Did they Really Mean: “Start Asking”?

Microblog_MondaysA little while ago, for National Infertility Awareness Week, infertility bloggers were asked to write a post. This year’s theme: “Start Asking”. So all of us who write and post about infertility got to work and wracked our collective brains to come up with our own unique takes on the topic: “Start Asking”. Now that a few weeks have gone by and I’ve had time to let that really settle in, I’m starting to wonder: Was that theme a misprint? No, I’m serious. Hear me out. I mean, Resolve (http://resolve.org) the excellent national infertility association, probably knows infertile people better than anyone. And yet… they… were… asking… us… to… ask… more questions? I’m sure in their time, they’ve seen a few posts on infertility support groups… heard directly from a few fertility patients… spoken to some medical professionals who deal with fertility patients every day… and yet… they still wanted us to ask… more questions? I don’t get it. Were they implying that in the course of our average, run of the mill, daily repartee we aren’t posing enough questions?:

“Why aren’t I pregnant yet? When will I get pregnant? Will I ever get pregnant? Am I too old to get pregnant? Are my ovaries okay? Are my tubes okay? Are my hormones okay? Is my husband okay? He doesn’t look okay. Do I have enough eggs? Are my eggs okay? Should I stop eating eggs or eat more of them? The white part and the yellow part? Does it matter which part I eat first? Should I go to a specialist? What kind of a specialist? A fertility specialist or an infertility specialist? Can you recommend one? How are her success rates? I’m only 5’1″. How are her success rates with short women? Has anyone ever tried acupuncture? Should I try acupuncture? I’m afraid of needles. Should I try IVF instead? Should I try fertility yoga? I’m afraid of yoga. Should I try yogurt instead? Do I eat it or insert it? Should it be low fat or high fat? Should I try herbs? Do you pronounce the ‘h’ in ‘herbs’? I’ve been drinking a lot of water and now I have to go to the bathroom. Has this ever happened to anyone? Does anyone know if this is normal? My mother-in-law wants a grandchild ASAP. Should I tell her to F off? Will my insurance cover anything? Will it cover anything if I cross the border and have treatments in St. Louis? How about Peru? Should I fly or take a boat?”

I’m not kidding. Obviously, the theme was a misprint. And by the time someone realized it, we’d all written our posts and it was too late. Oh, I hope nobody at Resolve lost their job for the blunder. Clearly what they meant to say was not:

“Start Asking”.

What they meant to say was a theme heavily supported by our partners, coworkers, family, friends, medical professionals and, truth be told, the remaining sane part of our own subconscious minds: ‘Stop Asking… Please… Just Stop Asking!!'”

Am I the Only One Stressed Out By Coupons?

option-2 (1)Maybe it’s a reaction to something in my past life. I don’t mean when I might have been a peasant in 18th century Ireland. I mean when I was sixteen and worked as a supermarket cashier and somebody would come on my line with fifty items and fifty-three coupons: A third of which were legit, a third of which were expired, a third of which were for products not sold in that state, let alone the store. Whatever the cause… I’m just not a coupon person.

I know… A lot of you must be thinking: “How lucky that you never needed to use coupons.” No, no… Don’t get me wrong. (Or like they say on Maury: “Don’t get me twisted”): I never said I didn’t need to use coupons. In fact, that’s how I knew I really hated coupons. When you’re flat broke and the free local paper is laying there on your driveway and you pick it up and see it’s packed with coupons and you still say:

“Na, I can’t be bothered.”

That’s how you really know you hate coupons. Whenever I’ve ever taken one to the store, I can’t think of anything else. As I’m parking the car, getting out of the car, walking into the store, getting the shopping cart, I keep repeating my angst-filled mantra:

“Don’t forget to use the coupon. Don’t forget to use the coupon. Don’t forget to use the coupon.”

When I finally get to the aisle where the item is, I’m already sweating and breathing heavily like I’m having a totally unnatural reaction to the stubbly guy with the dolly and the fuzzy butt crack who’s stocking the shelf.

Then I have to take out the coupon to read it. Then I look at the item. Read the coupon again and look at the item in my hand again: “Nabisco” “Nabisco” “12 ounces” “12 ounces” “Any Fruit Variety” “Mixed Fruit”. I’m still so paranoid I’m taking the wrong item, I need validation:

“Excuse me Sir, ‘Mixed Fruit’ counts as ‘Any Fruit Variety’ doesn’t it? I mean: ‘Mixed Fruit isn’t technically a fruit, but it’s a mix of fruits that are all fruits. Right? Or maybe I should just take ‘Strawberry’ to be sure, even though I’d really rather have ‘Mixed Fruit.'”

