Rehashing An Oldie But A Goodie

Even though our struggle to start a family was a long time ago (one that started well over ten years ago) it still feels real on so many days. It’s like infertility isn’t just something you “face” or “experience” or “go through.” You don’t finally get pregnant and then POOF! No more scars. Infertility seems to stick with you for a long time, maybe forever. But as horrible as it was (and it was HORRIBLE) I did have some quirky and crazy experiences.

Here is part of that story….

I tried almost everything to get pregnant. And when I say ‘everything,’ I mean everything.

If we were friends, it would not be uncommon to hear me say “I went to a new psychic healer last Sunday.”

And I know. I know.

If we were friends, you’d hear this stuff so often from me, it’s like someone else saying, “I walked upright last weekend” or “I saw the sun this morning.”

But what can I say? It was the norm in my crazy family and I was desperate to become a mother.

My own mother broached the subject of me seeing this one particular healer by prefacing the conversation with these words:

“He’s a little out there…”

“WHAT??”

If we were friends, you’d know what that meant coming from my mother.

“Oh. MY. GOD,” I said to her. “Does he have three heads and sacrifice small woodland creatures before the healing session begins?”

“No.”

“Does he speak in tongues and coax snakes from a basket with a pan flute and then make you eat the snakes.  WHILE THEY’RE STILL ALIVE??”

“No.”

“Does he teleport himself into the room and put you in a trance and use a prob and — ”

“—NO. Will you stop this Tarah! For crisssakes let me finish!”

“Well, what then?  Your definition of ‘out there’ is scaring me, given what you think is normal,” I said.

I was thinking of the time in junior high school when she dragged me to this not-so-nice part of town to see a healer who supposedly did psychic surgery.  Yes, surgery with just his hands.  HIS BARE HANDS. No medical instruments of any kind.  No anesthesia.  And this really isn’t the time to get into it, but let’s just say that although I’m far from convinced this a real thing, I did see the “doctor” produce some slimy bits of gobbley-gook that he claimed came from my Mother’s stomach.

(Wow. How often do you get to say a sentence like that??)

Anyhoo. Moving on.

“Humppff,” my Mom snorted.  “No, he doesn’t have three heads or snakes or probes.  He just uses these machines he invented and then takes a reading of your energy and heals you with these crystals.”

“Cool.  Sign me up.  As long as there are no live snakes involved, I’m in.”

Flash forward a week or so and I arrive at this woman’s house in the hills above Redwood City and a very normal-looking man answers the door. He’s so normal, in fact, that I mistake him for the home owner’s husband and it takes me a few minutes to realize that he is, in fact, the healer.

He asks me to take my shoes off at the front door, and offers me some gigantic, pink fuzzy slippers that have been placed by the steps.  I have very small feet and so as I clumsily put a pair on, I look like I’m wearing clown shoes and I slip and slid my way down the uncarpeted hallway to the room that has been set up.

The guy, Gary (see! Gary! Even a normal name!)  sort of waves his hands in front of me and asks what health issues I have.

“Well,” I start, “I’ve been trying to get pregnant for like FOUR years…”

He interrupts me to say that I have an issue with my fallopian tubes.  (And I swear to GOD if I had a nickel for EVERY TIME a psychic healer told me that, I’d be a rich woman.)  He says almost the exact same thing another healer told me a couple of months ago, when I was still not pregnant, that although I ovulate regularly, there’s something (I don’t know what…fluid? Scar tissue? Paste?) that creates an obstacle for the egg and by the time it gets anywhere, it’s too late.

So Gary proceeds to tell me that IVF will work (YAY!) but that after his miraculous healing I should probably wait and just try naturally for a few more months (BOO!).

The funniest part was when he waved his hands in front of me, taking a reading of some sort.

Gary: “Okay, blahblah, ooolamamoo, liver, kidney…” he mumbles. He continues, “okay, that looks good.  I’m clearing the energy there and healing your organs.”

Me: “Okay, errr…thanks?”

He looks to the side, and keeps waving his hands in a circular motion.  He then looks past me, over my left shoulder.

Him: “I need some help with this one guys,” he says to someone or something.

Me: [says nothing, eyes wide open]

He continues: “I don’t care…no. No, you decide.  Who wants to help me?” (He’s still staring off into the distance, apparently talking to the someone, or the something, that has joined us in the room.)

