I can just hear the chorus of ‘BOO’ now. 

But it’s not the Halloween, scared you type of BOO, it’s the ‘you suck, you didn’t dress up as a pregnant Britney Spears’ kind of BOO.

I know, I know…I suck.  If there was an Internet version of throwing rotten tomatoes I would be ducking right now.

In my defense, our party was canceled and as much as I wanted to dress up like that and take photos just for the hell of it, that did seem a tad desperate.

Even for me.

Speaking of desperate…Bosco was thrilled that his favorite holiday is upon us and wanted you all to preview the costume he will be proudly wearing tomorrow night.

My God.  These people are pathetic.  To make me dress up is one thing.  To make me dress as an effete super hero is another story all together.  Now where is a fricking phone booth I can pee on??

I might as well put this outfit to good use and attempt to utilize my super hero powers…

Screw x-ray vision!  I will use my super powers for good and not evil…I now command you to feed me french toast with maple syrup every night for dinner, and for the love of God stop letting the little neighbor girl slobber all over me!

My sister recently informed me that in addition to the recent doom-and-gloom faxes my Mom has been sending her, she has also been calling her with extra helpings of advice.

My Mom issued the directive that my sister needs to remove all of the ‘toxic’ cleaning supplies from her house.  Years ago, at some crazy conference, my Mom ran across a gentleman who had invented a new soap.  The recipe for this soap came to the inventor in a dream.  And he thought it was a sign from God, to go forth into the world and make this non-toxic, green liquid soap.

My Mom insists on using this soap for EVERYTHING.  Laundry, dishes, furniture, even brushing her teeth!  She loooooves this soap.  So now she’s pressuring my sister to throw out her cleaning supplies and use this green liquid on everything.  And to dispose of the hazardous poison that is Tilex.

So although as many of you so kindly suggested, I am probably still in line to receive the super scary BABY FILE when (thinking positive!) I get pregnant, at least I know what to expect. 

And I know to hide the cleaning products when my Mom is coming over.

                                                           ***

The other night I was suffering the lovely side effects of Metformin.  You know, writhing on the bed, whimpering in pain, wishing I had my own Costco-sized box of Oops I Crapped My Pants:

"What do you say to a game of tennis? Come on Grandma, with you on our side the boys don’t stand a chance!"

"Okay, I’ll get my racket." 

[Grammy starts to get out of her chair, looks askance as if effects of Metformin have just hit her.  She should NOT have had that bran flake pizza with extra cheese and a double vente latte for lunch.  BAD GRAMMY.] 

"On second thought, I better sit this one out."

Anyway, so the other night I am looking askance and whining for BeBop to get my Tums, which are downstairs.

He so helpfully brings the bottle upstairs, and puts it on the dresser, approximately four feet from my writhing, in-severe-gastric-distress self.

"Why the FRICK did you put that over THERE?" I screeched.

"Oh.  I thought you might be taking them into the bathroom," he so helpfully replied.

"I am going to eat them NOT SHOVE THEM UP MY ASS!" I so helpfully replied.

                                                            ***

And finally, answer me this people, is this sick?

I want to go as pregnant Britney Spears for Halloween.

You know, the vision of beauty from her Matt Lauer interview:  complete with crazy bleached blond wig, camisole stretched over huge pregnant belly and ginormous boobs (I will need help with this part, too), short denim mini skirt with flip flops.  Plus chewing gum, mascara running down my cheeks and the omnipresent red Kabbalah string on my wrist.

Is it sick for an infertile to go as a pregnant woman for Halloween? 

It probably is.

Fade in:

Scene:

Woman, approximately 38 years old (looks much younger, thankyouverymuch) in a cafe or relaxed-bar type setting.  Smartly dressed.  Carrying interesting reading material and deciding what drink to order.

Cue voice over.

