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Photo Friday: Red
Well it is a big day for Red. Not only am I still celebrating the recent find of an old forgotten favorite lipstick, but this is also the day where the red on my head will be released. Like a red balloon in a German music video, I am setting the red that is my head of hair free. After 2pm this afternoon I will no longer be a red-head with brown roots, but a brunette with red high-lights. You might feel a shift in the atmosphere.
This weekend will be more photography work (amazing what getting a paycheck can do to motivate a girl) and plenty of laying low. There might be a new development on the health insurance front. Well by development I should say that I have a tentative meeting scheduled on Saturday to discuss something like a brokered insurance plan. I’ll explain more if it happens.
I’m going to assume that most of you have fabulous plans for the holiday next week and that the blogosphere will be a bit quiet. (holy shit- it’s going to be JULY!) If you find yourself with some free time please feel free to write some essays/articles/whathaveyou for The IVP. 
I just started a book section and really need you guys to flesh it out with your recommendations. And of course there is always photo friday. 
It is 4pm Eastern…
I am hanging out in the chat room at The IVP if anyone wants to come wave & help me check out the chat features. I think this weekend might be too crazy for us to schedule something. But start thinking about a big chat convention for NEXT week. How kick ass would that be?! Maybe we could have a regularly scheduled session of chats depending on what your needs are.
I’ll be hanging out for about an hour.
Everything is permissible.
I once had an amazing theatre director that gave me the note: Everything is permissible until you ask permission. It was meant to get me out of my goody two shoes head and to let my instincts soar. In a rehearsal there is no wrong way to approach a scene: try any and everything. When you start asking you set yourself up to be told no.
Months and months ago when I went in to have a consult at the local mega clinic I was so utterly bummed at their lack of financing options. I was so hopeful that they would have a program that would be the solution to all of my baby dreams. Everything went great with the RE. He was funny, charming, confident, and mustache free. (I will admit to being troubled my his 80’s inspired ’stache on the mega clinic’s website.) He was all systems go- ready to treat me that day.
Then the financing people bustled in and the RE excused himself to go knock up someone else. The financing people were curt and unyielding. This is not to say that they were not friendly, but it is to say that they are not what we would call kindred spirits. There is money to be made in the baby making business and since my pockets were empty I was given a card of a local bank and told to call when I had the cash.
As they were leaving the IVF nurse came in with schedules for me. She was under the impression that I would be starting a cycle with them that month. As the finance people were leaving and my Mother was explaining to the IVF nurse that we didn’t need a schedule at this point I blurted out to the room that I would totally donate my eggs if it would help offset the cost.
Now you must remember, this is months before I was really serious about egg donating. This was a desperate, flash in the pan, maybe the spaghetti will stick to the wall, sort of blurt. I honestly half expected confetti to drop from the ceiling and that I would be presented with a sash from the RE’s. Surely being an egg donor was the magic phrase, the turn key to unlocking the thick gate that stood between me and my kid.
The IVF nurse asked how old I was and when I said that I was 31 the ring leader of the financial gang, as her exit line, said, “31. too old.” I was then told that 30 was the cut off. Too bad, so sad. Two for flinching.
And I was ok with that exchange. Really I was. Because, dude, EGG DONOR?? Me?? Ha ha! No way was I ready to do that. I was relieved, to be honest, not to have to decide Johny on the spot about something so huge.
But then the notion of being a donor was with me. I could feel my head and my heart marinating and stewing on the idea. The more I sat with it the more it felt right, it felt perfect, it felt like maybe it was what I should have been trying to do all along. If you help me I will help you: two women exchanging whatever they could to not only pursue their own dreams but someone else’s. Yes please.
And so I went on a rampant search to find a clinic where I could be a shared donor. I needed someplace near friends or family. I needed a place that would accept a single girl. I needed someone that would accept me. I was thrilled when I found the northeast clinic. It seemed perfect.
