Fat (Pregnant) Women Need Clothes, Too!

I don't think I've mentioned it before, but I am a "fluffy" woman.  I can pinch way more than an inch; I can grab hold with an open hand, and fill that sucker up.  And I've been fluffy ever since puberty hit, and there's no looking back.

 

The worst part was when I was younger, in the 80's and early 90's, when plus-sized clothing was a joke.  Sure, you could find clothing in larger sizes, but it all looked like something you'd find in your mom or grandmom's closet.  When you're zaftig and in your teens and early twenties, you want to be fashionable, too!  But the choices seemed to be limited to boxy suits, caftans, big shirts, and leggings.  Not to mention, all of the above were in oh-so-attractive (NOT) loud colors with giant floral patterns gayly splashed on them.  Apparently fat women like flowers.  Who knew?

 

(I won't even go into the swimsuit options.  Here's a clue, though: giant ruffled skirts that supposedly hide your massive thighs, in bright fuschia, with huge yellow cabbage roses all over.  Yeah, that's discreet.)

 

Then finally, someone got smart and realized that Big, Beautiful Women like pretty, fashionable clothes, and are willing to spend the same ridiculously-high amounts of money on them that the skinny-minnies do.  And we finally got clothing that didn't look like something that Lucy might have worn while planning her next escapade to get into Ricky's show.

 

But I still worried about one thing: what if I get pregnant?  Will I have to resort to muumuus?  Will the big shirt and leggings have a comeback?  Wait, were they ever actually IN?!?

 

Then I got the best email ever yesterday: L*ne Bry*nt, a wonderful clothing store for us fluffies, is starting a maternity line in November.  I am so freakin' stoked, and I'm not even knocked up yet!  At least I know that if I'm ever preggos, I can find actual maternity clothes instead of resorting to just buying a larger size.

I Had My Cherry Popped

Yes, you read correctly: I am no longer a virgin.  In the last 24 hours, I have lost several of my virginal states.

 

I have a weird body that refuses to follow the rule of, "a positive opk indicates that one will ovulate within 24-48 hours."  Oh, no; for me, it's more like anywhere from 12-24 hours later, which makes timing inseminations a very risky business.  Well, I got a positive opk yesterday morning, and insemmed early last night.  For the first time, I have had an anonymous stranger's joy-juice floating around in my va-jay-jay.

 

After the giggly time of laying down with my hips propped slightly for the recommended 20-30 minutes, I decided to double my pleasure, double my fun, by using an Instead cup.  I figured, couldn't hurt, might help, so I opened the package, and stupidly decided to use the thing for the first time EVER.  Did I mention that I was still lying down?  So there I was, hips propped up, and sticking this cervical cup up my hoo-hah.  I am far more familiar with my genitalia that the average person.  Go me.  It actually went in easily, and I was very proud that I'd gotten it in without any trouble.  Another first accomplished!  Of course, getting it out was another thing altogether.

 

Four hours later, I decided to take the Instead cup out.  Those people should be flayed with a cat o'nine for implying that it was easy to take it out.  I tried every finger on my hand, laying down, sitting up, squatting, everything, and the damned thing wouldn't come out.  I could feel it just fine, but it wasn't budging.  Fifteen minutes later, I was convinced that I was going to have a very embarrassing visit at my doctor's office.

 

"Yes, I've shoved something up my vagina, and I can't get it out.  No, no, it's not a gerbil or anything; just a cervical cup.  Why?  Oh, just for fun, I guess.  The batteries ran out on my Silver Bullet, and I decided to try something new."

 

Anyway, I finally remembered a sentence that was waaaay in the middle of a big paragraph on the Instead cup instructions.  I would like to say here, in this public forum, that this should be in bold print, underlined, and in a separate paragraph all of its own.  If you bear down (like you're having the biggest shit of your life, or perhaps giving birth-- not like I'd know what that was like!), it'll kinda push the cup forward where you can snag it easily and pull it out.  Once I figured that out, it was easy sailing.

 

So now I'm just enduring the nail-biting wait to see if I actually ovulated or not.  And then it'll be the TWW.  And then... Well, you guys all know the drill.

 

And for the 2.3 people (how do you have a fraction of a person, I wonder?) who've asked me about the friend/known donor situation, well, I have my doubts that it'll happen.  I love the guy to death, but procrastination is his middle name.  And since he has to find out the answers to some legal questions--which of course will take him 1,059 years (see "procrastination" above)-- I moved on to anonymous donor sperm for this cycle.  I'm not getting any younger, and I didn't really want to miss out on a conception opportunity.  It's possible that he/I/we will manage to get things worked out in time for my next cycle, but I'll just have to see.

