Flotsam

Friday night I returned home from work just before 9:00 p.m. I realize that for many of you, this is not an unusual occurrence. However, I start work at 6:30 in the morning, so, for me…it is.
I was there at the behest of the attorney on my tiny jurisdictional team, who gets into the office at 9:30 a.m. It was her fondest hope to build and send to manufacturing two books–not due to manufacturing until the middle of next week–by the end of Friday. This was primarily as a “surprise” treat for the other editor, who is in St. K!ts and will be returning Monday, {I think a Carr!bean vacation is enough of a treat, don’t you?} but also because the attorney will be taking an Out Of Office day for Halloween. My birthday. For which I cannot take an Out Of Office day, because I am using my one remaining vacation, sick, or personal day next Tuesday, the day of many tests.
I have not taken more than one consecutive day off this year. I have not taken a vacation. I have used my vacation time hour by hour to cover Doctor’s appointments and Lab tests. The closest I have come to “vacation” is leaving at noon once on a Friday in order to drive four hours to visit my Nearly In-laws. While the rest of the office will be largely absent at the end of December, I will be there, except for the paid company holidays of Christmas and New Year’s Day.
Luckily, I have an active imagination. After all, I will not be at work on Tuesday–it’s not exactly a spa vacation, but it’s still a vacation, in a way, is it not?
Here is my itinerary:

Monday: Get in touch with your monastic side with an evening of fasting! Wise men believe the practice of depriving the body of food brings one closer to God. If you get close enough, feel free to ask Him why His Plan for Britney Spears includes children yet His Plan for you includes only strangers with specula.

Tuesday: Arise early and enjoy a leisurely drive through rush hour traffic to The Lab. Here, you will be treated to a luxurious Two-Hour Glucose Tolerance Test, balanced by a brisk thyroid workup. Allow yourself to be soothed as one of our charmingly surly lab technicians draws half-a-dozen vials of blood for baseline glucose and insulin levels, as well as free T4 and thyroid antibodies tests. As you will no doubt be parched after the vigorous blood-letting, we offer you a drink of the purest, orangest Glucose, prepared by squeezing the sweetness from the last six people to urge you to try Positive Thinking as a method of curing anovulation. Then, relax in our lavishly appointed waiting room with a book—may we suggest “Diabetes and You,” “Thyroid: Why?” or, if you are in the mood for something lighter, perhaps a biography of Andre the Giant!
Your morning may be punctuated by bouts of hyper- and then hypo- glycemia, but our plush carpets provide a soft cushion should you lose consciousness and fall from your chair. Trips back and forth from the lab to the waiting area for repeat glucose and insulin blood draws are a pleasant and diverting way to exercise those leg muscles!
Later, challenge your mind by attempting to secure from the Nurse a date by which your test results will be available. According to the AMA, puzzles and games such as these can help to stave off Alzheimers!
In the afternoon, Treat Yourself …To a 90-minute therapy session with a trained mental health professional.

Thursday: Place a call to the clinic to request the results of Tuesday’s tests. Relax and listen as the strains of “Careless Whispers,” played by a breathy flute, ease you into a sort of fugue state for the 20 minutes during which you are on hold.
Your remaining schedule will be flexible. Will the Nurse return to the line to issue a chipper yet vague “Everything looks Great!” before promptly hanging up, leading you to repeat the entire process in an attempt to discover the actual numbers that look so “Great?”
Probably.
But after that—who knows? Perhaps you will return for another round of pampering blood tests. Perhaps you will relax and put your feet up in one of our exam rooms as a hygienically gloved Wand Technician massages the interior of your abdominal cavity. Perhaps you will merely return home for a good cry.
Whichever way things go, we hope you will remember your vacation with us fondly, and carry the experience with you in the moist recesses of your battered, beating heart…always

