I can’t even begin to articulate my day.
I have a referral for a fertility clinic, so that’s new and terrifying.
I spent all morning attempting to not throw up. Then I had blood work done and spent that time attempting to not pass out.
Some news I’ve been waiting to pop up in my hometown’s newspaper was finally there, but it still hurts like I had no warning. A family member of mine was murdered and her murderer has copped a plea deal to serve significantly less time than his original sentence. It’s distressing.
Two weeks until I board a plane and head to my home state for a friend’s wedding. I celebrate my wedding anniversary next weekend and a four day weekend with my husband this weekend. Hopefully we’ll get some hiking time in and maybe even a round of putt putt. In the mean time, I’m on the job hunt and re-watching 30 Rock.
Also, my dog keeps farting at me and that’s not helping my ever-lingering nausea.
There is literally no worse day to be an infertile than on Mother’s Day.
Worse, yet, is being an infertile and seeing a pregnant (former?) infertile rejoicing about Mother’s Day and completely forgetting where she came from. This particular person lamented the time it took her to get pregnant and stood up as a face of infertility. She should be a sympathizer. And now, it’s like she wants to forget everything she went through.
I’ve been working on a baby blanket for this couple for a few weeks now and I just cannot get motivated. I’ve contemplated just not making them one, but I’ve known this couple for most of my life and it seems awfully petty to not make them one. Yet, every time I see a “we’re taking bets on the birthday and gender!” post, I want to scream.
I spent my day looking at model homes and planning for the (hopefully) near future when we can be homeowners again.
Also, my fur babies let me sleep until 11 this morning. So take that, moms.
Before I moved to California, I lived in Arkansas for four years. Yesterday, the state’s ban on gay marriage was overturned in a major human rights victory. I have been astonished at some of the bigoted vitriol I’ve read by people claiming to be Christians, but the craziest are those saying two men or two women shouldn’t be able to get married because they can’t reproduce.
Let me get this straight. A marriage between two people who love each other shouldn’t be allowed <i>because they cannot have children “naturallly.</i> By that logic, my marriage shouldn’t be legal. I will never have a child with my husband without the help of fertility drugs or maybe even IUI or IVF. By that logic, people who choose not to have children should not be allowed to get married. I’m pretty sure that my childless marriage and others’ gay marriages aren’t doing a damn thing to ruin the sanctity of straight people’s second, third, or fourth marriage. And could people please quit quoting Leviticus? If you want to follow Old Testament rules, let’s stone women who aren’t virgins when they get married while we’re at it. Quit picking which parts of the Bible are convenient to follow. It’s annoying to those of us who aren’t interested.
While I’m on my soapbox, can people also please quit comparing gay marriage to bestiality? Humans will never marry animals because animals are not legally capable of giving consent. Your dog cannot agree to marry you or have sex with you. The same applies to pedophilia. Children cannot give consent. Period. So let’s just stop with this, ok?
When I was in college, the night felt magical. I would sit on the balcony and smoke cigarette after cigarette, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone, but either way it was my favorite time to be alive. Anything could happen and, usually, anything did. I remember staying up all night talking to good friends and returning home long after dawn, sneaking in just before my mother arose to avoid her disapproving stares.
I’ve long since quit smoking and no longer have the stamina to stay up and watch the sunrise. I do well to make it to midnight, unless a good book has my attention, of course — then I might make it to one or two. However, this week, my husband started working the mid shift, which is midnight to seven a.m. He leaves the house just before I make my way to bed and returns home just as I’m waking up. We sit in the living room and talk while I have coffee and he eats dinner, then he crashes for the day. I sit in the living room, worried about disturbing his sleep. I thought about adjusting to his new schedule to make it seem more normal, but that was a short-lived idea.
The only upside to this is that I get our giant bed all to myself.