He doesn’t work for the store. He doesn’t even work for Nabisco. So he ignores me and keeps stocking bread on the bottom shelf and now I’m not only stressed out over the coupon but I’m dying to yell: “And pull up your Gd damn pants!” And run out of the aisle.

So at about 63% sure that I took the correct item, I continue along my merry way to finish my shopping, checking the coupon another three or four times to re-confirm and re-re-confirm that: 1) It didn’t expire 2) It wasn’t void in my state 3) I didn’t have to buy two to use the coupon 4) I didn’t drop it somewhere in the store as a result of taking it in and out of my purse so many times. (Once or twice I actually have had to retrace my steps to retrieve it from the floor of an earlier aisle.)

Finally, I’m at the check out and almost home free. (If you’re familiar with the Brady Bunch, at this point I’m feeling like the boys did when they were trying to get rid of the bad luck idol in Hawaii)…

And here comes the biggest challenge of all for me: I have to remember to give the cashier the coupon. Having cleared that hurdle, I hold my breath while they scrutinize it. Whew. It seems to have passed inspection. So, I saw the cashier pick it up at the beginning of my check-out experience, now I exhale and then hold my breath again, hoping they remember to pick it up again and actually take it off my bill at the end of my check-out experience. And what if it doesn’t scan because there’s too much of my hand sweat on the bar code? And what if they can’t manually enter in the numbers? And what if the manager finally comes over and they can’t do it either and what if… oh, it scanned on the first try… okay, good.

Once I forgot to hand it to the cashier until she was done with the order and she said cheerily: “That’s okay. Use it next time.” I looked at her like she’d lost her mind.

“Next time?! I can’t go through all this again! I just…… can’t.”

I will say, not to pat myself on the back, but I have come a long way in the coupon world: I no longer freak out when people pronounce “coupon” wrong. I won’t even boast by telling you which way is wrong. It must be a sign of maturity.

Please check-out my New l’il Humor eBook: Laughing IS Conceivable: From End of School to Back-to-School @ http://amazon.com/dp/B007G9X19Aoption-2 (1)Microblog_Mondays

 

I Proclaim Today as: “Give Yourself a Cookie” Day

So how’d your mother’s day go? Guess what? No matter how it went, you survived. It’s over. And damn am I proud of you.

If you cried. If you hid under the table.
If you never got out of bed. If you blew off family festivities because you were too depressed.
For you, I hereby proclaim today as: “Give Yourself a Cookie Day!”

For you who sat through your mother-in-law telling you how proud she is of all of her grandchildren (even the imbeciles among them) and wishes she had more… Give yourself a cookie!

For you who spent time at a family gathering watching your nieces and nephews run around as you secretly hoped they would throw up on one of their parents just to bring a little joy into your day… Give yourself a cookie!

For you who bit the bullet while your mother cornered you in the kitchen and reminded you of how much younger you’re not getting…

Give yourself a cookie!

For you who endured cousins showing pictures of their kids on their iphone, while the damn kids were right in front of you… Give yourself a cookie!

For you who listened to your siblings complain to each other about how hard it is being a parent and how they never have enough time for themselves… And if you only knew how lucky you were…

Give yourself a cookie!

For you who went out with the extended family to some family-style BS restaurant and had to stand there while everyone counted six times how many high chairs and how many booster seats were needed… Give yourself a cookie!

For you who just couldn’t deal with the holiday at all and stayed home and bitched to your spouse… Give yourself a cookie! (Even you who yesterday gave yourself a case of cookies and washed it down with a gallon of ice cream.)

And for you who got so fed up, you told a relative who gave unsolicited advice, or made a thoughtless remark to “Screw-Off”… Give yourself one of those giant bakery cookies. (Preferably one with a huge smiley face looking up at you.)

And for you who did nothing, avoided everyone, went nowhere, turned off the lights and pulled the blankets over your head…You survived the day…and that’s plenty… So…”Give yourself a cookie!”

Microblog_Mondays

Happy Mother $#%&$* Day!

In a tribute to all of my current and former fellow travelers on the dark, longass infertility road, I am re-posting 3 posts here in the hope they will, in some small way, help you get through the dreaded day. 

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Mother’s Day was always a great holiday for me. Except in 1988, 1989, 1990, ’91, ’92, ’93, ’94, ’95, ’96. ’97, ’98, ’99, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, and 2005.

