A Burrito Ate My Brain

Follow up from yesterday:

I ate a giant chimichanga for dinner.  I followed it up with a giant piece of cake.  I was a no-show on the work-out front.

EPIC FAIL

Oh yeah, and my boobs are like giant torpedos of fire.  AF should be a visitor any day now.  I just have to make sure my chest doesn't explode before then.  Now that I have 32C's I have to protect these puppies like precious gold.

End Note: My panties are getting too small.  This is a bad, bad sign my friends. Chimichanga- 1, Panties- 0

Hello Hoss

Confession:

I have gained...ahem...a little weight.  It ain't purty.  And, frankly, I have no excuse except 

ME LOVE FOOD

ME LOVE COUCH

It is no small act of hypocrisy that I posted about B's gettin it together on the health department whilst gnawing away at Doritos in my pajamas.  So, when you're 5'2", you can't really carry extra weight without it being noticeable.  And I haven't even started fertility treatments yet!  There's no doubt I have anxiety about the weight those 

lovely Clomid pills will bring with them, not to mention the other treatments I may (likely) need.  So, what's keeping me from getting it together?

ME LOVE FOOD. ME LOVE COUCH

So every few years I get in shape.  I mean IN SHAPE. Like, I could rip you to shreds with my giant guns whilst sprinting up a mountain in the rain, kind of hard-core bitch in shape. That's me, every few years.  And there's no rhyme or reason to how the switch flips and I become that treader-worshipping badass.  It just...happens.  So, why doesn't it happen now?  I keep trying different things.  I keep trying the same old shit. And yet, ME LOVE FOOD. ME LOVE COUCH. 

I haven't been in shape since our wedding (of course), when I broke my foot at our reception and couldn't go to the gym for 2 months.  True Story.  Those wedding dresses should come with a warning:  Do Not Execute Fancy Triple Axel Dance Move.

Anyhoo, when I'm carrying extra weight, I feel bad about myself.  I don't want to get naked in front of B. And this is quite problematic in the baby-making department. It's hard to make a baby with your sweatpants on. Still, I'm hoping I will make the change and actually stick with it. But, sweet baby Jesus, it's gonna take a miracle. Have I mentioned I freakin love both food and my couch?

Manning Up

It's time to Man Up me sayeth.  

This seems to have worked on B.  He scheduled his SA for Wednesday! Woot!  This was something that we've talked about for...well, way too freaking long! There would always be a lot of subject-changing every time the self-love-in-a-cup-for-medicine convo came up.  Unfortunately, I am like the ADD Poster child so I'm very susceptible to this technique.  

Me: When are you going to get your SA?

B: Do you know if strawberries are in season?

Me: I LOVE STRAWBERRIES!

There is another issue that has been a point of much discussion, ahem, dirty looks & covert fighting tactics by yours truly.  We will call this the Tobacco is Satan argument.  B is shall we say, a social smoker.  He smokes when he has a drink.  And he's Irish.  So, that's a regular thing. Now, I have no interest in being a mother to my husband.  I don't want to nag & preach. I want him to be healthy.  I want him to not be stanky.  But lately I'm a little like the Fertility Police. I want his sperms to be strong like gladiators!  In his defense, he's been trying very hard to quit and has cut back a lot.  But still....grrr....evil looks come out whenever he has a moment of weakness.

Maybe the real problem has something to do with B's politics.  He's an independent.  And apparently my spleen is getting a lot of sperm canoodling action. 

ps.  Never google images for "strong sperm" unless you want to be traumatized FOREVER

Les Brassiers

B may not appreciate me discussing my bewbs online, but I feel the need to PSA the shit out of a recent experience I had.  

Warning: This post will NOT be about my procreationally-challenged body.  More of that to come!  Just like the talent I have for finding my reflection in any shiny surface, I can turn anything into a commentary on Infertility!

Les Brassiers! Les Bosoms! Les Horror!

I am, shall we say, a genetically underendowed lady in the bewb department.  A fact that is sadly highlighted by the incongruent size of my arse cheeks and prairie-woman hips.  Sometimes I forget how wide they are and bump into furniture or knock items off shelves in department stores.  Yeah...I'm that girl...

So I have been measured for bras several times in the last few years at a store that shall remain nameless.  Ahem...VICTORIA'S SECRET. Whatever.  I will no longer be a silent conspirator in their House of Cards! Their Cups of Lace and Lies!  

So thanks to those Merchants of Misinformation, I've been wearing a 34A for about 3 years.  This is down 1 size from my 34B in high school and college (except Sophomore year when I was a good 20 pounds heavier and wore a 34C- YIKES!  But damn if my bosoms weren't giant mountains of glory).  So these lovely 34A bras have never quite fit.  In fact, the cups stuck out from my body in a way that was unattractive but handy for transporting contraband.  B had started to complain about this Fitting Issue.  He would point at my chest and say, "That's not okay!" before pulling a snickers out of my bra and munching away.

When your husband starts to comment on your bosoms in this way, it's time for Action! So I went shopping for a new bra a couple weeks ago.  As I was thumbing through the 34AA's, hoping it would solve the Grand Canyon Phenomenon, an Angel from Heaven (read- Nordstron lingerie saleswoman/certified bewb specialist) stopped me and measured me.   Turns out I'm a

32C!!!

