Can you believe it’s been near to a week since you last heard from me? Ack! I *know* you’ve just been on the edge of your collective seat, breathlessly waiting for the next installment of How My World Turns. No? You say you reserve that breathless waiting for the new season of The L-word? Hey! Me, too.
It’s just not so exciting here in Starr Hill these days. Oh, I’ve had a pretty good week – the usual ups (nice dinner for my mama’s birthday; some rain ((!!!)); a pretty drive and delightful date to a nice party with the Kingpin and her not-so-Insolent Child; dinner with work friends that also included new Fertility Hennaz™) and downs (rain – keeps pre-school children inside and makes the wood-pile wet if it is uncovered which it is; a horribly sick ((aye, like the shingles, y’all – that shit’s bad news)) assistant at work which created Teh Drama for her ((poor thing!)) and bought me a day with 3 different subs in my class, one of whom brought her teething 1-year-old with her ((with my consent, but whew, the Mouthing of Work)) – but, wait my kids did a fucking great job dealing with the rolling tide of subs and we had a damn good day, so let’s actually count this one in the ups column, too, ‘kay? Because my class rocks.). Wow. Did you even follow that? What crazy syntax. And the parenthesis – there must have been a sale somewhere.
But here’s the real deal. I am sick and tired of ttc.
The donor drama has sucked – even with the unbeatable back-up plan (which really is so great you can’t beat it with a stick), it’s sucked. I love, love, love the back-up plan, but I really want it to work out with the cute French gay current plan. I should have been knocked up months ago. Months. Ago. Then none of this would have been an issue (ok, laugh if you want). And I am reminded of that every time I bash my head into another lawyer’s unresponsive answering machine. I will not even begin to go into the utter stupidity of having to deal with all this bullshit just to get knocked up. It is simply stupid.
This cycle of nothing has sucked. It’s too short to really be considered a “break” so I’ve kept up the nasty Chinese herbs and the pre-natals and the god-damned-never-ending-temping. The stick-peeing will start soon, too! Woo. And hoo. The drinking’s been fun, though. Woo and hoo, as we say. But, over the clinking ice in my glass, there’s been the dull roar of Time Passing. Yes, I know I am too young to say that; I know there are women everyday who get pregnant when they are a decade older than I am now; I know there’s no “rush,” that it “will happen,” but, still, sick and tired, remember? How about a baby now?
And smack in the middle of The Passing O’ Time Roar? The delicate *plink* of an egg being dropped. And lost. It’s the lack of even a chance of conception that fed the monster of bitterness this month.
I told my first ttc-related lie today. A very, very nice woman at the aforementioned party asked me about my Fertility Hennaz™ – she wanted to know if it meant anything. Well, it does. Unlike my tattoos, which don’t mean shit, I get henna with the ever-fertile pomegranate dyed onto my skin because it is a fertility symbol. So I lied to her, this very nice woman, with whom I’d had a nice conversation. Lied and said that there were stars and pomegranates there on my palm, just things I like. 2 months ago, I might have said why I had them – she’d already mentioned her children were adopted – and used it to open up a conversation about how we go about making families. But I’ve gotten more and more close-mouthed about this whole thing. I’m tired of talking about it, and yet, the more Time Passes, the less and less other shit I have to talk about.
I am beginning to bore myself.
Don’t fret overmuch, my general good nature ensures that I’m not debilitated by the sickness and tiredness (knock on wood I don’t get the shingles, though – aye, my poor assistant!). I’m just sick and tired. And bitter. Bitter and done. Could I just have my baby now, please? Thanks. I’ll be over here in Starr Hill, breathlessly waiting for the next season of The L-word.