Not from these parts

None of you are under the impression that I am some young chickie born in the 80's, right?

Most of my dear readers have conscious memories of the blessed 80's.
Some of you were next to me when I was taking my hits.

At least one of you is completely at fault for me never not being punished for '86 in its entirety.

You know you are.
I have to own it. So do you.

So, me. Not so young.

Everyone still okay? Cause there's more.

The readership of this blog is also not so vast that you cannot not know that it is our goal -mine and Lucio's - to have another child.

So we tried.
A lot.
For months.






Having been bit by the age bug a while back (twazzoo will not stop rearing her ugly head) I assumed we needed some help in the fertile department.

Of course, my handsome spouse is young and spry.

Evidently he is also a great white because his equipment is totally all pristine to do nothing but making little sharks.

He still had to make a deposit to demonstrate said ability to make little sharks.

Still not sure he's forgiven me yet for that lovely machismo moment when he learned he now had a urologist and a deadline.

So, it's my old parts.
I knew it would be.

When you have old parts, you check things out.

Couple of scans here.
A vile of blood drawn there.
No worries.
Five pills...a couple of hormone shots...one big shot and BAM!
We're off to the races again...

Then came June.
Conception.
Triumph! Delight! Joy!
Oh, yeah, that's right!

Wait, what?
Doom. Tears. Failure.

Learn a world of women are member of this club.






A few months pass and we're back to the drawing board.
Call doc.
Says come it for a treatment and then we'll see.

"So Heather, we'll want to do this scan to make sure your tubes are not bent."

"Really, that wasn't mentioned as an option in the video "Blossoming Into a Woman" in 4th grade. Sorry, okay. What happens?"

"Well, Heather, we'll flush your who-ha-ha with water and do a scan."

"Will it hurt?"

"It's uncomfortable, yes, but it's fairly quick."

"Um, okay."

Scooched to the edge of the chair, feet in place, I take a deep breathe.

Moments pass.
My left forearm is across my eyes and I am holding the side of the chair.
Wow, that is uncomfortable.
Wow.
Really?
Seems like there has to be another way.

"Okay, Heather, here's we go..."

What? Shut the Front Door! You've haven't gone yet!?!!

Seizing pressure cooker what in the name of all that is good and holy...

And then the Jersey just came screaming out...

"Are you fucking kidding me? Fuck! Hurry up and get this shit done!!!

Crickets.
Hand to God.
Now one said a word.


15 minutes later, sitting up and look like I've been swimming.
Feel like I've been gladiating.

Sweet midwestern masochistic who just completed scan that tells me tubes are totally tubular and we can proceed to level 2.

"Wow, Heather, we've had women pass out from that procedure, but never one who screamed the "F" word twice."

"I'm not from around here."

But maybe my baby will be. For a little while at least.

Broken News

I've been concerned - maybe even a little worried - about my news sources lately.

I've wanted to blame the small town newsrooms for my diminishing interest in tuning in at 6, 10 and on Sunday mornings, but honestly David Gregory wasn't doing it for me any more than Jennifer Ketchmark was.

Partly it's the news at 10. I'm still not used to the the time difference with the east coast.

But, does that explain my choosing to watch re-runs of The West Wing during the 7 am hour and not the Today show?

I guess my thinking has been that if CNN considered Lindsay Lohan getting released from 9 whole scary days of prison as BREAKING NEWS, then I am well within my rights to seek alternative sources.

CNN also told me she couldn't tweet, blog of have hair extensions.
Whew! Where would we be without hard-hitting journalism?

The 24 hour news cycle should at least afford me a strong foundation for the news of the day.

But did I know enough about the horrendous flooding Pakistan?

Or have there simply been too many international weather related disasters of late and what with the oil spill and Haiti we just don't need to know nearly as much about the suffering of people that let's face it, live really really close to Afghanistan.

I mean hell, they live next door to Afghanastan.
They could be terrorists, right, FOX News?

You want to know why I know there have been fires in Russia?
Not because Matt Lauer told me.

Because Emile Hirsch is filming a movie there and his movie was shut down because of said fires.

My Emile also guest blogged about the fires for the Huffington Post, by the by. You should check it out. And then totally read about Harry Reid breaking with Obama and how Danielle Staub has been FIRED from the Real Housewives of NJ.

FIRED!!

Really Andy Cohen?
Really?
You think this is my first time at the Bravo talk bubble?

We know it's a publicity stunt orchestrated by Bravo.

Because let me be perfectly clear.

The only reason to watch RHONJ is Danielle Staub.

Even that two head Theresa and those delightful children she's...raising isn't the right word..what is it..those children she buys things for are nothing without Danielle and her special K-razee.

So maybe I have nothing to worry about.

Jon Stewart's finger has been firmly on the pulse of the gulf oil spill and Chelsey Handler made some solid observations about that whole Freedom of Religion thing and where the Mosque is or is not.

Like the Gentleman's Club adjacent to Ground Zero isn't equally as upsetting to, I don't know, WOMEN than a place of worship might be.

So I'm not going to worry about it anymore.

I am going to stick with The Smoking Gun and The Colbert Report.

I will continue to await the return of Bill Maher and his pithy little NEW RULES.

Yes, I will check Perez and Dlisted every day too.

Maybe just in between I'll read more than the Wedding page of the New York Times.