So this is where I tell you that waiting sucks ass. This is where we all say, give it more time, you will be matched eventually, patience grasshopper.
Well fuck patience.
Last night in one of my monthly venting sessions with Mother about (the lack of my) health-care I blurted out something to the effect of, “Why can’t I just be in a shared donor program at the local mega clinic?” To which Mother brilliantly replied, “well why can’t you?”
Thus began this epic long brainstorming session. I would call my old RE’s at my old clinic and have them call the mega clinic. Or I could have the Northeast clinic call the mega clinic. Or I could have my favorite nurses call the mega clinic. Or I could have all of the Internets write letters of recommendation. I needed an IN at the mega clinic.
Ah, but remember, this is my life. I am the driver. I am the wearer of red lipstick. Why turn down a moment to be proactive? I needed to make up for all of my cancel a scary meeting phobias and just bulldoze in. And that is when I remembered that everything is permissible.
I have just scheduled a “reconsult” with the RE at the local mega clinic. I was going to just put in a call & save myself the $100 bucks, but what I want could be too easily denied on the phone.
You see when I called the mega clinic I simply asked if they had an egg donor program. Yes. Then I asked if they had a shared donor program. Yes. Then I asked if I could have a consult with the RE I had met with before about these programs. Yes. July 5th.
I am going to pretend that I never heard of their age cut off and see where that gets me. I mean who knows, they could have a waiting list of recipients and maybe, just maybe, there is someone there who could give a fuck about the extra 18 months my eggs have over other women in the program.
I need to get proactive with all of this again. I am so tired of all of the damn waiting. It’s useless. Who knows, maybe it will be just the perfect timing for a YES answer. Or maybe I’ll get a NO, but the northeast clinic will have something for me by then. I just know that I need to be DOING something every month.
Anyone want to practice role playing with me to help me rehearse what I will propose to the RE?
Better than a douche!
Our Vagina posse just got a whole lot fresher. After much e-mailing, idea swapping, instant messaging and positive reinforcements The Internet Vagina Posse has a new home. I am so effing thrilled and excited!
You see when I started thinking about us as a collective posse I wanted to not only celebrate our coolness, but I wanted to create a landing pad for all of our vast knowledge. I have (& continue to) learned so effing much from all of you internets. I wish I had all of this knowledge when I was starting out. I bet most of us do.
Hope has set us up a wiki site. You may be familiar with that term wiki as it is the style of site that the famous wikipedia is. This means it is a site by the people and for the people. You are in charge of the content. You are the writers. You are the dreamers of dreams.
Things are still in the early phases, but I’m telling you, it is going to be kick ass!
Now you might be wondering: Cali, who is The Internet Vagina Posse? I have come up with a test for you. Give yourself 5 points for every Yes answer. Subtract 100 points for every no answer.
1) I have a vagina or know people that do.
2) I have commented on this blog or any blog on the blogroll to your right.
3) I would like to support other people.
4) I am not an asswipe, pervert, idiot, meanie, closed-minded fuckwit.
Now tally up your points. If you have at least 5, congrats! You are eligible to be a part of the IVP. You rock!
So your assignment today is to go & register. Then come back here and answer two questions for me.
Question One: Would you like to try out the chat feature this weekend? What day and time works for you?
Question Two: Do you have any interest in writing an article for The IVP? There are a good handful of you out there that I would LOVE to hear from. Let me know if you want/need a writing assignment. Here is a rough list of articles for ideas:
thick girls who ttc, ttc as a single woman, ttc with no insurance, nightmare RE stories, funny RE stories, ectopic pregnancy, tubal issues, PCOS, natural birth, adoption stories, foster parent stories, no support at home while ttc, racial issues with ttc, trimester stories, faith and ttc, relationships and ttc, moving while ttc or pg or with child, parenting as a single woman, parenting with a partner/spouse, parenting multiples…I could go on. Basically all of you have a unique point of view and I want you to share it.
