The Jinx

Five years ago Chubby and I thought we were so clever in planning our Halloween costumes. We were recently engaged and going to his family's Halloween party. His family, well, how can I put this, can border on . . . well, I can't type that. Let's just say that the best satire has an element of truth to it so we went as The Reason We Were Getting Married.

Yup, I went as a bubble-gum chewing, beer swilling, wife-beater-wearing, knocked-up redneck. My husband was dressed as my equally classy sperminator, and the sound of shotguns followed us throughout the party.

Ah, the irony.

Here we are five years later, and two teenagers in Chubby's family have had opportunities at shotgun weddings. The first didn't marry his baby mama because she dumped him even before the baby was born. She now has a second child by a second father.

The teenage mother-to-be married her boyfriend. At that wedding, I worried a bit about drinking beer in a can. Not because it isn't classy at a wedding, but because Chubby and I just started trying that month, and I was sure it had worked.

And you know the rest. She's had number two, and we are still barren.

Any magic witch spells out there to undo the jinx we put on ourselves?

A Great Birthday

Friday was my 39th birthday, and it may have been the best birthday of my life. It wasn't because of who was there—my best friend flew in from California for a long weekend although that helped.

It wasn't because I ate fabulous sushi fusion at the same place I went for my birthday last year or that this year I could enjoy some sake with my meal, but it helped.

It wasn't because I was able to be a total gardening geek, going on one garden tour preview on Friday, volunteering for that garden tour the next morning, and then going on yet another gardening tour that afternoon, but it helped.

(Unlike a previous entry, I will not bore you with my lame gardening metaphors, but I am now fully up to my shears in gardening. I'm even taking a three-month super intensive gardening class with professors from the state ag school. We have classes on soil fertility, propagation—at which I suck, metaphorically and otherwise, entomology, etc.

I'm still killing plants but just not at the rate at which I was before.)

And it wasn't because of the wonderful presents I received—watch out, my husband says that my soil knife in its sheath makes me look badass, but they help. Especially, the dark, dark chocolate.

And it certainly wasn't because I'm pregnant. In fact, I'm fairly certain that my period is starting today, making this a 21-day cycle. Yikes.

So then why was this perhaps the best birthday ever? I think it's because I was so thankful that I wasn't miserable. I've been happy lately. I don't have what I wanted and I'm not sure I will get what I want, but I am happy.

And as I blubbered at my birthday dinner, this year was the first in a while that I felt like celebrating. (Somehow I didn't quite explain that right to the hubs. I did appreciate what he did for my birthdays; I just didn't want to celebrate with anyone ELSE until this year.)

Three years ago, I spent my birthday driving to be with my mother as she underwent whole brain radiation after she found out that her cancer had spread to her brain.

I can't even remember what I did for my birthday two years ago. I know I was on clom*d so perhaps that explains the fog.

Last year on my birthday, we were in the midst of an IVF cycle that was cancelled a week later.

I'm not really sure where I am going with this, but I just feel like I owe to you to not just rely on you when I'm down but to let you know when you've helped me reach a happier place.

(Oh, and all this happiness has nothing to do with the following horoscope on my birthday:

LIBRA
(Sep 24 - Oct 23) This weekend brings a quadruple conjunction in your sign of the zodiac. The planets involved include Venus, the ruler of your sign. This is exceptionally auspicious. It suggests a magnificent opportunity - a real change for the better in almost any area of life where you currently need to see an improvement. It may not all happen at once, but if you start to reach for it, it will soon start to happen. Don't rule anything out - apart from more trouble. You don't need that and you don't have to have it.)

But I am hoping that all of you have a happy birthday this year.

Don't Read This Book **Updated

Happ*ness Sold Separate/y by Lolly W*nston

Hate to write this. I loved her first novel, Good Grief. Parts of it spoke so clearly to the pain I felt; in fact I found some of her writing on grief so similar to things I had written about grieving my mother that I wondered if she had somehow read my mind as she wrote.