Each morning, I dress in the dark, so as not to wake The Nearly. This morning, after shuffling about looking for socks and smacking my shin into things, I stumbled out into the living room and turned on the light. There, before me, was what looked like the scene of a tiny horror movie. Drops of blood everywhere, small smears of it, miniature pools that could be analyzed by miniature forensic scientists for miniature evidence. This was an unsettling thing to come upon at 6:07 in the morning. The source, I eventually discovered, was Willie, one of our three cats, who was hobbling rapidly around the apartment licking at one upraised back paw. She wouldn’t let me near her, so I dragged The Nearly out of bed (I think I have blogged before about their unnaturally close relationship) and he cradled her and rushed to the bathroom to the assess the damage. We got her cleaned up, ascertained that it was merely a gash to one of the toe pads of her paw, and devised a brilliant first-aid plan that involved toilet paper, duct tape, and a birth-control cozy (yes, I knit myself a birth-control cozy—those little plastic pouches are not very attractive) fitted over the whole thing like a sock. We had no sooner affixed our brilliant invention to our cat and let her loose than she jumped cleanly out of the whole contraption and commenced hobbling madly around, bleeding for all she was worth.

This is the kind of week it has been, for me.

I have to ship pages of the bound volume I am working on to The State (a small, eastern state, which asks that you Live Free, or, you know, not at all) by Wednesday—a deadline that seemed so unattainable I was sure my director had simply pulled it from a tree, like a peach.
So, last Saturday, I was in my office.
And Sunday, the day The Lord set aside specifically for rest, that day I went into work, too. When I turned on my computer, however, it said “Press F1 to retry Boot or F2 for System Utility,” and that is all it would say. And our tech support department was at home—day of rest and all.
Monday morning they took away my computer, from which they were unable to recover anything, to replace the hard drive, promising to return it “By noon Tuesday.”

Today, calling my clinic for the results of my 24-hour cortisol test, I reached Nurse Hard of Hearing, or Nurse-Deaf-as-a-Goddamned-Post, for short.
“I’m calling for some test results,” I said, after giving my name.
“What?” she replied.
“TEST RESULTS?” I queried.
“Eh?” she said, cleverly.
“I am CALLING for my TEST RESULTS!!!” I boomed, strident.
“Are these ultrasound results?”
“NO!!!” I shrieked, “A Blood Test!!!”

Several people chatting in the next office quieted all of a sudden, no doubt to speculate as to what I was being tested for—Syphilis maybe?

I was eventually able to give her a phone number to call with the results, and returned to my desk during a five-minute break from running about like an escaped (and very, very, busy) asylum resident to find a message on my voicemail from the same nurse assuring me that the cortisol results “Look OK,” (I’ll be the judge of that, I thought bitterly) and that Dr. Doctor will call me in the morning.

IF I manage to meet my deadline tomorrow–and speak with Dr. Doctor, and avoid any more feline carnage–I will try to pry myself away from my celebratory wine bottle (bottles?) long enough to update you.

p.s. The date for the Great Midwestern Infertility Mojito-a-thon has been set, by the way, so mark your calendars for December 3rd…

Wednesday morning my favorite nurse, Nurse Compassionate Concern, called me at work. The supplies for my 24-hour Pee-a-thon had arrived, and could be picked up anytime before 4:00. I enquired about the results of Monday’s test.
“Err…about that,” said Nurse CC.
It seems that Monday’s test, the one with the fasting and the vial of platinum and the blood draws one-hour apart, was ordered in error. They were very sorry. No, they couldn’t tell me the results anyway, “just for fun.” They hadn’t sent the blood out at all. Well, they disposed of it. The clinic manager would arrange to have me reimbursed for the injection. Yes, they still really wanted me to do the pee test. No, they wouldn’t “dispose of that too.”
So, Wednesday afternoon I picked up my “supplies” at the clinic—One orange vat, shaped like a gas-can, sporting a skull and crossbones on the side labeled “POISON!” and warning that it contained a boric acid capsule for “urine preservation.” Small print entreated me not to fish it out and swallow it. Nurse Compassionate Concern handed me my vat in a crinkly plastic bag from The Dairy Queen.
Class, that’s what that is.
Thanks to T’s excellent advice in my comments and via email, I took the opportunity to sternly request an RPL (Repeat Pregnancy Loss) panel to find out if I am a MoTHeRFucking Mutant, or whatnot. Nurse Compassionate Concern promised to speak to Dr. Doctor and hopefully I will have the blood for the panel drawn tomorrow when I return my urine. Yes, that’s right, I am now in hour nine of my pee-a-thon. Luckily when my Laparoscopied Boss–in the course of her inquiries about my latest round of tests–heard I would be performing my pee-a-thon today, she saved me from having to do it at work (I have eaten up all of my sick and vacation time save one day, while still managing never to have taken more than one day off consecutively) by giving me a project to do at home and letting me make up the rest of the time Saturday morning.
So, I shall collect all of my urine in a paper cup, pour it into the poisonous vat, and bring it to the clinic at 7:00 tomorrow morning so they can test it for Cortisol. I wonder when the results will be back—Monday? Tuesday? I hope the technicians will not be disconcerted to find that my urine is about 3/5 Verdejo. Mmmm. (I am off the clock now, you twits).
I quite enjoyed today’s flashback to my freelancing days—writing important email whilst wearing housepants, flagging citations whilst shimmying to “Superstitious” and eating wasabi peas. And tonight I go to see Joan Didion—I hope I don’t have to pee during the reading, because I will not have my vat with me (it does not go with my dress).

