like. Small. Sleeping::::

Me: Oh.

Co-worker 1: It's my cousin's mechanic's dentist's daughter. She got pregnant accidentally and the father isn't around. She was going to abort it, but then decided that since she's 41 that this opportunity was not likely to present itself again. Isn't that fabulous? Go her.

Me: For fuck's sake.

This same co-worker also provided this gem:

C0-worker 1: You know Linda, right? The fat infertile that works in Department X? Well, she just had a baby. She had some...:::whispers:::: trouble and had to have :::barely audible noise::: IVF. It's no wonder really, she's a big girl. Can you imagine?

Me: Me? Pfft. No. No way. I'm as fertile as a clam.

Please tune in tomorrow, whereby a 55 year old woman with no ovaries somehow connected to someone in my office will also be besieged with baby dust and become pregnant.


Musings of Ms Vagina Brain

It's just occurred to me that I call my husband Ol' Wax Cock and myself Ms Vagina Brain. Are these really the type of people that should be trying to have children?

Speaking of vaginas (yes, AGAIN), I stumbled upon a video in my uni library yesterday that I just had to watch concerning the 1970s feminist movement and its relation to the visual arts of the time. As luck would have it the library provide little TV/VCR combos, with the only restriction being that you have to use headphones. The term has not yet begun, so the library was essentially empty.

Just as well really. Let me just say, thank goodness the feminist movement has advanced since the 1970s because christ on a bike were those women strange. My favourite segment was the roomful of badly dressed and even more horribly coiffed women prancing around in a circle with their arms bent and wrists limp saying "I will make the dinner. I will do the ironing. I will raise the children." over and over again in an extremely grating falsetto tones. Perhaps it was groundbreaking back in the day, but cynical me, inhabitant of the 21st century, just found it unnerving and hardly progressive.

There was boob and cooter action too. Much as I try to not be such a prude and embrace the tenets of feminism, ie not being embarrassed by vaginal imagery, the word "cunt", et al -- In real life I still shift uncomfortably when faced with it. I can write about it without fear, but having it all right in my face, and in public, led me to attempt to cover the screen subtly with my body while watching the rest of my video. I was worried how it would look, a woman on a nearly vacant floor of the library, watching grainy footage of naked women prancing about.

A day later, I'm back to reading about vaginas and damn it if I'm not enjoying myself just a bit. I have a confession. Earlier I sniffed one of the books while listening to Loreena McKennitt (Loreena--new album please!) and I was in heaven. Musty old library smell + Loreena = bliss. Does anyone else out there enjoy that smell? C'mon. I can't be the only one. Or can I...

Speaking of books, thanks so much for the recommendations. Once this bastard is written I plan on reading more about them via Amazon. I have been eyeing up Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell for a good while, has anyone read it? I tend to be attracted to books based on their cover art and I like the font on this one. It's an odd way to select reading material, but I can't help it. I'm a bit concerned with its length -- a hefty 1024 pages. If anyone has read it and says it is worth it, I'll invest the time.

Back to vaginas...


Read me. Eat me. Lick me.

That's me being all erotic and what not. Sorry, I'm reading a lot about "cunt art" for my project and I've got vagina on the brain. You know how it is.

Thanks to all who have offered to give The Dude a swift kick in his shrinky dinks or have suggested that this is just the nature of Man. Based on what others have said, I'm inclined to agree. Thankfully he and I have resolved our differences for now, though he maintains that he was not being a Type A'er and that he viewed what he said as being supportive. He then spouted something about "Men are from Mars, women are from Venus", which really should have lead to him getting a ticket to kicked-in-the-groin town.

In an effort to utilise the proverbial bootstraps for something other than self-strangulation, I am attempting to visualise a time in the near future where the paper will be written and I have at least one less thing to concern myself with. This is where I need your help. After 21 September I plan on reading a book. It will not be about vaginas. It will not be about conflicting feminist theories on the history of art. It will not debate the innumerable intellectual ruminations on the concepts of identity and difference. It will be fiction, and it will have to be good. So, fair blogging folk, what do you recommend? I love to read, but unfortunately I have been a student for the better part of 6 or 7 years, so I'm a bit behind. When I worked at the large chain bookstore that rhymes with Borders I was surrounded by all these fantastic books that I could only gaze at longingly but never read. I look forward to hearing your suggestions.

On a final note, I have added even more links to that there blogroll. Who would have thought there were so many bloggers? Oy vey. If there are some unfamiliar names, please visit them and make their cups runneth over with comments. Hell, visit some of the stalwarts of Pru's blogroll and do the same. There are some fucking fabulous blogs out there that get few comments, which leaves me scratching my vagina-consumed brain. I'm speaking figuratively of course. My brain has not been consumed by a vagina. But what an interesting post that would be...


