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.