Once upon a time, last Wednesday, in a pair of stirrups far, far away, I had my first appointment with my spry and youthful RE.
My new RE doesn’t get a snarky nickname. I would call her Dr. Where Have You Been All My Life, but Pru has already taken that one, so I will just call her Dr. Doctor. Why, you ask? Because (unlike the H&IBOML) my new RE is precisely what a doctor is supposed to be—a learned medical professional who genuinely cares about her patients. And she is amusing, to boot. She didn’t have all of the answers, and nothing definitive came out of my appointment, but she spent more time with me than a doctor ever has, listened to my every suggestion and question, and seemed more invested in finding out what is wrong with me than in being right. And she obviously knew her LH from her FSH, if you know what I mean. So in that respect—the finding a doctor I like and trust respect—the appointment was a success. But in the finding-out-what-is-wrong-with-Alexa-and-fixing-it-respect…oh well. She was so sweet and smart. And did I mention how amusing she was? Can’t that be enough?
I am too tired to go into exhaustive detail, my ducklings, and also I am in the process of finishing a bottle of wine I got on sale for $7 called “4 Emus” (for days when 3 Emus simply are not enough) and my sentence writing faculties are a bit impaired. But here are the highlights:
1. Dr. Doctor sided with all of my doctors previous to the H&IBOML—she thinks that I very likely do have endometriosis
2. And PCOS
3. Though she is not comfortable diagnosing me with PCOS definitively because my testosterone level was lower than she would expect to see
4. My elevated LH is bad for egg quality, but no longer used as a PCOS diagnostic criteria
5. My elevated insulin was “Very Troubling”
6. But my elevated insulin could be due to my family tree, the branches of which hang heavy with diabetics
7. My previous ultrasound report was the only ultrasound report Dr. Doctor had seen in her career (although, she is young enough that had she been less admirable her nickname would be “Doogie Howser, RE,” so perhaps she hasn’t seen that many ultrasound reports) that mentioned PCOS by name, rather than simply nattering on about my multiple follicles and increased stromal echogenicity
8. The ultrasound performed by Dr. Doctor prompted more comments about the bizarre, tilty angle of my cervix and uterus
9. Dr. Doctor was surprised I could have sex without yelping in pain
10. My right ovary had a cabal of immature follicles loitering along its edges
11. But my ovarian stroma was not as thickened (the thickening is a function of testosterone) as she would expect
12. My left ovary was hard to find because it had moved behind my uterus
13. Probably it was hiding, and I don’t blame it one bit
14. It was exceedingly unattractive
15. Nearly twice as long as a normal ovary (or, indeed, my own right one), it had so many follicles ringing its periphery that they ran together in a hideous black channel
16. We had an exasperating circular conversation much like the one Akeeyu had with Dr. Debate Team—my polycystic ovaries could be caused by anovulation, which could be caused by polycystic ovaries which could be caused by anovulation…
17. In Europe, these ultrasound findings would be considered indicative of Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome
18. In America, Polycystic Ovaries are not a consideration for diagnosis of Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome
19. So, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean I transform from just another wonky, anovulatory girl into a PCOS patient
20. Dr. Doctor looked at my BBT charts, which were, apparently, a waste of time
21. Out of 10 charted months, I ovulated twice, both months coming off the pill
22. Twice. That is how many times I ovulated
21. Even if I had ovulated other months, on my shortest, most regular cycles (35 days), it would be considered Late Ovulation
23. Tardy eggs are sullen, uncooperative, and not “quality”
24. Still, the only way to be certain I am not ovulating would be a monitored cycle with progesterone draws
25.Which we will do, along with a New! Improved! Testsosterone level
26. But not for at least 30 days, because the H&IBOML put me on Yasmin, and it must be out of my system for a month