Yesterday I found her newest book at the library and was excited to read it. Infertility plays a role, albeit minor, in her first novel. In this one, infertility is a major character. And once again I felt like W*nston had been peering into my life and taking notes: pushing 40, three years total trying to have a baby, three IUIs, two IVFs.

Can I get some sort of payment for using my life as material? What are those called again?

W*inston gets infertility treatments; she gets how they affect husbands and wives. She knows to use transfer and not implant when discussing putting embryos back in your wooha. She knows her HCG from her HSG.

The novel begins with the wife finding out that her husband is having an affair. Years of IF has hurt their marriage, and he finds solace elsewhere. OK, this part does not resemble my life, but the distance between spouses, the hole created where your life was supposed to be, that part is similar.

I stayed up late reading it and got up early to continue. And then I hit page 200.

And I'm telling you now. Don't read this.

Really, I'm telling you just relax and don't read this.

Don't even try to read this. Pay no attention to reading. Forget about reading. Don't even think about reading this for a few months.

Don't read this on a vacation.

Just don't. Well, unless you want to frighten your poor puppy as you hurl the book across the room.

***Okay, well against my own advice, I kept reading and now I really kind of wish I hadn't but not for the reason mentioned above, but for a much sadder one. Maybe Winston knows more than I gave her credit for. Still not sure if I'm recommending it. Might just be too much reality.

Having a Bad Day

So once again I will not be pregnant for my birthday. Period started this morning. A 22-day cycle. Great. So you're probably thinking, "Duh, what was she thinking? She's not even doing anything."

Well, no. I'm not doing anything ART-related but I have been seeing an acupuncturist for three plus months now, and for the first time, I got a PEAK for two days on my fertility monitor. And we had sex. But of course, that hasn't worked for oh, three years now, so why do I get my hope up?

(Our tentative plan was been acu for six months, then another IVF, although I have tried many times to have the conversation with my husband that I am done. His face gets dark and sad, and I retract my statement. I just don't think it will work. I just don't think I will ever get pregnant. In fact, if you had to ask me the one thing I know, it's that. That I will never have a baby. How do I know? Aren't there things you just know?)

I've still got the fucking ringing in my ears despite two rounds of ineffectual antibiotics and one round of steroids. (Maybe that's it; I'm finally getting 'roid rage.)

And then my sister told me that our father finally told her last night that he is dating someone. We'd been suspecting for a while based on my sister's snooping and my father's recent spending habits. I thought I was okay with it. If he finds someone else, it means less work for us. We won't have to take care of him down the road. Less of a burden.

But still. He can't ever put his own children first. It would have been nice if he decided to finally get to know his own children in his old age. But no. It would be nice if he finally put our needs first. But no, silly, stupid me with my silly, stupid expectations. Before he even mentions this woman's existence to HIS children, he meets her fucking children.

And she's twenty years younger than him, making her only thirteen, make thatt twelve as my birthday is in three weeks, older than me, his youngest child. She's only seven years older than my brother. I don't know how old her kids are, but I'm betting that they will get much better treatment from my father than we have ever gotten.

And if they get married, she will end up spending my mother's money. The money that my father would never let her spend. The money that is not in a will. The money I know she would have given us to help with IF treatment; the money he has not offered.

My mother did not have a will, and I'm sure despite my repeated pleas for him to get something in writing in case something happened to him while she was in the nursing home, he still doesn't have a will. Wait, there was that totally condescending note he wrote and stuck in his drawer that we could have access to his funds if something happened. I'm sure a judge is going to accept a non-witnessed handwritten note stuck in a drawer. But then again my father said he didn't think it was a big deal if we had to go before a judge to get funds to pay for our mother should something happen to him while she was alive. He thought that with him dead or incapacitated, and my mother incapacitated, it would be no big deal for us to go to court.

Yes, that would be exactly what we would want to do.

That's the way he thinks. And that's why I try so hard to manage my expectations so he will not continue to disappoint me.

But you know what, fuck it. I want a father who puts my needs first, I want my mom, and I want a baby.

And I have none of these. Just a self-centered father and a period.