Countless blood tests, an HSG and three rounds of clomid, followed by one month on Femara and a canceled-at-the-last-minute IUI:

$1,254

After taking a long hiatus, more blood tests, four months of clomid with IUIs:

$1,000

Weekly acupuncture sessions and vile concoctions of home-brewed, gag-inducing Chinese herbs:

$1600

Looking at IVF this winter which is, of course, not covered by insurance:

$20,000+

Having your younger sister call and announce that she’s pregnant:

Priceless.

I am trying to be happy for her.  I am happy for her.  But my GOD, did the universe look around for a way to make going through IVF harder than it already is and stumble upon this?!

I know, it’s terrible and evil to be so narcissistic about this.  My sister getting pregnant is NOT about me.

But still.

I have struggled with this for so long now.  Since we’ve started trying, ten of my close friends have gotten pregnant and had babies.  Some of them have even had TWO kids during this time it’s been so long.

I’ve thrown baby showers.  I’ve attended showers and baby-naming ceremonies and bought gifts and sent meals and cards and congratulations and heartfelt good wishes.

I’ve called friends and sent e-mails.  I’ve stopped by to visit new babies and brought baskets of onesies and bottles and stuffed animals. I’ve babysat so a brand new Mom could pack for a cross-country trip.

Over the years I’ve tried to access what I call the Better Part of Me.  The part that is genuinely happy and thrilled for other’s good fortune.  The part that knows it isn’t about me or my problems.   The part that knows a healthy, happy baby for another person does not impact my chances of having a baby one day.

The BPOM understands that this family-building business is not a zero-sum game, where a gain for someone else is automatically a loss for me.

But still. 

Still…

How do I not turn my sister’s happiness into my unhappiness, which is just the most petty, small-minded way of approaching life?  I don’t want to be that person.

Instead, I want to be happy and hopeful.  My sister had a very early miscarriage last year, so she’s petrified.  I want to be happy she got pregnant again and send her good wishes that this pregnancy works out.  That she has a healthy, easy pregnancy and a happy, healthy baby nine months from now. I want to be happy that my parents will become grandparents and that I’ll be an aunt for the first time.

And I do feel these things.

But I want all of these happy, positive thoughts to erase the sadness and self-pity I also feel, and I guess it just doesn’t work that way sometimes.

Scene:

Smartly-dressed, younger-than-38-looking woman finally placing her order.

"I’ll have something strong with extra alcohol and make that a DOUBLE," she says.

Fade out.

Cut to commercial.

Bosco says:

"Buck up woman! Infertility is NOT for wimps!  Now get me a rawhide bone or I’ll chew your Uggs faster than you can say ‘Ohhhh, Poor Me’!!"

And I DO mean random…

When BeBop arrived home the other night, I had a question for him.  Was it, "what took you so long, sailor?" complete with bedroom eyes and a come-hither stare?  Uhhhh, no.

(We’re trying to get pregnant for God’s sake. It’s less ‘bedroom eyes’ and more ‘I’m wearing my sleep mask so please tell me when it’s over’ and less ‘come-hither stare’ and more ‘squinty-eyed glare’ or ‘frantic eye-rolling like annoyed teenage girl.’)

But back to my story.  Was my question something along the lines of, "Coffee, tea or ME?" and a clingy outfit comprised of saran wrap and a super chic belt?  No.

(Please see above re:  trying to get pregnant.  If I take off my sweat socks he’s lucky.)

Here is what I asked him: "Why does the dog’s ass smell like your face?"  And his response was a completely logical, "because after his bath I put some of my cologne on his butt."  Okay then.

                                                        ***

I got an e-mail from BeBop today at work with the message:  "DUDE, check it."  And the link to this little trinket .  Seriously, people, what the fuck?  Some wives get flowers, or perhaps even a diamond tennis bracelet.  Or a frickin’ gift certificate for a decaf vanilla latte at Starbuck’s, for crissakes.  But THIS?!?  Oy. 