Fertility report

I'm still staring at negative opks and waiting to ovulate.  I swear, I'm starting to hate those damned things.  That second line just won't get dark, no matter how long I stare at it.

 

Side note: I'm actually enjoying watching the "Lawrence Welk" show.  Man, I must still be buzzed from last night.

 

Side-Side note: Sharp knives, pumpkins, possums, and alcohol can be a dangerous combination.  Or a really great party.

Being 15 all over again

It's really kind of weird for me to be feeling like I did when I was 14, 15 years old.  If anyone else was like me, you always had the feeling in high school that you weren't quite cool enough to hang out with the popular kids.  Maybe you were poor and couldn't afford the "in" clothes, or perhaps you were too chubby to be accepted by the cheerleaders.  Maybe it was your unstylish car, or that your parents were religious freaks who kept you locked up at night.  For whatever reason, I know that there were a lot more of us misfits than there were of the "cool" kids.

 

Here I am in my 30s, and supposedly a fairly put-together kind of gal.  I thought I was beyond feeling the hurt and insecurity that can come with nonacceptance, but I was wrong.  No matter how old you are, someone can say or do something that wounds.

 

For me, it was discovering that people I considered friends... well, don't really like me.  It was a staggering realization.  I mean, even though these are Internet friends, and not the in-person friends who know me inside and out, it still hurts.  And I really feel stupid-- just like I did when I was 15-- for caring what people think of me.

 

I guess it's really that, I DON'T care what everyone thinks of me.  But I do care what my friends think, since they are the ones with whom I share my life.  And to find out that people that I considered friends don't actually give a flip, well, there's a ball of anger and hurt roiling in my belly.  But that's okay; I'll do what I always do:

 

"No, no, dear; we don't talk about those kinds of things; it's just not done.  You keep smiling, then talk about how heavy her biscuits were when you get home."

 

You just gotta love old-fashioned Southern repression.

HH: Ewan part 2

You know what? I have absolutely no snappy patter for this Humpday Humpable special second edition. This was just begging to be seen, so I obliged!

Humpday Humpable: Ewan McGregor

This week's (belated) Humpday Humpable is a shameless shout-out to my best gal-pal, who just happens to have a thing for Ewan McGregor. So, C, this one is for you!

I have to say, she has mighty fine taste. This is an excellent specimen for exploitation, er, a nice looking bloke. Welcome, Ewan, to the growing ranks of Humpday Humpables!

I must admit, I can think of worse ways to waste time at work, than finding hunky guys on the internet!

Bad dreamtime(s)

I had the most horrible dream last night. I dreamt that a ultra-secret government agency (you know, the kind that don't officially exist) drugged and kidnapped me, and removed my fallopian tubes and ovaries. Apparently there was a fear that if I ever reproduced, my child would be some kind of universal super-being. A bit of a mix of the Kwisatz Haderach and Superman, or some such. It seems that it was too much of a risk for the government to allow, that I might produce this uber-kind, and s/he wouldn't be under their control.

I woke up from my drug-induced coma to find myself in pain, and with surgical incisions along my abdomin. After two days of uncontrollable weeping, I turned into an icy automaton, and announced that "They" had taken my life, my future, and ended my bloodline, and that I was dead inside. Then, I started a bloody killing-spree, tracking down the ones who'd hurt me. Throughout the vengeance-stalk, I was completely emotionless. It was just something that needed to be done. Or, as we sometimes say in the South, "He just needed killin'."

I've been having a lot of weird violent dreams lately, and most of them have dealt with issues of vengeance, getting back at someone who's wronged me. Now, I don't mind the justice issues, but I can't help but wonder if it always has to be so Technicolor Crimson. And I would really prefer not to have sympathy twinges from my girly bits today, as if they're reminding me that they're still there.

Ehhhh, maybe I need to start drinking more.

HSG Results In!

I had my HSG* Monday afternoon.  I just to say that everyone was wrong: the nurse, the doctor, the lab tech, the radiologist.  All wrong.  They all told me that it would be worse than the sonohystogram.  Hah!  Compared to the agony I went through with the sono., the HSG was a cakewalk.  The sono. was pain level 8, while the HSG barely registered at a 3 or 4.  Of course, the best thing about both of them is that they're brief.

 

The hospital made a copy of the films for me to take to my doctor, and I didn't know until they handed them to me that the world had gotten all fancy and high-tech.  The pictures were burned onto a CD-ROM, which, of course, I have been staring at for days now.  I took the pics in to my follow up appointment this afternoon, feeling all kinds of happy.

 

You see, the sono. indicated that both tubes were blocked.  But Ye Olde Hysterosalpingogram clearly showed my right tube open, although the left one is partially blocked.  Hey, I'll take one open tube over NO open tubes any day!