Damn his eyes and drive-bys

I have a lot of venting to do, please bear with me while I work through this on my blog to save me from shouting and stomping my feet. First of all, I am not a shouter, and secondly, the guy beneath us probably won't appreciate either outburst.

Let's start at the beginning -- I had a bad weekend. I have a habit of dealing with things in an odd fashion. I do not cry right away when things go wrong, I seethe. Seething then, after a day or two of festering, turns into sadness and depression, which usually incorporates crying at some point. Friday night I was angry, but able to push it aside enough to go out and have dinner with The Dude. Saturday I realised how shit things are for me at the moment and I confined myself to the bed, crying and snotting over myself. The Dude was less impressed; cue lengthy talks at me whereby I should "Cheer up." and "Not let things get me so down." or, or, my personal favourite: "If you want things to change, change them! Don't sit here feeling sorry for yourself!" Haha! Ha! I've married fucking Dr Phil!

In his (barely sustainable) defense, he was not referring to the infertility that I should "just" cheer up about. Unfortunately I am the type of miserable bitch that once I am depressed about one thing, I am depressed about EVERYTHING. At the moment I am choosing to focus on my overwhelming corpulence and the paper that I have due in two weeks that I have barely started. I sometimes throw a little bit of IF in there just to mix things up a bit.

So after I voiced my displeasure with his little Mary fucking sunshine, pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps shit, he chose to ignore me until Sunday afternoon. Yes, the best treatment for a depressed and inconsolable wife is to give her the silent treatment. I would advise partners against utilising this measure in future, as rather than making me apologetic for my ever-so-selfish actions, it made me detest him. Not that I would actually do it, but I was daydreaming of hopping on a plane to visit my Mom and leaving this life behind. See, that's the danger in being an ex-pat. If it all goes tits up you feel like this was a play life, an experiment. You can ditch it and forget those three years of your life existed in the first place.

Late Sunday afternoon The Dude shuffled up to me and said, "I don't like fighting." Ah ha, say I, patiently awaiting his apology and promise that I can carve out his eyes with a blunt butter knife if he goes all Dr Phil on me again. It was not to be, as he follows this attempt of extending the olive branch with: "You can be such a bitch sometimes." Uh, eh? So then I cried a little more, flailed, shouted, clutched tissues angrily...the usual. He never really took back that comment, but I hope he felt just a tiny bit guilty.

Onto my next issue...also involving marital strife. As mentioned, I have a final project due in two weeks. Due to my mystery illness whose effects I have only just fully shaken in the past week (touch wood), I have not been up to much of anything at work, let alone after work. Additionally, I have had overall malaise, pumped full of medications, and dealt with another failed cycle. I've got a lot on my plate.

Yesterday the urgency of the project situation dawned on me and I broke down. My stress breakdowns are different than my bad news breakdowns. Stress breakdowns also involve tears, but in addition I shake and get weird tics. I started in the bathtub, trying to wash my hair while gasping for air, my hands trembling, and my head jerking to the side every few seconds. I told The Dude how I felt I was in way over my head and how I wished that I had never decided to do so much at one time knowing my predisposition to depression. Rather than trying to convince me that not completing the project or failing it would not be the end of the world, he was insistent that I could get all the work done in this limited amount of time and quickly changed the subject.

The Dude could not be any more of a Type A personality if he tried, and in his world everyone else deals with life just like he does. Stressed about life? Face all of your problems head on and work hard until they are sorted. Depressed? There is no such thing! It's just a behaviour constructed by the evil liberal psychologists to convince us we are weak! Pick yourself up woman, be strong!

Unfortunately this is not me and I do not live in his world. All I wanted was his acceptance that things are a bit rough and hectic for me at the moment, and for me to make it as far as I have without losing my mind is a motherfucking miracle. It will never happen. For once I want to surrender and admit that it is all too much. I want him to acknowledge that I graduated from college with a 3.8 GPA despite dealing with clinical depression, working 30 hours a week, and more or less supporting myself financially. I left college to enter the :::ahem::: "real world" which brought me more depression, infertility, a full-time job and a part-time postgraduate programme. In all of this I have not faltered once to the extent that it affected my school work or professional life. Not once have I submitted a late assignment or missed a day of work for anything other than genuine physical illness. I want to be weak just this once and not push myself into insanity for the sake of not failing.