                                                         ***

I finally had my consult this afternoon with Dr. Fertility Specialist.  (And NO, at the moment I can’t come up with a better name.)  And guess what?  He wants me to try Metformin for a few months before we even embark on the IVF path.  Can you fricking believe that?!?  He actually, hold on I’m laughing so hard I can barely type here, he actually thinks I might be able to get pregnant ON MY OWN. Well, with BeBop’s participation of course.

I know!  Stop laughing.

While that might be good news to some, for me it’s another way of saying, bring on the Death March of Forced Sex. I am just now recovering from last month’s debacle.

Seriously folks, I am staring down the cold metal barrel of turning 39 in December. Should I start the Met and just push the envelope, scheduling IVF for sometime that month (the soonest we could do it, given all the blood work this Dr. orders at the beginning of a cycle) or wait a few months and see what the meds do?

As terrified as I am of going through IVF, I have sort of wrapped my head around it the last few weeks and now I’m somewhat anxious to get the show on the road.

The waiting, people — the waiting is going to kill me.

So once again I turn to the beautiful and all-knowing people of the internet.  Should I give the Metformin a couple/few months to work?  If so, what are the side effects I might start looking forward to? (And I know one of you wise women out there just asked this question, feel free to comment with a "I just asked this dumbass!" and direct me to your blog.)

Should I combine the Met with an IUI or two, just to increase our odds?

Or should I take the Met AND move forward with IVF?

I know, I know!  So many fricking questions.  I’m nothing if not annoying and demanding.

So, ummmm…Yeah. 

My Mom told me I wouldn’t eat for a month if I didn’t pose for these crazy photos.  She said her ‘Blog Readers’ (Yeah right!  Like anyone would read the drivel she comes up with. HA.) demanded to see pictures of me in this silly outerwear that I do not — I repeat:  DO NOT — enjoy wearing. 

All of the other dogs at the park make fun of me.  Even the POODLES for chrissake!

Every night we go through the same routine:  Mom comes home, I jump all over her (although secretly wishing it was Dad because to be honest I love him more, but she’s better than that ass-faced Fed Ex guy) and then she greets me with a series of names that are not Bosco, including but not limited to Bossy Boo Boo, Booga Bear, Bear Bear, Stink Butt, Scramy Saurus and a million other humiliating monikers. 

GAWD.  What is with her?

Then, she pets me and throws my favorite toy (the purple football) around the room.  Then, each night she says this:

"I’m going upstairs to change Bossy." 

PAUSE. 

LOOKS AT ME.

"You should say, ‘don’t change Mommy, I love you just the way you are.’"

Yes. You read that correctly.  She talks to me, and then answers her own statement as if she WAS me. 

And you people said she wasn’t a crackpot! 

I was not happy about this little endeavor.

"But it’s for the people," my Mom whined at me.

"Not unlike the Masai warriors of East Africa," I responded, "I believe that taking photos steals a piece of my soul."

She was not buying it.  She arranged the outfits in order and waved a treat in front of my snout to provide me with the right motivation.

"It’s all about the story. You bring a character to the shoot and despite the clothes or make-up, YOU should shine through. You really should be paying attention when I watch America’s Next Top Model," she said.

"Model THIS," I snorted under my breath.

 

I feel like freaking Suri Cruise with all the hoopla surrounding these photos!   

 

 

OH SNAP.  This shot makes me look old. I need a better art director, stat.

Here I’m getting into the spirit of things.  This red coat isn’t too bad, but the quilting does make me look fat.

I’m ready for the next outfit.  Can we please hurry up?  I feel like dragging my butt across the carpet, just for the hell of it.

Now this little number is a Gortex wonder!  It totally keeps the rain off me.  My Dad conned my Mom into paying for it last winter, the cheap bastard!

OK folks.  This is getting old. Here I am with my football and I wish with all my heart I could take this jacket off and just be left alone to bite the plastic toy and drool all over the carpet.  Mmmmmmm….drool.