You might say, during that time period, which spanned two centuries, I was in a Mother’s
Day drought.

My mom was no longer around (I’m trying not to be morbid. I figured “no longer around” sounds like maybe she ran off to Bermuda with a flamenco dancer.. Go Mom!) and I had no babies arriving in the foreseeable future.

And for those nineteen years, I never could figure out how to respond when random people would say:

“Happy Mother’s Day!”

Being a non-Christian, I’ve always had the same predicament with “Merry Christmas!” So precisely twice a year, once in May and once in December, I was speechless. The rest of the time, if you know me at all, I was then as I am now: Rambling. Words come out of my mouth and off my keyboard in no particular order. But back then, on those two occasions I could only stare and blink.

I’ve created a system of sorts that I think works well in these awkward or at least, pesky situations that I always like to share.

When people wish you well on these holidays that you are not celebrating at the moment, for whatever reason, I feel there are three possible solutions:

A) Be sarcastic/ridiculous/obnoxious – (My first choice for most everything. Surprised?)

Pesky Person: “Happy Mother’s Day!”

My response (preferably yelled across a crowded room): “Are yoooou goooooing to your AA meeting this weeeeekeeend?!”

B) Educate (My least favorite option)

Pesky Person: “Happy Mother’s Day”

My response (against my better judgment): “My mother’s been gone several years and I have no kids yet.”

Now the reason why this is my least favorite option is not only does it garner sympathy from people, say coworkers, whom I’d rather have strictly a “wave and walk” relationship with. (You know, when you get into work you wave and walk: “Good Morning!” and on Friday afternoon you wave and walk: “Have a Nice Weekend!”) but now I’m setting myself up for further conversation thereby defying the rules of our unwritten wave and walk contract. It’s a chess game you never win.

So she said:
“Happy Mother’s Day!” then I said:
“My mother’s been gone for several years and I have no kids yet.” And now it’s back to her: Crap! And now she has only 2 possible moves each one as unsettling as the other:

1) The Sympathy Move
“Oh I’m so sorry. Well try to have a nice weekend anyway. I’ll be thinking of you…” (unsaid: …while I’m sitting with my family having breakfast at the pancake house)

or

2) The Comforting as Though We Were Friends Move

“Oh, I didn’t know. Have you been trying? You do want kids though don’t you? They’re such a blessing. How long have you been married now? Have you seen a doctor?

This is the worst case scenario. At least with the sympathy move, she says “I’ll be thinking of you” and I say “Thanks…Bye” and I’m in the clear, free to go.

But now she’s befriended me. Now it’s back to me to respond. So I’m saying as little as possible…(which for me is a bad scene. Needless to say: I panic when I Twee.t “Oh geez, only 7 characters left”). So I say to this one:

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’ve been to the doctor.”
The last thing you want to do is encourage more questions or even worse…advice. All the while in my head I’m thinking: (“Why didn’t I just say, ‘Have a Nice Weekend’ when I had the chance?! Fk me! Look at that it’s 5:08. Fk me again!)

And the third option…Also a goody:

C) Don’t Educate…Evacuate…(For those of you who are rock fans: aka “The Bono Method”)

“Merry Christmas”

“U2”

“Happy Mother’s Day”

“U2”

“Have a Nice Weekend”

“U2”

“Good luck at the dentist!”

“U2”
And keep on walking.

Of course there’s one more option: The Bright Side:

“Happy Mother’s Day”
“Not now. But say it again next year.”

Mother’s Day: Nope Don’t Get it

What is Mother’s Day really about and what does it want from my life? I mean it. What’s the point?

It was bound to happen. My anger was about to break loose sooner or later over this. My pressure cooker was about to blow. Usually I reserve my ire for those driving in front of me at 43 m.p.h. in a 45 m.p.h. zone. (You can’t do the whole 45? Is it a laziness thing? You refuse to expend the energy it takes to apply a little extra pressure on your big toe?) So this is the state that mother’s day has put me in.

Here are these millions of wonderful women around the world more than worthy of motherhood, more than up to the task, who are struggling to get pregnant.

For those women, all mother’s day does is send them screaming head first into a gallon of Haagen Dazs. I’m so upset I can’t even bring myself to capitalize either “mother’s” or “day”. (And I’m not even sure Haagen Dazs makes gallons. And did you know that just as 50 is the new 40, 14 ozs is the new pint?)