SHOCKING! But wouldn't you know it, these bras fit beautifully.  No more grand canyon.  No more straps falling down all day.  And Cleavage!  Who woulda thunk it? I mentioned I hadn't worn a C since my weighty college days and Angel Woman said, "You were probably a DD." 

Now B doesn't complain about my bras.  In fact, he looks at my chest and says, "Yummy."  But he has a whole new problem on his hands.  He can't get me to stop dancing around the house in my new bras singing, "New Boobs! New Boobs!" It's my new fixation. 

Moral to this story? Get thee to a Nordstrom!

Sick Belly? Keep that Shizzle to Yourself!

Today I had a case of the almost-voms.  

You know what I mean, the "Oh sweet baby Jesus, where's my trashcan" and then...nothing.

So, here I am stifling groans of intestinal agony, walking around the office a little green-faced. And when people notice they all say  you.must.be.pregnant.

I think when you reach a certain age, any run-of-the-mill symptom is an indication of procreation. Tired? Maybe you're pregnant.   Nauseous? Definitely pregnant.   Throwing up? You're going to repopulate the Earth!

I should also mention one person actually broke into a cheer for me (No Lie).  "You're not feeling well?  Give me an S-T-O-R-K!!"  I think he may have actually done a little dance.  I didn't notice.  I was too busy trying to run out of the room.

Part of me wanted to tell him my stork got lost! But who wants to endure the awkward aftermath of that announcement?  Or worse, the unsolicited advice?  So, in lieu of shaming my coworkers into humbled silence, I respond, "There's no way I'm pregnant."

So, my friends? Does this end the reproductive chatter?  OH NO. No such luck.  Instead, my well-meaning co-workers misinterpret my meaning as baby-phobia and begin telling me how wonderful being pregnant is and touting the wonders of parenthood.  They also dismiss my statement of "No Way" and expertly say, "You never know. You could be wrong." 

And here's my shame.  I feel more shameful about this than about my inability to make a baby. In spite of all my knowledge- the charting, the cysts on my ovaries, all of it.  I started to hope. I started to think "maybe." I let my ignorant but well-meaning coworker's words seep into my brain and plant a seed that maybe my nausea was tied to some higher purpose.

So, I came home and peed on a stick. 

Negative.

I'm never telling people I don't feel well again.

Coming Out

So I came out to my parents last week after my RE appointment.  This, by the way, was rather uneventful, and so did not earn a special blog entry all its own.  The best part was B giggling (oh yes- GIGGLING) that the doctor prescribed sex.  

Anyhoo, back to coming out. I was on the phone with my mom and whilst lamenting our housing crisis, blurted out, "Oh it's official.  I'm infertile."  She was stunned, I think. I'm guessing stunned due to the fact we started talking about houses again.  

She called back a couple days later and apologized for not reacting more on the phone and starting asking questions.  I had to explain that the doctor didn't actually tell me I'm infertile but we're looking at a lot of medical hand-holding to get this ute knocked up. This was also paired with the announcement that B and I are actually trying to procreate.  This is an announcement my parents have been waiting for.  We've been coy about it-

"Oh you know.  Maybe some day.... la la la." ..... Even though we'd already been trying.

Too bad the long-awaited announcement had to be paired with an infertility announcement. Actually, they took it beautifully. And telling them felt like getting rid of a ginormous weight.  It really just made me wonder why I hadn't told them earlier.  Except that maybe I was hoping it might happen for us naturally and I would just be able to announce a pregnancy, without all the other bad news. No two-sided coin.  Just a one-sided baby-smiling engraved coin.  

Throw Your Hands In the Air

....and wave em like you just don't care

Ah, House #8.  Let's have a moment of silence for House #8............................................................

Our inspection Wednesday lasted a whopping 30 minutes, terminated prematurely when  ourinspector ran screaming out of the basement.  B ran after him, tackled him in the street, only to find the man's hair had turned white.  Let's have a moment of silence for the inspector, shall we? ...........................................  I've heard he'll make a full recovery.  He managed to blink out the message (in morse code) that there were some issues with the foundation.

Although the seller's agent helpfully suggested the seller himself was a structural engineer and would be glad to tell us the house's structure was fine, we declined.  Instead, we brought our own structural engineer, complete with a bag of Xanax, yesterday for another looksee.  Turns out House #8 is the structural equivalent of a moon-bounce house you rent for kid's birthday parties.  That's good news for the sellers since they WILL NEVER SELL THIS HOUSE!  

The engineer did price out the repairs for us and we were like, "No Thanks, Boss.  We're reproductively challenged, so we actually need that money for baby-making." 

Oh, and it turns out the seller is actually a chemical engineer, not a structural engineer.  Which is the same diff, according to their lamesauce agent. You can take your fugly kitchen moon-bouncy house and shove it.  (Sorry for the hostility, they were just real jerks about the whole thing)

So, after much fist-shaking at the sky, B & I are starting to think we kind of like the Number 9. Nine, nine, nine.  Which I think means "No" in German.  But I'll just ignore that.  Nine might just be my lucky number...