I cannot believe she put me in THIS monstrosity.  The bitch.  And I don’t mean that in a good way.  My grandparents gave this to me, and believe it or not, it has a battery pack in it that powers an illuminated strip down the sides.  THAT BLINKS. "For those late night walks," they told me.  I feel like throwing myself under a speeding SUV when I have to wear this out in public.

I want to cry.  Or pee on your bed.

DOG!

So the photo shoot with Bosco the Dog is planned for tonight, I swear! 

We went through his clothing selections and chose just the perfect raincoat to demonstrate his modern and ultra chic taste in outerwear.

And he wants me to be sure to tell you he’s NOT gay.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  He just wears coats.  When it rains.  And only because I make him.

But!  The prospect of all this attention is clearly getting to him.  He wanted to go by the mall and look at some stuff in Abercrombie & Fitch, just to see if they had any really macho-looking Gortex.  I refused.  I just cannot support a chain that markets thongs to young girls.  Low-rise pants, mid-drift-showing tees and skinny jeans are bad enough, but PLEASE!  Thongs?  For 12 year olds?  I think not.  Bosco started to ask if HE could have a thong but as soon as I started my little tirade about the tweeners he shut his trap.  He knows better.

He’s mad at me because we haven’t done his nails in ages, and he looks positively PREHISTORIC with those long nails.  (In my defense, he can’t just get them clipped like a normal dog.  Noooo…Bosco has to get his mani/pedis at the vet, because his nails get TRAMMELED or some other word I’ve never heard before that means worn down with a loud buzzing machine of some sort.  Basically it’s a total pain in the ass and like the responsible pet owners that we are, we wait until he’s practically prancing around on nothing but nails, skidding across the hardwood floors and leaving hideous scratch marks all over the house, before we finally take him for the trammeling.)

He’s been getting ready all day, fasting because he said he feels ‘bloated’ and doesn’t want to appear fat in the photos. DOGS!  Such freaking divas.

And TAG!

I was recently tagged by the fabu Electric Lady and not-so-recently by the delish ‘Nilla and I will also do my best to get to one or both of those. 

Seriously.  I need some material other than "I’m so infertile…"  "How INFERTILE ARE YOU?" and crazy Mother stories and watch me have a myocardial fucking infarction because my dog isn’t at home when he’s supposed to be.

SNORT.

I said infarction.

Do you ever have moments of total and complete self-awareness?  Like the clouds part and the sun shines down on you like a golden halo and you have an amazing insight into your own character?

For some, this might occur when finally, after years of planning and preparation, they summit Mt. Everest.  For others, it could be the moment they run, without thinking, into a burning building to save a small puppy.  "I am strong," they might realize.  Or, "I am brave."

For me, a profound realization such as this happened yesterday. Only instead of seeing into my innermost humanness and thinking I am strong or I am brave, I thought:

I am a fucking crackpot.

Now, in my family we use the term ‘crackpot’ quite liberally.  In fact, one of us is always saying to another a variation on this theme: 

"Are you cracked?" we ask rhetorically.

As in, my Mother wanting to use ACE bandages to tape magic healing crystals to various parts of our body.  "Are you CRACKED?"

Or, the time she fell and smashed her head on a hotel room floor and taped a photograph of a Russian healer to her head, which she kept hidden under a floppy straw hat for the next few days. 

"It’s working," she claimed.  "I know I don’t have a concussion and my headache and blurry vision are improving!"

"Are you CRACKED?" my sister, Dad and I would retort. (And that time we meant it.  Given the head injury and all.  You know, like she cracked her…anyway.)

So, the fact that yesterday the term ‘crackpot’ was the first word to pop into my head during my moment of self-awareness is not surprising.  It’s really depressing, but not surprising.

Here’s what happened:  I arrived home early (mid-afternoon) after getting yet more blood taken for yet more tests. (I had asked my doctor to order the CD3 panel of tests, for my upcoming consult with Dr. Fertility Specialist in a couple of weeks, which is not at all relevant to the story but I know how you like details.)