Here is my favorite part: Let me pause for a sip of my Four Emus (when five Emus are one too many)
27. The last time I got pregnant, it during a cycle I was taking the pill
28. So we were delighted, but surprised, especially as we knew I had ovulation problems
29. Dr. Doctor confirmed what others had suggested:
30. I most likely got pregnant because of the pill—the hormones regulated my cycle/cystiness, but I either missed one, or it was metabolized differently due to the meds I took after my colposcopy and endocervical curettage that month, and I managed to ovulate
31. Had I been on no birth control, I almost certainly would not have ovulated
32. For 11 years I have been paying 10-30 dollars a month for something my own pixilated endocrinological system does for free

I left the appointment without any action plan, except to immediately stop taking the Yasmin and make an appointment for 30 days hence.

And then, on Friday, things got a spot more complicated…

TO BE CONTINUED

*Copyright Biggie Smalls

Yesterday I encountered, for the first time, promotional stirrup covers. Are you familiar with these? Little mittens that slip over the stirrups in an exam room, little mittens advertising pharmaceutical products?
I found them peculiar. Have pharmaceutical companies found these to be effective? Do women nestling themselves in for a wanding see these promotional stirrup mittens through the frame of their thighs and think “Hmm. Trivoril. I should Ask My Doctor about Trivoril—as soon as she removes her fingers from my vagina.”

Really, I am too tired to write about the appointment—I feel flattened. I would like very much to crawl into a hole in the wall, pulling a bottle of wine and an electric blanket after me, and not emerging until…well, do I have to emerge at all? Couldn’t I just stay in here?

So, the other night, The Nearly was watching an episode of Real Time With Bill Maher as I sat across the room chuckling at my site stats, which had just informed me that some fine person had happened across my blog by searching for the word “Slutbitch” (you’ve come to the right place, my friend). Bill Maher was making jokes about Harriet Miers, and I wasn’t paying him any mind, until the focus of his jokes shifted from her politics to the fact that she is “unmarried and childless.” Specifically, there was a bit about how once when Harriet bent over it was thought that she was ‘showing some thong,’ but it turned out to be a cobweb. And next came the quip that probably the only balls Ms. Miers handled had numbers on them (a reference to her tenure with the Lottery Commission—haha!) It was about this time that I got well and truly pissed right off.
Now, I am not a fan of Ms. Miers—both for political reasons and because of her lack of credentials…if you’re the producer of a theatrical production and you need a leading lady, you don’t cast the coat-check girl just because she’s right down the hall (although our President wasn’t in any way qualified for his job, so perhaps he does not view Ms. Miers’ dearth of judicial experience as a stumbling block).
But none of that is the point.
The point is that I am sick to death of the emphasis on the marital state of a Supreme Court nominee. I have had my fill of the Old Maid jokes and of the images of her as a crone-y crony. If said nominee were a man, the standup riffs of talk-show hosts would not center on how long it had been since his last sexual encounter. Justice Souter is also “unmarried and childless,” but he gets the rakish term “bachelor,” a term that implies a sort of playboy-ish quality, a sort of nudge-and-a-wink rapscallionism, while the intimation is that Ms. Miers hasn’t been touched since the Carter administration, if ever. A Google search for “Harriet Miers Unmarried Childless” turns up a scad of documents musing on her status as a single non-mother, while a search for “Souter Unmarried Childless” only turns up articles about Harriet Miers.
I started in on a tirade about this to The Nearly, fuming that a 60-year-old unmarried and childless man nominated to a position of power would not have his personal life caricatured in this way—I don’t remember hearing anything about whether John Bolton is married. There were jokes about his mustache and the fact that he looks like a cross between Captain Kangaroo and some mad sea captain, but nothing that approached the pointed scorn that Miers’ unmarried state has drawn.
The Nearly responded that these jokes are partly due to the way Miers looks: like the woman on the Old Maid cards, so powerfully frumpy that she appears in some recent photos to be a time-traveler from the late 1980s (although, in her defense, her frumpiness is no greater than that of most other female Republican politicians). If she looked like Arianna Huffington, or even Hilary Clinton, argued The Nearly, Bill Maher wouldn’t be making jokes like the one about ‘cobwebs.’
I agree. In that case, Harriet Miers would be portrayed as a ruthless, ambitious man-hater who garnishes her morning cereal with the testicles of her frightened male underlings. And god, the Lesbian jokes! An attractive, unmarried 60-year old woman? She must like pussy!
As it is, her frumpiness keeps the jokes in the “can’t get a man” category.
Perhaps equally disturbing is the tendency of the media to “marry off” prominent unmarried women to the men they work for—as if to underscore that their power is actually negligible, that they are merely the pawns of powerful men. Condoleeza Rice is the example that comes to mind. Also “unmarried and childless,” she is portrayed as a fawning syncophantic devotee of the president, unhealthily attached to him, in a way that is a little pathetic, like a schoolgirl with an inappropriate crush on a teacher. Miers is already being characterized this way. And again, my problem with this is that it undermines the seriousness of the cronyism charges that have been leveled against her.
As a Democrat, I am embarrassed by this behavior. I want my party to focus on the real issues surrounding her appointment, not snipe ineffectually about her singleton status.

