Finding Zen

Where I'm At

Sorry guys, it's been awhile.  I figured if you had to come here and see anything for 11 straight days, Ryan Gossling and his Cherrios wouldn't be so terrible.

To put it mildly, it's been a real stressful few weeks and I haven't had the energy to say anything nice - or articulate anything beyond the world of obsessing over my ability or INability to conceive.  I don't want to bore you.  This is Finding Zen, not Finding My Fertility.  This place is typically fun/funny, and I have been neither fun or funny lately.  I have been bitchy, moody, weepy, and down-right gassy.  I have had little time for writing, let alone for lending my attention to anyone but myself and the community of women I have adopted in the last month.  Thank goodness, for my husbands patience and understanding.  He is probably relieved to have kayaking and rain lately. 

I can tell you this.  It does not matter how ready you may ever decide you are, or are not.  I had never really gone beyond considering, that independent of my or Zack's willingness to open ourselves to this place, my body would have its own independent agenda.  I have believed all my life that it just takes one condom breaking...aka, have unprotected sex = voila, make a baby!  I had no idea how many variables went into this equation.  I had no idea about 'annovulatory cycles', or bum ovaries, low progesterone, or short luteal phases.  This is no wham-bam-thank-you-maam.  I thought you either get pregnant, or your husband has shitty sperm. 

I have waited for this moment, almost 30 years, thinking that if we just fire-hosed enough of the goods up in there, we could have a Brady Bunch in no time.  WRONG.  If you happen to be one of those people who got knocked-up from a one-night-stand.  I'm sorry to tell you this, but you must have done SOMETHIN' seriously wrong (or right, depending on how you felt about it) in your previous life. 

The other day I related it to Zack in this way.  And I really believe, not only did it help him feel closer to this process, he could genuinely empathize for the first time.  And I needed that from him.

Imagine a route, or a rapid.  It is the Big Kahuna.  The Grand Pooba.  The greatest feat of your sport.  You have approximately 29 days to train and one day to execute (and sometimes not even that, because a annovulatory month Hurricane will blow through and fuck up your whole perfectly-orchestrated plan).  You have watched all the videos.  You have invested in the best gear.  You have taken notes and consulted the expert forums.  You have practiced - boy have you practiced!  You have checked all the levels, your gauges, waiting for the perfect weather and the perfect conditions.  You have watched others do it.  You have studied their patterns, their behaviors.  You are prepared.  You are READY.  You are confident.  And the day arrives, and you are excited and optimistic, and certain in your ability to DO THIS THING THAT IS SO IMPORTANT TO YOU. 

And you fail.  You are wiped out.  A hold breaks.  Your foot slips.  You can't roll and are forced to swim.  You have fallen.  You have had to bail.  You are bruised.  Defeated.  And worst of all, you have to wait another 29 days to try again.

And he got it.  At least long enough I think, for that moment, to understand just how difficult this is, and why I'm not 1/2 as cool as I was 6 months ago.  So now, before you go on saying all the things you might feel compelled to say to me right now.  Like "its just not your time yet", or "its only been 'x' months", or this is the best one "JUST RELAX, it'll happen as soon as you quit worrying about it."  Before you start throwing statistics at me, and telling me about your sister or friend who miscarried like 8 times.  That I should be grateful I'm not her.  Or that I don't have to give myself injections - yet.  I KNOW.  I've read the stories.  I have googled more shit in the last 11 days than you have in the last year.  I have heard it all.  I walk around with a thermometer strapped to my vagina (might as well), and Zack has to bring me food and water to the office and sponge bathe me every other day so I don't have to leave the computer. I probably have an ulcer.  And the next time my period shows, I might just grind up all my xanex, mix it in with some Calgon Take Me Away, have a cigarette, a mojito, and never get out of the bathtub.  JOKING.

I know this is all relative to a bigger picture I just can't see yet.  I know.  It's just that it doesn't make it any easier.

So.  I have been trying to keep my hatefulness towards all the young cute women with babies...and all the women who are pregnant to a minimum.  The ones next to me on the road, in the grocery store, in Target, at the gas station, at my work - they are everywhere as though they have conspired to exist if only to remind me that my body is hormonally retarded.  But I just have to say this, because it might make me feel good for just one second.