So, I got home and Bosco was not at the door like he usually is, wagging and panting and mostly just thrilled someone is finally frigging home to pay attention to him and throw his purple plastic football around the living room.

I yelled for him, and normally if he’s not at the front door, I hear a loud thud upstairs which means he’s been sleeping soundly on our bed, most likely with his butt right on BeBop’s pillow which always, for some disturbing reason, makes me smile.  But I didn’t hear a thud.  So I yelled some more, and looked around the living room.  No Bosco.

Immediately I felt my heart race and I swear I could feel my cortisol levels hitting the roof.  I ran up the stairs to check BeBop’s office and our bedroom, Bosco wasn’t anywhere.

I started to panic.  And I do mean PANIC.  Shortness of breath, heart jumping through my chest, scrambled thinking which made it hard to do anything constructive.

Just for some extra background:  we live in a small condo, with no yard.  There’s no way for the dog to let himself out (like through a doggie door).  And the cleaning lady had been there that morning.  And my super secret fear is that she will mistakenly leave the door open and Bosco will make a run for it. Not that he’s ever done anything like that — he hasn’t.  You just have to know about my completely baseless paranoia that one day this will happen in order to comprehend the absurd level of panic I experienced.

It’s happened!  I thought, my worst FEAR HAS COME TRUE. Bosco has escaped and it’s raining and what the freaking HELL do I do now?

In my panic, I thought to call BeBop. Which?  WORST. IDEA. EVER.  Please use me as an example and learn from my mistake. Do not call your husband in a moment of total detachment from reality. 

"OMIGOD, heh heh," I panted into the phone.  "I just.  Got home. And Bosco.  ISN’T HERE!!!"  At that moment I thought to look in the basket where we keep the leash. "And. His leash. Is Gone.  AND IT’S POURING RAIN!!"

"Don’t worry, I’m sure the dog walker came by to walk him," BeBop said calmly.  As if by now he’s grown accustomed to my panicky phone calls of doom.

"But today’s not her day and she e-mailed me and didn’t say she was coming," I croaked into the phone.  I was on the verge of a total panic attack at this point, sweaty palms, shallow breathing, overall freakoutedness.

"Do you think Bosco put his own leash on and took himself for a walk?" BeBop asked, again in the calm, my-wife-is-a-whack-job-and-sadly-that’s-my-lot-in-life tone of voice.

"I don’t know!" I yelled. "I am going outside to find them. I’ll call you back as soon as I know something." I said. But what I really thought was, he’s gone. The cleaning lady let him out six hours ago and he’s lost in the pouring rain and my life is seriously, seriously over. I cannot handle this. I can’t I can’t I can’t.  Tiger just died a year ago and that almost killed me and I can’t endure this again. I will die. I will most surely DIE.

And then I opened the front door, and Bosco was bounding up the steps, with the dog walker right behind him. He had on his little raincoat and was so thrilled to see me at the door he jumped up and down and slobbered all over me.

"I almost had a heart attack," I told the dog walker, trying to be all casual and detached about it.  And then I could feel my heart rate slow and my breathing return to normal.

And I was relieved. But also at that moment? The epiphany, the flash of recognition, that I am crazy.  That I am terrible in a crisis.  That I am prone to overreact and that’s an understatement.

The clouds parted, the sun shone down on my head and I thought: 

I am a crackpot.

Then I called BeBop to tell him Bosco was fine, that he was right about the dog walker.  And then he laughed at me, but did I feel bad?  No, because that’s what sane people do. THEY LAUGH AT THE CRAZIES.

Did I feel like a complete moron? you ask.  Well, thanks for asking. Yes, as a matter of fact, YES. I felt like a total asshole. Like a crazy asshole who comes undone over nothing and can’t manage to hold herself together long enough to string one coherent thought after another.

But at least I’m not attaching clear glass beads to my lower back or taping photographs to my head, right? 

At least I got that going for me. 

For now.