Women trying to conceive who have yet to become moms, are angry, sad, depressed and anxious. Certainly mother’s day isn’t doing them any favors.

Then over here, you have women who are mothers. Most of us have had one of those in our lives. That woman who cooked, cleaned, and yelled at us through gritted teeth in the supermarket aisle. So, in return, once a year, we honored her for all of her love and tireless devotion by making her something out of tinfoil, macaroni, and a paper plate.

Nowadays, mother’s day has become more meaningful. We’ve expanded our displays of love and devotion for our mothers by taking them to the pancake house or Cracker Barrel. The celebration to that wonderful woman who has given us life is culminated by waiting/rocking outside the building for an hour until they call your name for the privilege of sitting all 8 of you at a table for 5 and the joy of getting to know your neighbor as the back of his chair is flush up against yours. As the family joins lovingly to say grace over the table, you are secretly praying that your Siamese twin behind you doesn’t at some point have to get up to pee.

So let’s sum this up shall we? Women who don’t have kids but are trying are devastated by this day. Women who have kids are treated to a crowded chain restaurant that’s going for the World Record for how many adult children with the same lame mother’s day plan can be jammed into a room with 15 tables.

So, who is this damn day for again? I’m fed up. I’ve had it up to here! (My hand is six inches above my head, making me a whopping 5’8″)

What Would “J” Say About Mother’s Day (Not that “J”)

I’m a talker. If you’ve read any of my stuff that shouldn’t surprise you. I write just like I talk. And somehow by my writing everyone can tell that I talk fast. And I talk a lot. And the problem with people who talk fast and a lot is that eventually they talk themselves into trouble. Enter my friend and coworker Jancy. She is the anti-Lori. I’m the anti-Jancy. And the way we each handle the Mother’s Day debacle is no different.

At one point in time, Jancy and I had a lot in common. A few things, in fact, we had in common with each other that we didn’t have in common with the vast majority of our other coworkers. Neither of us had kids. Neither of us was Christian. So we both had Mother’s Day wishes and Christmas wishes to contend with. Jancy did it expertly. I did it like an idiot.

Every year before Christmas, Jancy would be a woman of few words… and of course, Lori would talk herself into a deep, dark, bottomless pit through which she’s still tumbling. Jancy is Indian. I think most people wouldn’t automatically assume she’s Christian as opposed to any other religion. Yet people would say: “Merry Christmas” to her non-stop for the entire month of December and Jancy would say: “Thank you. Same to you.” And be rid of them.

I, for some unknown reason, feel the need to enlighten people. Well not really “enlighten”. I always have to set the damn record straight. So people would say: “Merry Christmas” to me and I would say:

“I don’t celebrate Christmas”. Then they’d want to know what I celebrate. Or they wanted to know why I don’t celebrate Christmas. Or they’d say they understood that I didn’t celebrate Christmas but still wanted to know why I didn’t buy a tree. And on and on and on and on. It would have been faster if I’d just converted to Christianity.

Then there’s Mother’s Day. People would say to Jancy: “Happy Mother’s Day” and she would of course say: “Thank You. Same to you.” Then they’d leave and she’d close her door and move on to the next ignorant well-wisher.

Not me. I’d see the greeting approaching and suck in my breath.
“Happy Mother’s Day”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Well, my mother died decades ago and I don’t have any kids. I mean I’m trying. I mean I’ve been trying for a while. We’ve had all the tests done. My husband’s fine. His sperm seem to be plentiful and swimming in the right direction. I have all my parts, don’t get me wrong, and I think they’re working. Maybe my eggs are just old. Anyway, I’ve gone through four cycles of artificial insemination and had an egg retrieval and we’re doing IVF…”

In the time it took me to tell that ridiculous saga, they could have walked across the parking lot, gotten into their car, and been half-way home. But no, I had to be a schmuck and prolong the agony for everyone concerned. Well at least I know there goes one person who will never say “Happy Mother’s Day” to me again.

As for Jancy, if I show her this post, she’ll tell me it’s good and keep on moving. She won’t even mention that I’ve spelled her name totally wrong so people would know how to pronounce it. Which, by the way…. is driving me crazy. Let me just set the record straight: It’s Jhansi.