I know, I know: End of Rant—others do that sort of thing much more skillfully than I. This isn’t a political blog, after all (it’s all about Me! Me! Me!).
So here is something more on-topic–a scene from my weekend that only you lovely infertiles will properly appreciate:
Yesterday I went to a wedding. It was lovely—the groom is Italian, and so the service was done in both languages for the benefit of the dozens of Italian relatives who had flown over for the occasion. During the reception there was much hand gesturing and cries of “Bella!” and pinching of cheeks—the whole thing was so reminiscent of an Olive Garden commercial that, suspicious me, I couldn’t help but wonder if the Italian relatives coordinated their performance on the plane over, merely to confound the stupid Americans.
There were over 200 people at the reception, including one, and only one, pregnant woman. Vastly, vastly pregnant—due, in fact, the day before. Guess where she was seated for the dinner?
Oh, no, I haven’t concocted this simply for your amusement!
She was seated at my table.
At the other end of the table, you ask?
No. There were 250-plus chairs at that dinner, and she spent the evening in the one directly across from me.

Buon Appetito!

I am sure you have all read about this on the websites of other bloggers much cleverer and more articulate than myself.
To clarify who would be affected by the bill:
“The bill does not apply to assisted reproduction in which the child is the genetic child of both of the intended parents”
So if you are doing IUI, IVF etc. without any donor sperm/eggs you would be allowed to reproduce (oh, thank you!) without completing the assessment,
Except:
“An unmarried person may not be an intended parent.”
So The Nearly and I would not even qualify to apply to be parents via assisted reproduction, even using his sperm and my eggs.

Reading the questions required for the assessment, I couldn’t help but think of some of the people whose qualifications for parenthood are not in dispute by the esteemed Legislature of Indiana. Those able to reproduce without medical assistance, whether Countess or Crack Whore, are not required to answer the questions in Section 12 of the bill. If they were, perhaps we would see an assessment like this…