Speaking of failure...I was subject to a drive-by pregnancy announcement yesterday. I've spoken about this former co-worker before, both here and here. She's pregnant again, 16 weeks along. The silly smug fertile has learned something now though, as she has kept the pregnancy until she thought she was out of the danger zone. Not to minimise miscarriage of course, but when I was supposed to feign concern for the blip on her otherwise flawless conception record I failed. Sorry, I wish miscarriage on no one but I cannot drum up too much sympathy for her given my rather lacklustre reproductive history. The fact remains she will have two children in the time that I have been attempting to conceive one. This is the first time I have been lapped, and if that don't beat all...I've been lapped twice.

I had a vision of my future today. A colleague of mine was telling me about her excitement surrounding a friend's new house purchase. Innocuous enough, yes. Until..."I'm just so happy for her, having this beautiful new house. She has tried and failed to have children over the years and I'm pleased that this can fill that void." Meh. Will I be this woman in 15 years' time? "Pru and The Dude just moved into a lovely house. I hope the prospect of a large house with character features and fancy new appliances is enough to compensate for their prolonged barrenness." I'll be the IFer's version of the crazy old spinster with 40 cats. The future is indeed bright.


If you email him, it will come

My period has been so kind as to introduce itself to a new prompt -- no longer does it feel the need to make its arrival 5 minutes after a negative test like the good ol' days. Now it likes to wait until I've emailed WHYBAML a rather long-winded tome in which I apologise many times for bothering him, and proceed to write about three paragraphs for something that could likely be summarised in a few words. No sooner did my eyes scan WHYBAML's reply than I felt the uterine lining release all its pent up frustration.

I reacted in the way that any normal infertile would sigh upon this happening. I sighed. Heavily. I haven't cried yet, despite listening to copious amounts of Jeff Buckley, late Johnny Cash, and Iron and Wine. Coincidentally, my Zen (MP3 player) must be sensing my mood, as it has only been playing depressing music for me on random. It's so kind.

I feel empty, not as if I even have the potential of crying. I feel as if the children we always hypothesise about are becoming less and less real with each failed cycle. As I've said many times before, I don't like other peoples' children. I think, well, I know, I would be that woman that says she only likes her own children, even once she's had children and is supposed to be oozing with the maternal. Seeing pregnant women and children does not make me think, "Awww...I want one of those for me, so cute!", but rather makes me think of all those qualities and features that the specific children of ours, the ones we have talked about at great length, would have that may never come to fruition. I don't see my children in them, I'm just envious that they likely came to be in such a simple, non-complicated manner and I will never have that luxury.

Today I did something I've never done before; I could not finish reading a blog of a newly pregnant woman. I usually remain non-plussed and happy for their success, but that just isn't happening today. It's the blog of someone who doesn't read mine, so all you new pregnants don't worry, it's not you. I just could not stomach all the "Yippee...I'm 6 weeks pregnant and going to Babies 'r Us tonight!" attitude. People like this get pregnant, while people like me sit in the back of the class listening to The Smiths on constant playback.


Menses in absentia

Like my uterus in the last IUI, my period has decided to pack up and vacate the premises. Perhaps my uterus and period made a mutual decision that they have had enough of this IF malarky and decided to move to Bermuda or something. If they're loyal reproductive organs and feminine functions they'll pick somewhere that I would want to go--like deepest Cornwall or something.

I'm starting to etch Roman numerals into the wall of the bathroom for every day this purgatory goes on. I keep thinking of reasons that this is day 16 post IUI with no sign of my period (knock on wood...I think), and I'm sure I'm leaving something out. When I tested on day 14 I thought that it was still logical that my period had not shown up, but the longer it goes on, the more I wonder what is happening in there. As Nico pointed out in the comments to the last post, when she does treatment with pussaries, her period sometimes doesn't arrive until 16 days after the IUI. I'm still shocked that WHYBAML did not think to mention this to me, but I'll get over it.

What if I never ovulated at all? Am I waiting for a period that won't come without medicinal provocation? What if the pussaries fucked everything up completely and absolutely nothing is going on? You can also tell how completely entrenched in this infertility thing I am, as the absolute last possibility in my mind is pregnancy. I'm more likely to self-diagnose myself as having a massive uterine tumour before I would think that I'm pregnant.

I have decided that if it doesn't arrive by the morning of day 18 (that's Saturday for those keeping score at home), I will test again. If it is negative, I will jump out my bathroom window. If it is positive, I will jump out my bathroom window. Tell my bird I loved him. Oh, and The Dude.

Random final note: For the person that searched for this, you are a sick bastard. I'm picturing a gleeful Fertile, surrounded by her hoard of beautiful laughing children, typing that search into Google. "Ha ha!" she shouts, pointing and chuckling at us miserable cows. Talk about kicking me when I'm down...I'll have you know, I'm only number 8 on the list. Try telling The Dude that after another negative test/when my period makes its debut.