Him: “Okay,” he continues.  “Oh!  All of you want to help? Thanks, that sounds good.”

Me:  “————-”

Then he turned on this little machine that had a crystal on the top and some funky flashing lights.  And he held it over my open palms and

VOILA!

I WAS HEALED.

Really? No, not really.

I’m still not pregnant.

Soon after this, I was treated—errr… subjected, to something my Mom billed as a massage but was really three hours of horrific pain and a grilling not unlike the Spanish Inquisition and the Salem Witch Trials all jumbled together in one long, nightmarish afternoon.

This particular healer grilled me about everything. He proceeded to question me about the last few years: why was I so stressed, why didn’t I release the stress? What was I holding on to for such a long time?  Why couldn’t I get pregnant and on and on…

“Are you a stuffer?” he asked.  My mind shot to the rather large bagel, egg and bacon sandwich I had crammed down my gullet earlier that morning…WAS I stuffer? I asked myself.

“OH!  You mean emotionally….No. I am not a stuffer.” I answered.

“Do you take a long time making decisions?”

“No.!” I said very quickly, to help illustrate my point.

“How are your bowel movements?”

“Errrrrrr…do you want like a description or just a general overview?  If you, like, picture, say, soft-serve frozen yo–”

” –No. Just the frequency, do you go three or four times a day at least?” he asked.

I was dumbfounded by this question.  Do people DO that?!  I mean, I have a full time job!  I wasn’t quite sure how I’d balance that busy schedule of trying to get pregnant, working AND defecating and as I was trying to formulate what I hoped would be an acceptable answer, he continued on with the pressing of various body parts…like a crazed, question-asking, pressure point-pushing, pain-inducing MEANY.

I very quickly decided that I hated this man.

Finally he got to the whole getting pregnant thing and he was definitely in the ‘just relax and it will happen’ camp. And to me there was nothing more annoying than that.  I could put up with the pressing and the screaming and the questions and even the judging, but that was IT.

“Why do you even want to have kids?” he asked me.

“For the tax deduction, obviously…” I responded coolly.

But soon after that appointment?

I was healed!

Nope. Actually, I was just really sore.

And still not pregnant.

In the end, it took five years, too many medical treatments to count, buckets of tears and thousands of dollars, but finally, one day, we were pregnant. And today, when my seven-year-old boy/girl twins are running around like crazy maniacs, screaming bloody murder and secretly taping notes to my back that say “I pooped,” my first thought is always “WHERE IS THE WINE?!” but soon after, my second thought is: “I’m so glad that we moved heaven and earth and finally – FINALLY – we were pregnant and now we have the joy and honor of watching these two little souls walk through the world.”

This Just In: I Am Boot Camp’s Bitch

Cost of two kneecap brace-like things that cut off all circulation to my lower extremities:  $29.74

Cost of custom made orthotics for running shoes:  $210.00

Cost of new running shoes:  $119.25

Cost of chiropractor co-pay:  $10.00

Cost of ice packs for injuries to back, knees, foot and for treating shin splints:  $10.99

Cost of odd-looking device called a Strassburg Sock* used  for treating plantar fasciitis:  $24.99

Cost of being the oldest, most decrepit, lamest-ass LAME ASS boot camp has ever seen:  PRICELESS

Cost to my ego of daily humiliating situations from which I will never fully recover:  INCALCULABLE

Good Grief Charlie Brown, this sucks.  Big time.

I asked BeBop the other day, "is there a limit to how much humiliation I can withstand?"  "No," he answered somewhat gravely, "there does not seem to be a limit."

I don't know if that exchange makes any sense at all, but the point is each day is just a series of horribly embarrassing things I am made to do.  Made to do in front of the Blond Mom Gang Leader whose perfect, blond short hair and super sassy work out outfits have cast a kind of spell upon me, and I find myself strangely attracted to her. Like an old, busted-ass  moth drawn to a beautiful, skinny and tanned flame who has just returned from yet another weekend in Lake Tahoe.

I'm not making much sense am I? What else is new.

Moving on.