Will my life EVER be right side up again?!

startasking-homepage-imageTra la la la la. There I was, minding my own business, going through my normal life. Getting up in the morning, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, eating breakfast, going to work, working all day, coming home, having dinner, watching TV, going to bed. For like… years. Tra la la la la. Nothing much has changed. Now I get out of bed, take my temperature, go to the bathroom to check my underwear for signs of intelligent life, take a pregnancy test, take some pills, have sex with my husband because it’s number 6 on the list, lie in bed afterwards with my legs in the air because I’ve seen that on TV, take a pregnancy test, take 12 vitamins because a nutritionist told me to, eat avocados because her receptionist told me to on my way out, take a pregnancy test, go to work because Honey, feelin’ sorry for myself don’t pay the Progesterone. Then…

I spend the day pretending my mind’s on my work and playing emotional dodge ball with my yenta coworkers. They toss idiotically personal questions at me about why I’ve been leaving early a lot lately and I hurl back: “I have not been leaving early a lot lately!” because I don’t know what else to say. Then… I leave early and go to my doctor’s appointment.

There I give blood, leave that room with a cotton ball stuck to the crook of my arm with adhesive tape, take off everything but my socks and my cotton ball and put on an open-in-the-back paper gown that only Kim Kardashian or J. Lo. would be dressed-to-impress in. Then…  I lie on an examination table in a giant “M” shape, let the doctor tickle my cervix with her wedding ring as she apologizes for her hand being cold, (like my cervix knows the difference), leave the doctor’s office with a bill so big I might wear it as a costume next Halloween, go to the fertility acupuncturist, go to the fertility yoga class, go to the fertility meditation class, go to the fertility hypnotist, go to the fertility tarot card reader- I have no clue why, (maybe the hypnotist gets a kick-back and sent me there subliminally), go to the fertility car dealership. (He has eight kids. He must know something.) Go home. Take a pregnancy test. Take a pill. Eat what’s been my favorite dinner since never: Tofu, asparagus, and lemons while my husband feasts on mango, almonds and garlic. Then we have sex because it’s number 42 on the list. I lie in bed with my legs in the air afterwards because I’ve seen that on TV.

While I’m lying there, I read People magazine with one eye open and my fingers scissored in front of my face looking nothing like Uma Thurman, so I can peek through my hand and filter out any articles with sentences starting with: “Preg…”, “Bab…”, “Twi…”, “Tripl…”, or “Chil…” I’m always done with the entire magazine way before my twenty minute leg hoist is up. (Although in my haste, I once almost missed a really nice story about Baby Face and Twisted Sister doing a Pregame concert in Chile.) Then…

I take a pregnancy test. Give myself a subcutaneous stomach needle jab and turn on the TV:

Real Housewives of Anywhere… One is pregnant. They all have kids. Next!

Chopped… Excellent. This guy’s making risotto. Idiot. Everyone knows you can’t make risotto in twenty minutes. Great: He’s dedicating his risotto to his kids and so now of course he has to turn to the camera and tell us all about them. Neeext!

The Golden Girls. Score! It’s the perfect show: None of them’s been pregnant since the Watergate scandal and they don’t allow children in their sub-division.

So I Start Asking: Will My Life Ever Be Right Side Up Again? Microblog_Mondays

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Are 1/2 Anniversaries 1/2 the Fun or Just Dumb?

So tomorrow marks my 12 1/2 year wedding anniversary. I know it’s corny and stupid. Even my husband thinks so. So it’s not like we’re one of those adorably nauseating couples that are so fricken cutesy you can’t stand to be around them. It’s just me. I celebrate the day we met. I celebrate the day we got engaged. I celebrate our 1/2 anniversary. I celebrate our actual anniversary. You’d think I was an alcoholic just looking for any excuse to celebrate. We met on the 7th so every month on the 7th, I’d bring it up:

“We’ve been together for four months today!”

Then when we got engaged on the 5th, I switched everything over to the 5th.

“We’ve been engaged two months today!”

Then, we got married on the 26th and that’s where we stand. So tomorrow, as I’m sure my husband is fully aware, I’ll turn to him in bed first thing in the morning and say:

“Good morning Honey, do you know what today is?” And he’ll reply as lovingly as always:

“Oh geez, are you still doing that?”

Microblog_Mondays

Why Do People Insist on Interviewing ME?

This week marks a special anniversary of sorts for me. This week, for the 1200th time in my life, my big mouth has gotten me into huge trouble.

A couple of months ago, a woman had posted about a guest she was having on her blog radio talk radio blog show radio (I never remember what the hell they’re really called). Her weekly show is about love and laughter. So the guest that week was going to be talking about how humor is therapeutic, so I tuned in. I was going along fine listening until the interviewee said something that arrived in my ear canal as: “And when I’m talking about humor, I don’t mean ‘jokes’. Jokes don’t mean much. You just hear them and then a minute or two later you just forget about them.” Well, needless to say: To a humor writer and former stand-up comic, thems are some fightin’ words.