“Sec. 12. (a) Before intended parents may commence assisted reproduction, the intended parents shall obtain an assessment from a licensed child placing agency in the intended parents’ state of residence.
(b) The assessment must follow the normal practice for assessments in a domestic infant adoption procedure and must include the following information:
(1) The intended parents’ purpose for the assisted reproduction.
Y’all, are you kidding? To have a baby!!!!!
(2) The fertility history of the intended parents, including the pregnancy history and response to pregnancy losses of the woman.
I don’t know what that first part means but I have never been pregnant except I thought I was that one time in high school when I let Jimmy Cooter put his you-know-what in my mouth and he didn’t take it out in time and I was worried some of his sperms might have made it down my throat into my lady parts but it turns out you can’t get pregnant that way if you use some Scope after.
I do not believe in abortion, and if I was pregnant and Lost the Baby my response would be to trust in God because He works in mysterious ways.
(3) An acknowledgment by the intended parents that the child may not be the biological child of at least one (1) of the intended parents depending on the type of artificial reproduction procedure used.
Well, I would just never do that to Billy. It will be his baby one hundred and 10 percent and if you are talking about that time last winter when I let his cousin kiss me I don’t think that is very polite of you to bring that up and anyway he was drunk.
(4) A list of the intended parents’ family and friend support system.
My sisters Laura and JennyLynn and my brother Jamie and JennyLynn has had kids since she was 17 so she has lots of experience. Jamie has a son who is 12 but we didn’t find out about that until last Christmas which was such a surprise because we all thought that girl just moved away because her Daddy got a job in Mobile.
(5) A plan for sharing any known genetic information with the child.
Genetic? Do you mean like if the baby looks like me or its Daddy? Because I think it will be able to see that for itself.
(6) Personal information about each intended parent, including the
following:
(A) Family of origin.
Well, my Daddy was Irish, before he died, but I don’t know about Momma and Billy says he is 100% American.
(B) Values.
I believe in Good Christian values and I have always said to Do Unto others like you want them to Do Unto Y’all.
(C) Relationships.
I think that is a very personal question and I am just not going to answer that.
(D) Education.
I went to High School all four years and so did Billy, and I was going to go to college to study Communication Studies, or maybe be a vet because I love animals, but then I met Billy and we had to get married.
(E) Employment and income.
I don’t believe a Mother should work outside the Home, but Billy has a roofing company and it is doing real good and he is always having to work nights. I don’t know how you can work on a roof in the dark but Billy says I don’t have a head for business.
(F) Hobbies and talents.
I have a lot of hobbies like entering contests and shopping and in the summer I like to swim. I do not have any talents but Billy is double jointed, and I think being able to work on a roof late at night takes a lot of talent.
(G) Physical description, including the general health of the individual.
Momma says my hair is brown but I think it is more of a dark blond and it gets real light when I use Sun-In. I think I look a little like that Heather Locklear and Momma always laughs when I say that I guess because I am so perceptive. Billy has brown hair and blue eyes and I think he looks just like that man in the ad for Stetson perfume.
(H) Birth verification.
Y’all. How could I be writing this if I hadn’t been born?
(I) Personality description, including the strengths and weaknesses of each intended parent.
I think I am fun loving and a good friend and my weakness is that I am Inpatient and that I do not always stick to my diet, but usually I make up for it later by how I do not have lunch. Billy is strong and silent and he loves God and his weakness is that he can never remember to put his clothes in the hamper.
(7) Description of any children residing in the intended parents’ home.
Well of course there are no children living in our home because I haven’t even finished this form, silly.
(8) A verification and evaluation of the intended parents’ marital relationship, including:
(A) the shared values and interests between the individuals;
Billy and me both go to the same church and we both believe in the Bible and we both even smoke Salem cigarettes although I will have to cut down when I am pregnant with the Baby.
(B) the manner in which conflict between the individuals is resolved;
We don’t have any conflict except when Billy found out about his cousin kissing me and that was more of a misunderstanding. And one time I found condoms in his truck when it was impounded because he was driving while under the influence, which means he was drunk, and I had to get the truck from the impound lot but it turned out Billy said those condoms belonged to his partner, who is Black and who is a very nice man.
(C) a history of the intended parents’ relationship.
Well, me and Billy met after Jimmy Cooter broke my heart and I was so mad at Jimmy because he said if I would let him do that with his you-know-what we would be together forever and then he broke up with me anyway. Well, Billy was working on my Momma’s roof and one day when I was so mad at Jimmy Billy came in and he was thirsty and I said I have some Pepsi up in my bedroom and the next thing you know we were married.
(9) Documentation of the dissolution of any prior marriage and an assessment of the impact of the prior marriage on the intended parents’ relationship.
So far I am only married to Billy and he is only married to me.
(10) A description of the family lifestyle of the intended parents, include a description of individual participation in faith-based or church activities, hobbies, and other interests.
Well Billy and me go to church every Sunday except he stays home sometimes when he was working real late the night before.
(11) The intended parents’ child rearing expectations and values.
Well if it is a girl I will watch her real close when she gets to High School because I don’t want her to make any mistakes like I did with Jimmy Cooter and Billy and I both agree that we don’t believe in Sex education because Sex is not for children except sometimes a boy cannot help himself because he has urges.
(12) A description of the home and community, including verification of the safety and security of the home.
We live in a Christian community and we don’t have a security system or anything but I always lock both the doors except when Billy is working late because sometimes he forgets his key and has to stay out all night.
(13) Child care plans.
I will take care of the Baby myself unless I am busy and then I will take it to JennyLynn’s house because she has so many kids anyway she won’t mind one more.
(14) Statement of the assets, liabilities, investments, and ability of the intended parents to manage finances, including the most recently filed tax forms.
Well. Y’all will have to ask Billy about that.
(15) A review of the local police records, the state and violent offender directory, and a criminal history check as set forth in subsection (c).
Well except for that time I told you about when Billy was drunk and he crashed the truck we don’t have a Criminal History and Billy is not violent unless he is really, really mad like when he hit his cousin with a bat after our Misunderstanding last winter.
(16) A letter of reference by a friend or family member.
Probably for a letter of Reverence you should ask my Pastor who has known me since I was born.
(17) A written consent from each donor, if known, to use of the donation in the assisted reproduction medical procedure.
????
(18) The recommendation for participation in assisted reproduction.
I think I should reproduce because it is natural and I think I will be a good mother. I am very loving and my cat Garth Brooks lived to be 22 which is old for a cat and I think I will do just as good of a job with a baby. He was the nicest cat you have ever seen and I used to feed him the fat-parts of bacon at breakfast because I hate the fat-parts and Garth Brooks loved them. Also I won’t be a mean mother who won’t let her daughter get her ears pierced just because she is only six even though Cindy got her ears pierced when she was five years old and they never even got infected except for the left one. Also since Billy works so much when I have the Baby I will have someone to talk to! “