At some point we might be able to have some charting features…but we really need images for the photo gallery. If you have photos of OPK’s, US (with child or with follicles), photos of your meds, photos of you taking your meds, photos of birth or birth classes…anything that you either want to share or you think will help other women.
Now GO! Register! Your Vagina will thank you for it.
Getting older questions:
Yesterday I got a new glossy advert from a mega beauty store that sort of rhymes with Eudora. The entire thing was full of skin care solutions and I read it like it was the latest Kay Scarpetta novel. There are creams for wrinkles, creams for acne, creams for acne that causes wrinkles, and creams for the acne that you got from using wrinkle creams.I am in this sort of in-between aging moment in my skin. I can sort of kind of see where some wrinkles might be forming, but I still get some zits. Well actually ever since I started using this my zits have been pretty tame (yee haw!), but I will still call myself acne prone.
But the freckles thing is kind of troubling. I have lots of them. But apparently the skin care world thinks they are aging. They refer to freckles as “brown spots”. Yes, true…but “brown spots” sounds horrible, while freckles sounds jaunty and fun. Is there a specific age when freckles cease to be jaunty and evolve into, well, brown spots?
And how are you aging? What are you freaking out over in the bathroom mirror?
Small rant & hair issues:
I am rated R as I have used the words vagina, fuck, knife (only in relation to the Knork) & shit multiple times. You’d think a blog about trying to become a Mother would manifest in a kinder and gentler way. Lots of pale pink and robin’s egg blue tones, language so clean and rhythmic that you could rock a newborn babe to it, yearnings that are totally white stork related, and thoughts pure as baby laundry soap.
heh.
I think I am becoming more & more Raising Arizona in my baby quest. I want my fucking kid. I’m sick of the waiting and the character building and the lesson learning. I’m tired of losing my religion - hell I’m disgusted that my faith seems to be wrapped around my female bits and whether or not they do what I want them to do.
Alright…enough bitching. I’m actually in a B level mood, only a few degrees less than this weekend’s A level. And it would have been a B+ if I hadn’t discovered ants in the kitchen. Ants in the kitchen is a pretty crappy way to start a Monday morning, but I made it through.
So the more exciting bit about the day (yes, beyond the happiness that GM has PT in a few hours, and even beyond the fact that I made some amazing coffee this morning) is that I have booked a hair appointment for myself on Friday. 98% of what I just got paid is going directly into my ING account, but the leftover 2% has been set aside to finance some new hair and some new fancy coffee.
I haven’t had my hair done in a while. The last time it was done I was a full on auburn head. Usually in between salon visits I will do root touch ups myself with whatever hair dye in a box is cheapest. This time I haven’t done a thing. This was on purpose. I have been trying to get to the root of (heh) my natural hair color.
The shocking news is that I completely bypassed having gray hair. The hair color that has revealed itself is a dull light brown with WHITE hair. At first I thought, “aha! I’ve got golden hair!” But no. It’s old lady white.
So the dilemma is do I keep going with the red/auburn or do I phase in some brown? I used to be a total salon girl and would get my hair done every 3 months. Now, well now not so much. Sure I am in a salon every week with GM but seeing as how that is usually the only outing the entire week I just don’t ever feel like I neeeeeeeed to get my hair done.
However this weekend’s lipstick reveal was kind of nice. And I realized that if I could take so much pleasure out of wearing familiar colors on my mouth that I might just have a bounce in my step if I had some nice hair working.
So I’m not sure yet if I will be doing red or doing a phased in brown. Heaven knows if a month or two months from now I will have the motivation(or finances) to get my hair done again so maybe going phased in is the answer.
Those of you with gray or white hair rocking your world- are you embracing it, covering it up, in denial, dyeing it? Talk to me.
Every once in a while…
…I get super crazy horny. I know. Shocker. Most days (months, years) I feel so unsexual, unattractive, unthin, uncomfortable, that the very idea of being with someone turns me off.