So I said to myself: “Lori, it’s a live show. You’re going to get yourself up, go up to that studio and give that interviewee a piece of your mind!” And if the studio hadn’t been a thousand miles away in a different country and the show had been 24 hours long instead of an hour long, I might have. Instead I sent a hate-infused email.

Dear Maia Aziz,

How DARE YOU… I repeat: How DAAAARE YOOOU have on this person who mocks jokes?! Jokes are my life!! Jokes keep people from being angry!!! Jokes are funny!!! FUNNY I Say!! We would all be a society of nut jobs if it wasn’t for JOKES!!

with love

Lori Shandle-Fox, Proud Humor Writer

Well, this Maia person answered me back. She sure did.

Dear Lori,

“Thank you for listening to my radio blog talk blog radio talk show talk. I think you would make an excellent guest. Would you like to be on my show?”

What? What just happened? Is she responding to the wrong email? Lori who? I just cyber got out of my car and squeezed my face into this woman’s cracked open cyber window so I could curse her out for taking my cyber parking spot and she just asked me out for tea?

It could be a trap. It could be an ambush. She could have a dozen of her humor therapist friends lying in wait to group mock me live on the air. But publicity’s publicity so I bit.

And if you’d like to hear me yammer on about Humor & Infertility with Maia Aziz on her weekly show: “Morning Moments with Maia: Conversations of Love and Laughter”, please click on. I promise I occasionally let her get in a word edgewise. blogtalkradio.com/maiaaziz

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#microblogmondays: Spring Break for Infertile Women

Spring Break for Infertile Women. Maybe I should pitch the idea to MTV. What’s hotter than watching a group of women in thong bikinis doing shots on the beach at sunset?

MTV would never air it. They’d be out of business in hours. Clearly women going through fertility treatments desperately need a crazy, wild, college-esque Spring Break. It would just be too disturbing to televise.

I could just picture all of us happy gals getting together for Spring Break. Couldn’t you? All of us…thousands… of us…in one big sorority house: The Delta Gamma Gametes.

How long do you think it would be before our “House of Fun” became a “Fun House”…like at a carnival? Or do I mean “House of Horrors”?

I think everything would start out all warm and fuzzy and chummy and supportive. Then, slowly but surely, we would lose that lovin’ feeling and quickly turn into “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Hormones.”

And let’s see what’s on the week’s agenda, shall we?

Day 1: So who’s bringing what to the pity party? 

“You people just don’t understand what I’m going through! Oh wait. Yeah, you’re going through it too. I forgot. So then if you do know what I’m going through, why don’t you know that I just want all of you to go away and leave me alone?!”

Day 2: Spring Break Work Out: Let’s Get Critical…Critical…

“I know we all hate when people talk about their kids in front of us, so why are we all sitting around talking to each other about how we hate to talk about other people’s kids with other people?”

Day 3: Let the “Wet T-shirt” and other hormone-induced Competitions Begin

“I know it’s horrible that you’ve been going through this for two years…and I do feel for you…I really do…but I’ve been going through this for two and a half years!”

“Two and a half years?! OMG. If I have to go through this for another six months I’ll kill myself!”

“Thanks a lot! I’ve been going through this for six years.

And how about a few hands of Progesterone Poker?:  

“Really? Well, I’ve been going through this for six years AND I’ve had two surgeries and three IUI’s.”

“Well, I’ve had two surgeries, four IUI’s, one IVF and an FET!”

Day 4: You know the fun is on the wane when housekeeping becomes a top priority.

“And if you guys are going to throw Baby Dust at each other, which I think is great…I’m of course all for it…  could you at least clean it up when you’re done? I don’t mean to complain, it’s just like… I’m sure I’m not the only one here who knows how to use a vacuum!”

Back a minute to Doing Shots…

While we women would only have limited technology… A red phone… (A hotline to our fertility doctors for “emergency” questions…)

Our spouses/boyfriends/lovers/partners would be on Spring Break too… in a separate wing of the house. Way over there. Just them, air conditioning, big screen TVs, a 24 hour open bar, pool tables, putting green, stocked refrigerators, two toilets each… and sound-proof walls…

(Hope you laughed today… Please consider signing up for this blog / looking into my Humor eBook over there to the left and at http://licthebook.com)