 

Of course, there was no way I could stay happy and high on having an open tube, oh no.  After checking out the images of my girly bits, Dr. McHottie suspects I may have adhesions.  Although the dye was flowing wild and free from my right tube, there is a distinct shape far to the side of the dye, hinting that there's something in there that isn't supposed to be there, a possible Jello-Mold of pelvic adhesions.

 

So, from high to low, all in one short office visit.  Of course, the only way to know for sure is to go for laparoscopy; I'm not sure I want to do that, though.  Dr. McHottie is fine with me trying for a few months first, so I think I'll go that route.  It's possible that a) I don't have adhesions, or b) I do have adhesions, but they won't interfere with egg transport and delivery.  I guess the only thing to do now is try, wait, and pray.

 

*HSG explanation: Shel, this is for you. :D  An HSG is a radiology procedure where they inject dye into your uterus, and take x-ray pictures.  The purpose is twofold.  One, to check the shape and structure of the uterus, making sure it's okay.  Two, to see if the dye will fill the fallopian tubes, then spill from the ends into the abdominal cavity.  This shows whether or not the tubes are open, which is kinda important, since if they're blocked, sperm and egg cannot meet, and said egg cannot make it to the uterus... which means you can't get pregnant!

 

Oh!  Charlotte, you wanted to know about the baby batter situation.  I'm... working on it.  There are details to be worked out, and arrangements to solidify.  Of course, I'm getting antsy since next week is when there will be a party in my pants.  I'll post more when I know more!

Family Daze

That's right, I'm full of sweet chocolaty family goodness right now, and I hope it's enough to carry me through until Christmas!  Like so many people, I have Family Issues; that is, with my blood relatives.  With the exception of my mother, grandfather, and one or two cousins, it really wouldn't matter that much if the rest of my family disappeared from the face of the earth.

 

My friend-family, the family I've made for myself, is another thing entirely.  What a wonderful feeling, knowing you are loved and accepted just as you are (Great Bridget Jones' ghost!).  That there are people who know your flaws and faults, but love you for them, rather than despite them.  And I have spent the weekend with some of the most important of those people.  Ahhh, the sweet, sweet feeling, almost as good as chocolate.  And those are some strong words coming from me, believe me.

 

Anyway, I can't think of anything better to keep in mind as I get ready to head off for my HSG.  Happy thoughts and lots of love.  I'm trying, anyway, even though there's a strange ache in my belly that fears the worse.

Humpday Humpable: Jonathan Rhys Meyers

To continue my shameless Wednesday tradition of exploiting delicious men, this week's eye candy is Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Now, if you're anything like me, you were wondering who in the hell is JRM?!? So, here's a little backstory... on me, really, that just happens to do with JRM.

In early May 2005, I got the best present from God ever: my niece/Goddaughter was born. She was jaundiced, and soon developed colic. So, trying to help out her parents, I spent oodles of time at their house assisting as much as I could. In the first year or so of her life, also in solidarity with the parents, I watched very little television, rarely saw any new movies, and had no social life other than the wee one.

The last month or so, I've finally begun haunting video rental stores, trying to catch up on all the movies I wanted to see but missed. One of them was "Bend It Like Beckham". I thought that the coach in the movie was cute, in a boy-next-door kind of way: not drop dead, model gorgeous, but very cute. Of course, the Irish accent didn't hurt, either! Being far too lazy to strain my old eyes trying to read the credits at the end of the movie, I decided to look online to see who was the Irish cutie coach. And of course, it was JRM.

I freaked out a bit as I saw how many websites are devoted to this guy. Apparently, he's a "ranker" on the hottie lists. Who knew? I just thought he was worth a second look. Anyway, here’s where the story comes full circle (no, really, I promise). The first really great pic I found of him—where he doesn’t look anorexic or totally androgynous—is the one shown, him portraying the King, Elvis Aaron Presley.

Aside: Yeah, I’m an Elvis fan. I sometimes go to Candlelight Vigil during Death Week. Blow me.

Now, JRM is looking much better to me. I mean, any man who can give good face to the King like that just got several more brownie points in my notebook. So I wondered: how did I miss this? I didn’t even know anything about this Elvis movie!!! And then I found out that it aired on TV the same week that my niece was born, which is of course why I missed it.

Anyway, enjoy the eye candy. I’m going to watch Viva Las Vegas, eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich, and massage my scooties.

Extra lovin' for my oven

Okay, so what's going on? Is it "offer semen to Kim week" or something?!? Don't get me wrong; I love my friends, but I'm kinda freaking out by the outpouring of love and jizz that seems to be coming my way.