I encourage you to write to these people and tell them exactly what you think of State Senator Patricia Miller’s brilliant idea.

UPDATE: Senator Miller has withdrawn the bill, as the issue proved “more complex than anticipated.” And besides, her publicist wouldn’t stop screaming at her, and she was worried about his blood pressure.

Well, I have been tagged.

THE RULES:
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.

Here is the 5th sentence of my 23rd post:

“This is useful in providing some context for future rants about doctors, cycles, etc.—it gives readers a jumping off point, a way to connect present fury with past disappointments, present symptoms with past diagnoses.”

Not very interesting, is it?
But…here are the first and last sentences of my 23rd post:

“As a student at Sarah Mawr, I once had the great misfortune of sitting through a film that consisted entirely of shots of the student filmmaker’s vagina.”

And

“Stay tuned for Part Two–-Not Without My Uterus: The College Years”

Much better, no?
As for tagging others, well So Help Me God, it seems like everyone has already been tagged, so if you haven’t…
You’re It.

I saw my Nearly In-laws this weekend, and talked to my Nearly MIL (who is a former L&D nurse) about PCOS and my fertility situation. She was so much more empathetic than my own mother that it would have been comical if it weren’t so…not comical.
My Nearly MIL told me that my Nearly SIL (who is a few years younger than me) has confidently divulged her own childrearing plans—down to the month she and her husband will get pregnant, timed to dovetail with their law school graduations. My Nearly MIL sighed and said “I don’t think they realize it’s not always that simple.”
But I was instantly possessed with a certainty that it probably will be, that my Nearly SIL will be pregnant before I am—which shouldn’t matter one whit, I keep telling myself sternly. And I hope it is easy for her, that she sees the double pink lines and is able to be instantly ecstatic, thinking What will we name it? instead of When will I miscarry? She is a smart, kind, funny girl, and I wish her well. But I cannot imagine going to her baby shower, or opening the inevitable birth announcement, without feeling weak, truly weak, with misery.

I was going to write a lengthy post about something else, but I haven’t the energy just yet. It is too sad and complicated, and I am exceedingly lazy. I will do it tomorrow, (‘fiddle-dee-dee!’ said Scarlett) I swear on a stack of thesauri.