Both of my knees are KILLING me, I'm guessing from all the running and the side-to-side lateral things we have to do across the entire basketball court and back again about a frillion and 47 times every morning.  And I got shin splints from the uphill (BOTH WAYS!  How do they do that?!?) jogging we did on Monday.  And my hip is out. (I learned that phrase, 'my hip is out' from my Grandmother when she was like 93 years old, if you must know.)  And my foot is killing me, thanks to a recurrence of the delightful affliction plantar faciitis. Which is Latin for IT FUCKING HURTS.

And so I limp off to boot camp each morning at 5:45 AM, hoping against hope there has been some rip in the fabric of time and that by the time I arrive at the park my class will be over and it's time for me to go home and shower.  And ice various appendages. But for some odd reason that never seems to happen. 

The jump rope is still the bane of my existence. Honestly? I feel like I'm missing something.  I fear that all those I have my period AGAIN excuses in junior high caused me to miss the Jump Rope 101 class that all the other girls seem to have taken. 

(Incidentally, I also somehow managed to miss the How To Style Your Hair class, the How To Apply Make Up class, the How To Wear Candies Wedge Sandals With Lace-Up Chemin De Fer Jeans Without Looking Like a Total Slut class as well as the How To Grow Breasts class.  Not that I'm keeping  track or anything.)

I tried the one foot and then the other method, but I was a total spaz and kept tripping myself.  Then I tried the jump with two feet at the same time plan, but that is also a hot mess.

I am quite clearly the most pathetically uncoordinated person on the face of the earth.

When we have to jump rope, here the sound coming from everyone else in class:

WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH

or

WOOSHWOOSHWOOSHWOOSHWOOSHWOOSHWOOSH

like a goddamn Rocky movie or something.

But here is the sound you hear from me:

WOO – FRICK STOMPSTOMP (as I'm readjusting the rope behind my feet to start over) WHOOSH WHOOSH (YEAH!  I'm in a rhythm no-) FRICK!  STOMPSTOMP  WHOOSH WOO CLANG (rope gets caught on ponytail)  FUCK  STOMPSTOMP WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH (Okay, now I've got it, let's just try to keep it goin') OOOF! [sound of stumbling as I've managed to somehow get the rope tangled around both ankles] [sigh] (Is Blond Gang Leader Mom watching?  DREAD DREAD DREAD)  STOMP STOMP WOO-FRICKING FRICK TO THE MOTHER FUCKING FRICK

I mean really, just imagine me in my black work out pants and an Adidas sweat-wicking tee cursing and stumbling with the rope either around my ankles again or stuck in my hair or wrapped tightly around my neck, trying to hop up and down and cursing loudly and sneaking looks to see how many people have stopped what they're doing just to stare at me.  How's that for a visual?

Because that image is so horrifying, here's something else to look at:

We're Here All Week, Please Try The Veal & Tip Your Wait Staff!

(HOLD IT RIGHT THERE! ! Up there, look! Link to a new YouTube video of the Watson Twins.)

*Speaking of this crazy contraption called the Strassburg Sock, it is basically a huge white, well, sock, with some strappy things that you put on, like a miniature straight jacket. You put the sock on and pull it all the way up to your knee, then lift your foot up and secure your toes using the strappy things to your leg, essentially keeping your foot at a permanent 90 degree angle.  And you're supposed to sleep with this thing on.  With your foot sticking out to the side or straight up in the air, depending on how you sleep!

BeBop has taken to calling it the Lee Strasburg Sock and of course each time he does I have grandiose fantasies about starring in a new feature film called My Left Foot, The Sequel:  My Right Foot.

I know, I know.  Enough said.

Whine And Cheese, My Specialty!

So BlogHer 2008 was a bust.

For me, that is. Everyone else seemed to have a fabulous time.

I managed to come down with a terrible summer cold and miss almost all of the festivities.

I was planning on going for the whole day on Saturday. No kids, no husband. Weeeeeeee! I must have registered months ago, and if I wasn’t such a ‘tard I would have figured out how to put that “I’m going to BlogHer 2008” button on my sidebar like forever ago.  That’s how excited I was.

But I missed almost the whole goddamn thing. The opening session, lunch, the panel discussions, the book signings, even meeting up with the Marvelous Mel*.

I MISSED IT ALL.

With BeBop’s urging (and by ‘urging’ I mean he basically dragged my snuffly ass out of bed and MADE me go) I got up Saturday morning and after about three hours of ingesting various forms of cold medicine (helpful hint:  friends don’t let friends take seventy frillion different kinds of cold medicine) I drove myself to the nearest BART station and blew my nose for thirty straight minutes on the ride up to San Francisco.