And then, every once in a while, I will be overcome by randiness. Of course I am approaching the ovulation window, but I also think it might just be a freak moment where I am not feeling depressed or worried about something.
I am usually suspended in a hyper-state of fretting and worrying. I think about my own needs maybe four times a day whereas I think about GM & Mother and even the pet’s needs the rest of the time. I am a giver. I find happiness in other people’s contentment. I think the fact that Mother didn’t get hurt and that GM is doing so much better is a huge part of why I am feeling so good today. I can relax. My tribe is doing well.(plus Cali just got PAID!)
Yesterday I think I was starting to beam at people. I had to go to a membership mega store to buy nutritional shakes in bulk. Getting dressed for a rare solo outing was kind of fun. Then my every day pants felt a little loose. Then my hair was actually not looking so crappy. Then I found a lipstick that had been missing for ages.
Deciding to put on smoking brick red lipstick is huge. For those of you that know me, know me, you may be surprised to read that it has been months since red lipstick has been a part of my life. It started to feel silly and clown-ish. I mean I never leave the house, so why even bother. But yesterday I painted ‘em red, and I was pleased.
I roamed around the aisles of the mega store and could feel that people were responding to my mood. At first it was freaky- all of these people grinning at me. But then I realized that they were just grinning back.
Which brings me to this morning. And my unexpected downstairs jive. I think if a willing man rang the doorbell right this instant he would be in trouble. I may not be looking all swank in my candy-land pj’s and faded black t-shirt. But I am wearing my lipstick.
P.S. It is also my 1/2 birthday. I am oddly ok with that.
Perspective
Yesterday evening I got a call that chilled my blood.
“There’s been an accident” is how it started. “I have your Mother’s phone.”
I will tell you that everything is fine. Mother (thank fucking Gawd) was not directly in the accident, but just barely. It was horrible. A man died. Another man may never ride his motorcycle again. Mother said that the entire thing seemed to happen in slow motion, she could actually see the reaction on one driver’s face as a third car barreled, out of control, towards it.
She got home, after having to give her account to several different police officers, still shaken. How fragile life is. How it can and sometimes does end in an instant, too soon, without notice. I am not sure I have ever been hugged so well.
This morning a tub nurse arrived early and we were able to get GM bathed and dressed without any problems. It was like a silent ballet. Now GM is napping in her chair and looking so beautiful.
And I am filled with this thankful feeling. It is reverberating through my body and making my fingertips tingle. I am so lucky. So fucking lucky.
I have been doing a good bit of whining lately. I’ve complained about money, about not having more time to myself, about not having the opportunity or finances to try to have a child. I have felt trapped, unappreciated, and unlucky.
I was wrong. I am the luckiest. Money and fertility can’t give me happiness. They can’t even come close to duplicating the feeling of thankfulness that I have.
Dull, Dull, Dull
Usually there is always something to write about. Some silly or inane observation, some hot-headed rant, some sad song saying so much. I got nothing. Sure there is stuff going on. There is plenty I could write about in a diary-ish sense. Day to day activities. But really…everything is so dull.
Which basically kind of means something: My light is going dim again.
Charlie Brown is always game to kick the football. Oh sure he has his suspicious moments, but he always bucks up and follows through. On some level he’s got to know that the odds of Lucy pulling the football away are pretty high. And yet he keeps on kicking because there is hope. Some day it will be different.
Picture a Charlie Brown that wakes up one day and just decides that he doesn’t have it in him to try to kick the ball. He can’t afford the dues to play in the league. He walks over to the park and sees everyone else involved in the game and he manages to find joy and happiness simply watching others play. Pretty soon just about everyone he knows has gotten a chance to kick the ball. Some even make contact and he watches as the ball soars high and zooms towards the goal. The longer Charlie sits on the side lines the harder it is to watch others play the game. He starts to think that he’ll never get a chance to get back into the fold.