Man, there are so many 5th grade moments in the paragraph above, but I'm leaving it alone.

Another couple that I know has offered me their, uh, libations of love. I think I'm starting to leave happy land, and am headed straight for slightly freaked out land. I have no idea why I'm freaked out; I mean, it's an embarrassment of riches, so to speak. And again, the offer was made completely on their own; we weren't even talking about any remotely relating to my uterus.

[Me] "Hey, can I have some more salad?"

[Friend] "Sure. By the way, you want some semen?"

[Me] "Well, no, not on my salad. But thanks, anyway. So, do you often serve jizz salads?"

It didn't really happen like that, but the real event was just as surreal. Anyway, I don't even know if I'm open for business. I have my HSG scheduled next Monday, so I'll find out soon if my tubes are open or not.

I can't help being goofy

A person who shall remain nameless asked me why, if my blog was supposed to be all about my TTC experiences, that I have some really goofy stuff posted on my blog.  She thought that it took away from the "grittiness" and "realness" of the whole singleton-TTC thing.

 

There's a damned good reason for it: I am more than just my vagina and attached bits.  Yes, I started this blog/journal because of my TTC journey; and yes, I spend way too much time dwelling on my fallopian tubes.  But I can't let this 2.5 year trial by fire redefine my entire life, and completely change who I am.

 

Like everyone, I am more than just one thing, than just one quality.  I love romantic comedies and action flicks.  I like smirking and nodding knowingly when I see a guy with a great ass.  And yeah, a good book can send me over the edge, laughing like a madwoman all alone in my room.  Of course, I'm also a certified nerd, complete with comic books and video game addictions.  And I love my family, with mom being number 1 on the list.

 

And there's also the bad bits.  The laziness and fear of failure that sometimes makes me not even try new things; better not to try, than to fail, right?  The insecurity and self-image problems that make me think that people don't/won't remember me, that I don't make enough of an impact to be "worthy" of remembering.  The overwhelming arrogance that surfaces from time to time, convincing me that I know better than anyone else, and that you'd be a fool not to do everything my way, because of course, it is the best way.

 

So that's why I just go "off-topic" from time to time.  If all I did was dwell on the angst of TTC, and on all the unpleasant parts of me, I'd be a basket case.  Those bad bits are only a little bit of me, and this is my journal about ALL of me.  I like to think that I'm a pretty nice person, relatively interesting, and fun to be around.  So you should get to see something more than just my reports on my reproductive organs.

It's not my fault

Back when I first heard of web-logging/blogging, I thought, "Oh great; yet another way for frustrated writers to masturbate their egos on the internet, splashing their crap on the WWW canvas like wannabe Warhols." Okay, so it was a mixed metaphor, but you get my point. I stayed away from blogging like it was the plague. There was no way I would ever write about my personal feelings and life events, for anyone to read.

Then I "met" some great people online, on the Site That Shall Not Be Named, and noticed that several of them had blogs. Huh. Well, they seemed really cool and supportive, so I gave in and checked out their blogs. I was totally shocked and awed. And I was hooked. Next thing I knew, I was reading some of the blogs that they linked to. And then blogs from those blogs, and so on.

I found an incredible sense of community with all these couples and singletons. I wasn't alone; I wasn't the only one playing the Infertility Game [by Milton Bradley]. And while I don't wish my own misfortunes upon others, just knowing that there are other people who intimately know exactly what I'm going through.... it helps. A lot.

Next thing you know, I'm starting a blog of my own. For someone like me, it was one of the scariest things I've ever done in my life. I was getting naked in front of a bunch of strangers, showing them my scars and my flab, exposing the bits that are usually covered and safe from prying eyes. But I realized that it's a good kind of naked, really. The oddly-pasty bits of me that never get to see the sun, are getting a tan for the first time. And I'm realizing that ugly bits maybe aren't as ugly as I thought they were.

It's all so wonderfully cathartic. I never had the discipline to keep a journal, but for some reason I don't have a problem doing this. Go figure. But the funny thing is, when I first started, I was paranoid that I would be anonymous and unknown, that no one would ever read my blog. Then after the first week, I realized that it didn't matter. I'm not writing for anyone but myself; this is my own medicine. Don't get me wrong-- I'm happy when my friends read it, because then I don't have to verbalize everything that's in my head. There are often things that I can write about, but that I could never say out loud. But this is my blog, my journal, and my purge. And it's not my fault that my mental vomit is being sprayed out into the universe.

It's Cali, Tammy, and Sarah's fault, for being so great and getting me hooked. And I thank my lucky stars for them, because if I'd never read their blogs and consequently started my own, I'd probably be bonkers by now. Arigato gozaimasu.

And I have no idea why I went Japanese for a moment.