To all the Fertile Myrtles of the world.  You are a rare breed.  You may think its cute, or funny, or ironic - that you just can't seem to NOT GET PREGNANT - ohmygod.  But it's not.  I am happy for you and your 5 children.  I am happy they are all beautiful and healthy.  I am happy that you never had to emotionally and physically LABOR the experience of not getting pregnant that so many have to endure.  But to you...fertile lady.  And please don't take this personally - I'm just hormonal. 

BITE ME. 

And I'm NOT SORRY your breastfeeding nipples hurt.  Unless of course it turns out I am in-fact bitchy AND PREGNANT, in which case...I take it back.  Kind of.

*To all the women out there who are struggling, or who have struggled to make and keep a baby - I admire your incredible strength and courage.  I am inspired daily, by those who have overcome and continue to face month after month, the challenges of fertility. 

Two Hot Tamales and a Husband

I've been feeling a bit saucy lately..and have decided to post today about two of my favorite actors, Josh Hartnett and Ryan Gossling.  Not so much because they are Academy Award Winners, but because they are really really easy to look at.  So now, before you feel the urge to question my interest in 'men with only happy-trails for chesthair'- just so you know, I like 'em like that.  Thank you.

Ryan Gossling

Now you tell me, WHO LOOKS THIS GOOD IN A WIFE BEATER EATING A BOWL OF CEREAL - who hasn't had a shave or combed his hair in 5 months?  Because Gina, let me tell you - that is one HOT TAMALE right there.  And whats even more hotter?

Ryan Gossling soaking wet with hotty Rachel Adams wrapped around his waiste.  In my humble opinion, this scene is one of THE hottest in a movie ever.  In case you forget...he runs her out of the rain just like this and then slams her up against the side of the house and makes out with her like NOBODYS BUSINESS. 

I loved Ryan and Rachel together - on and off screen, they have such good chemistry.  It's too bad they didn't work out.  And if you haven't seen Fracture - you must.  It's AWESOME. 

Josh Hartnett

What's so great about Josh - is he's pretty-boy hot like the super-sized underwear models on billboards in Times Square.  Only NOT Gay - which makes the fantasy more exciting, as a woman.  Not that I fantasize about Josh Hartnett.  Because,  who needs to fantasize about Josh Hartnett when you LIVE with him? 

 

Slap a wife-beater and a bowl of cheerios on that boy - toss him out in the middle of the rain, and life is good.  I'm hormonal, just deal.

Oh, and here is one last look at Josh.

Are you sensing a theme here? To all my readers:  Go home and throw your wife/girlfriend/lover up against a wall tonight and tell me that doesn't work out for you.  Only - don't throw your husband up against the wall.  That might totally freak him out.  Or maybe its just whats been missing out of your relationship...ahhh hell - if you can swing it - give it a whirl!  NO wait.  Scratch that.  That would be really weird.

I Don't Want Your BabyDust ANYWAY!

I found this website called Two Week Wait  www.twoweekwait.com.  It's chock full of symptoms one might feel during the two weeks they have to wait before they can know for sure whether or not they are pregnant.  You never know what that ingrown hair on your leg might REALLY MEAN.  It's a place for women to help others trying to conceive, obsess more about their bodies.  From what I had read through the other day, it didn't feel as 'cultish' as some of the others have felt.

So I decided to 'post' a howdy doody in one of the forums.  Maybe I could find a little community of like-minded women to experience this journey with.  So I created a profile and submitted my post.  It went something like this:

"hi I'm blah blah blah...and we've been trying blah blah blah...and I've done this and that so far...and this looks good, but what does this mean....and..."