After navigating the busy streets of the city (where did all these people come from? I asked myself. And why are they ALL going to DSW Shoe Warehouse??), I stumbled into the hotel and was soon overcome with a fever, copious amounts of perspiration that led to the dreaded BOOB SWEAT, a sneezing fit, frizzy hair and the horrifying realization that

1) everyone there looked totally cute and well-put-together; 2) everyone had totally cute haircuts; 3) I had neither of these things going for me. 

And I knew no one.  I was completely, utterly, ALONE. [cue sad music]

So I…of course…being the confident and self-assured woman that I am…went to hide in the bathroom for ten minutes and tried to pull myself together before the afternoon session about monetizing your blog. 

I’m sure the session was informative.  I am GUESSING it was informative because I was so hot and cold and sweaty and freezing and snot-producing and worried I might run out of Kleenex that I was far too distracted to really pay attention. 

I tried to write down the most interesting facts and here, direct from my astonishingly accurate and detailed note-taking, is the extent of my newfound knowledge about earning money through blogging:

* cost per click? find out what that means

* cost per aqu acqui acquition acquisition?

* what the fuck?

* must research affiliate networks (what r they?)

* what the fuckity fuck fuck?

* people say ‘do u know what i mean’ all the time.  Must be hip thing to say.  Must remem. to say more often

* moderator  = awesome hair.  How can I have cute haircut like that?  Have v. straight hair.  Like straw.  Must research perms:  do people still get them in 2008?

So, yes.  Well worth the schlepping as you can see. I did not get to meet any of the awesome women who attended, nor did I get to stalk follow around try to get a photo with hear Heather speak at the closing session.

And did I get to hand out any of the kicky new business cards I had printed up, just for this occasion?  WHY NO, but thank you for asking.  And why, might you ask, did I have business cards printed up for this occasion? 

BECAUSE THEY TOLD ME TO.

As BeBop always says, I have an unnatural (and very disturbing) sense of respect for authority figures. And the kind folks at BlogHer suggested that I bring business cards and so that’s what I did.  Forked over about $30 just to get some cards printed that I toted up to the city and right back home again. And now they are shoved into my underwear drawer in the hopes my family doesn’t stumble upon them and ask what this blogging business is all about?

And guess what else? I hurt my foot. As in, I hurt the tendony part on the bottom and limped all the way back down to the BART station, through the throngs of people pushing their way into the Shoe Warehouse and my foot hurt so badly I didn’t even go in to see if there was an awesome shoe sale underway. Now that’s real pain.  And how did I hurt my foot?  Running up two flights of stairs to get my swag bag?  Or racing to the assigned room to get a great seat?  Why, no.

I hurt my foot…sitting.  Yes, you read that correctly.  SIT. TING.  In a chair.  Honestly, what kind of a lame ass hurts her foot sitting in a chair for an hour and a half?  (Don’t answer that.)

To be frank, I thought I’d spend the day meeting fabulous women and I’d try to get them to like me and also convince them that I was as cool as they were, only with much less attractive hair, and it would be just like junior high all over again only this time with business cards.

I was also hoping I’d run into someone in the bathroom who would take a sneaky peek at my name tag and remark, “Why YOU’RE Watson? Of My Dear Watson??  I read your blog all the time!”

Now that was clearly the cold medicine talking, people.

I wanted to hear Mel’s panel and raise my hand during Q&A to — under the guise of asking a relevant question — really make a comment.  You know how people do that?  And how frigging annoying it is?  YEAH. I wanted to do THAT!

But sadly, it was not meant to be. This damn cold kicked my ass and then came back for more.

Now I’m left, bereft and alone, to blow my nose, contemplate what to do with 200 business cards, re-read my notes and try to figure out what SCO MOZ means, wait for next year and, generally, just wallow in self-pity and regret.

Do you know what I mean?

*Ah, people? Did you know that our dear, sweet and totally awesome Mel is like a comic book hero now? Did she tell you about this?  How BlogHer put together this incredibly well-written and illustrated little booklet that highlighted a few bloggers, sort of the Super Heroes (Heroines!) of the Blogosphere and each one got their own cartoon character super hero drawing to go along with her profile.  YAY MEL!!