So yeah. I’m totally Charlie and the ball/game/goal is totally trying to have a kid. It has been nearly a Y E A R since my last IUI. In this year I have been mostly side lined by finances, a few times by finances and timing. There have been some cases where I got up off of the bench, stretched my legs, and met with a coach, but I always get returned to the bench.
And while I do enjoy the rush and excitement that others feel about kicking the ball, so to speak, it is becoming so hard to keep that light of hope burning: that faith that some day it will be my turn.
The back burner plan is a bust. I had a very frank exchange of e-mails with a favorite nurse and it was made pretty clear that the clinic that I was familiar with was not so rock star when it came to IVF. And yes I am working with a potential to earn some money that will help pay for one IVF cycle…but I have yet to get paid. And I have loads more assignments to complete. So I’m feeling a bit bummed and unhopeful.
I’m wondering if, like the moon, there are phases to ambition. There’s the full phase where everything seems possible and everything seems clear. And then slowly it fades and all but disappears. Usually, within a few days, the light begins to reemerge and a new beam of hope starts to become clear. Right now it just feels like a case of a total eclipse.
Seriously- how do you get the hope back? How do you slap yourself out of it. I can tell myself a million times that IT WILL HAPPEN (it being becoming a Mother), but I feel like my dream is becoming a joke. And the fact that I am not even doing anything just sucks. Another month of ovulating, another month of bleeding, another opportunity missed.
Dull.
The Blingers
Do you want to know the fastest way to get depressed? Watch the WE (women’s entertainment) channel’s Platinum Wedding show. Here at casa Calliope we are all about our summer reality shows. I watch every single Race to Find the next Top Food Chef in Hell with delicious fervor. GM is all about the wedding shows. Thankfully the WE loves them some wedding drama.
I recorded about 50 of their wedding shows to watch with GM. Not such a fan of Bridezilla as it makes me super anxious. Ditto for Whose Wedding is it Anyway. We watched one episode of a new show (forget what channel it was on) that was so effing cute and actually made me cry. The show follows a guy as he gets ready to propose. I thought it would make me want to barf, but the one episode that we watched featured a really sweet couple so it was all good.
But the show that got me seriously, seriously depressed is called Platinum Weddings. This show features families where money is no issue. It’s a show where Mothers of the bride hand over credit cards and give Mercedes as engagement gifts. It’s a show where Daddies of the bride hand over checks without flinching. Most of them seem thrilled to do it. I’m talking weddings that cost three times as much as a typical house in a gated community.
What really sucks is that, so far, the two brides that they featured were totally nice and kind. It brought up these feelings that I had when I was at a posh all girls prep school for eighth grade. The prettiest girls were the ones I always wanted and needed to hate, but then they ruined it by being so fucking nice. Ugh! Why can’t all pretty girls and rich girls be bitches?
So I couldn’t hate these brides at all. I even wept a little when one of them was saying her vows. But damn did it depress me.
I know, I know, money certainly does not buy you happiness. But when money (or the not having any of it) is what is stopping or delaying your dreams it kind of sucks. And it makes me get all twitchy with jealousy and resentment. The “how comes?” start to creep in. How come that girl was born into a family with wealth? How come that girl will never know what it is like to have to push pause on a dream?
Of course your vagina doesn’t know how much money is in your bank account. And I know that fertility issues don’t discriminate. But having money would certainly help as far as getting help and treatment.
But still….seeing people whoop it up so carefree with cash is depressing. And not just on television. I get that same resentment at the fitness center as well. I see the same women every day. I am just now seeing repeats on their outfits, whereas as I wear the same three pairs of black yoga pants and the same three ancient t-shirts. I see their shiny new ipods or high tech phones, their loaded cars in the parking lot and their designer clutches lined up in the bathroom.
And I want to just resent the fuck out of them completely. If only they weren’t so damn nice. Sometimes, when I hear them planning a charity event or discussing donating to a walk-a-thon, I want to suggest to them that they could just write me a check. Save me! Adopt me! Cure me! And then I immediately feel guilty.
Coveting. It’s a motherfucker.
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