Then I get to the part where I disclose to this group the litany of "TMI" details commonplace to these boards.  Like how many times and when and how you might have had sex (because fertile women are ALL ABOUT some details)...and as I'm writing my message, I can't bring myself to say it - BD (Baby Dance).  Nope, I will not conform!  So instead I go on my soapbox about how friggin STUPID the term "BD" is.  Thinking, maybe, just maybe, all these people have been waiting for someone to say it so they could all agree and we could start talking like ADULTS.  Who have SEX.  And sometimes *GASP* fuck.  And its all love-making - right?  Because if you are trying to have a baby - I'm assuming your sexual relations have something to do with love.  I mean, is it not possible for that word to exist in the context of making a baby?  Newsflash.  It happens (and in the famous words of Anne Lammot -  my 24-hour-egg and I, don't have that kind of time) - and I highly recommend it.

So I get finished with my little 'cant we all just talk FOR REALS' speech, and end it with a friendly "GOOD LUCK!" and a "Cheers!".  My signature does not include a blinky, a buzzy, or a scratch-and-sniff sticker of my Labrador Retriever.  I have no borders and no STATS.  And by all means, no trace, trail, or explosion of that almighty ever potent, BABYDUST.  I am, just Plain Jane ZenStella looking for pointers on how to get knocked-up and a conversation that doesn't involve Gods Will or Hands.

I went to bed last night eager to check the boards this morning hoping to find the group had deemed me CAPTAIN of a more authentic, and honest group of gals - STELLA'S HOT TAMALE TRAIN if you will!  A place where we could talk about our 'periods' and 'sex' and encourage eachother to spell out words and use complete sentences.  A place where our husbands aren't always DEAR (DH=Dear Husband).  Because some days mine is a SH=Silly Husband, some days he's a TH=Thoughtful Husband, and SOME DAYS hes a down right BH=Bastard Husband - either way, I hate to pigeonhole him.  I anticipated an outpouring of welcome and appreciation for my calling out the pink elephant dressed as a Stepford Wife in the corner of the room. 

This morning I checked in to my new club.  Not only had I not recieved any private messages of comraderie - 4 new pages full of chat in addition to a whole new THREAD had evolved since my post and not a SINGLE ONE acknowledging I even existed in their TTC world.  Talk about pink elephant.  Page after page of 'Welcome Susie!' , 'Welcome Jane!', 'OMG Becky so glad you could join us!', all sorts of conversations ignoring my introduction as though I had come in and dropped virtual ass right all up in their rose garden.

So I guess I'll be taking my Hot Tamale Train campaign somewhere else.  WHERE ARE MY PEOPLE???  Am I going crazy?  Do I have to take a blinky acronymn class?  Do I really have to go back to 1992 - because ya'll, I don't know how I feel about that...that was a BAD YEAR.  My husband, Josh Hartnett, on the other hand was doing just fine.  If only I had gotten some of THAT tamale train.... 

Best Line Ever

"I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that."

-Lloyd Dobler, Say Anything

Mr. Rogers' Transgenderhood

Mr. Rogers was one of my favorite shows growing up.  I watched religiously.  I loved Mr. Rogers and all his friends.  All of his friends except for Lady Elaine Fairchild.  I hated her.  I hated her voice, I hated her nose, I hated her hair - overall, she was the shows' ace 'sandbagger'.

The picture in the last post of Andy Warhol, conjured my memory of Lady Elaine.  As I pull up this picture to revisit my feelings for her - I am overwhelmed with commentary.  Let us have a look, shall we?

There are so many things wrong with Lady Elaine Fairchild, I just don't know where to begin.  For starters, who are we kidding?  This ain't no Lady.  This right here, is Boy George after a failed attempt at Mt. Everest.  Was Lady Elaine confused about where to put his lipstick?  Where are his shoulders?  Why is his nose 6 inches long, and that tip...that tip is about ready to fall off.  Did they think Lady Elaine Fairchild would improve ratings?  I'm sorry, but this Queen was in the WRONG HOOD. 

So by the time Poltergeist came out, I was already really put-out with red noses and lips and perfectly arched eyebrows on men pretending to be women.  This movie is responsible for many wasted hours of my youth; checking under my bed, leaving doors open for an escape route, and demanding my grandmothers dolls be put away before my visits.

The difference here is that the Poltergeist clown was not supposed to be cute.  They didn't need to go ruining a perfectly decent and friendly clown and every birthday party I attended in the 80's.  They could have just used Lady Elaine Fairchild.