Saturday marks the last day of National Delurking Week. Isn’t it sad that at some point a blogger had to make up a week in order to get readers to comment? Probably a pathetic soul much like myself, but much more resourceful.

Helen from Everyday Stranger let on that it’s International Internet Reveal Your Horrid Teenage Years Picture Day. Now, I can’t swear that this is truly an internationally recognized event, but it may as well be one because you can learn a lot about someone who dares post pictures of themselves from days of teenage angst.

Shall we begin?

Remember? I did say something about having a picture of myself in turquoise cords and a puffy shirt, and behold! I remember being a complete freak about making that stupid bow at the neck perfect. I look like KFC’s Colonel’s “simple” minded granddaughter.
Two words: Gunne Sax. We were shopping for something to wear to my aunt and uncle’s 40th Anniversary Party and I saw this at, where else, Vanity. I HAD to have it, but it was horribly expensive. The jacket was quilted and yet again, that fucking ruffled top. Let’s not even talk about the perm, OK?

At the time, I really thought my mom was nuts for making each kid pose with their Christmas stash. Now? These pictures are GOLD. We still have that table-top Pac Man game, and my son plays it when he goes to visit Gramma. The wakah-waka-waka-waka-waka-waka-wakanoise now causes blood to drip from my ears. The item directly to the left? A hook rug kit of Garfield. I’m sporting my new walkman. Or some knock-off, which would be the safer bet knowing my parents.

While I was looking at this close-up, I noticed that on my shoes I have the safety pins with beads. Friendship beads. Remember those ridiculous things??

The unicorn? At one time, I was ALL about unicorns. My mom made it in a ceramics class. I also played the clarinet in the marching band. Need I elaborate more on how popular I was in high school?

I’ve deduced that this must have been taken in the weeks following Christmas as I’m eyeballing some holiday decorations directly behind me in the photo. I’m impressed by the fact my nail polish matches my socks.

Yep. I got a pencil sharpener one year. It wasn’t even an electric one. And chocolate from Russel Stover. All the clothes were new, too. Today’s fashion gurus tell you to keep such and such items in your closet as they are classics. They are lying. Sure, dark jeans came back (I’m betting these were Vanderbilts); wedged shoes came back; outdoor vests came back, but even if these items were still in my closet back on the farm, which they very well could be, they would still be screaming “I’m from the 80’s and don’t you ever forget it, Bitch!”

I did accidentally post this picture in a large format. I had to change it because the EYEBROWS! Great furry caterpillars, I had some bushy EYEBROWS.


Notice anything different between the last few pictures and this one? I’m wearing makeup! Eyeliner! Hmmmm, what else…? MOON BOOTS! I was going to graduate from high school in the spring. I did not wear the moon boots, though.

Can you believe that they made a Family Feud game? You can bet that it is also somewhere in the old house. The shiny thing down there on the right? L’Eggs pantyhose. Add that with my foxxxxy hat…ohhhhh, yeah, Baby (hangs head in shame). The shiny thing on my face? Probably Cover Girl make-up.

I also notice my training bra under that sweater. Is it any wonder I was a virgin until my freshman year of college?


I had to include this picture for a couple of reasons. One, it’s probably the most flattering picture I have of myself from the entire decade. I decided to stop letting my mom perm my hair and I had it cut pretty short and dyed my bangs blonde. I would wear that silly fedora with an oversized white blouse, a big hip belt (apparently, another “classic”) and a denim mini skirt (I was the first girl to wear a mini skirt in my school since the 70’s). The piece de resistance? A bandanna around my ankle boots. God, I was a rebel.

Secondly, I wanted to share the picture of my first boy friend. Look like any one you know?

Just a little bit?


Well, even if you don’t think there’s any physical resemblance, rest assured they’re both assholes.

Hope you enjoyed that visual stroll down memory lane. Now I think I need some therapy.


This excerpt is one my most favorite sayings. It was written by Alan Beck.

A boy is truth with dirt on its face,

beauty with a cut on its finger,

wisdom with bubble gum in its hair,

and the hope of the future with a frog in its pocket.

Dedicated to these three new Moms of baby boys: Niobe, Summer and KP (Karen) (who had a blog for a short time).

I feel very honored to “know” each of these very strong and unique women.


Here it is 5:00 in the morning and it’s cold and dark outside, but damn, I felt like such a sniveling ass about the prior post that I climbed out of bed prepared to take the post down.

Thank you for humoring me, even if you didn’t agree with my shortsightedness. I warned you that I tend to overreact and puff and strut over things that really aren’t puffable or strutable.

Let’s move on, shall we?

Why is it that your husband has to breath on you in the middle of the night? I can’t lay facing away from him all night so I turned and he turned and there he was, open-mouth breathing. Blech. I tried arranging the sheets and my pillow to block his breath from wafting directly towards me, to no avail.

I rolled back over and and he flung out his arm across my waist. It got harder to breath so I moved his arm to my hips and that’s when his wee male brain, even in his sleep, made him think that was foreplay. That’s when I got out of bed to check your emails.

Wait? Didn’t I originally say I was worried about your reactions? Right, right, I was. Really. Of course I wasn’t avoiding my stinky-breathed husband…who also informed me last night that he even cut his toe-nails “wink wink nudge nudge”.

Ahhh, smell the romance. That is if you can over the faint aroma of morning breath.


Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that you are the hostess of a dinner party. You invite couples who are both long and dear friends as well as a new couple, Mr. & Mrs. A.

You know for a fact that Mr. & Mrs. A are both recovering alcoholics, newly so, as they have at least confided that to you along with the fact they weren’t sure if they wanted to come to your party since they don’t want to be party poopers when others realize they don’t drink, and are for now, uncomfortable with others who drink.

Would you provide  alcohol at your party? For the sake of argument, let’s say no, you wouldn’t. So would you then, on the other hand, send out a mass email to everyone, including Mr. & Mrs. A something to this affect?

“Please bring any liquor you have since at last year’s party we were knocking them back so hard, we ran dry!”

How do you think that would make Mr. & Mrs. A feel?

~~~~~~~~~~ discuss ~~~~~~~~~~










Here’s why I ask. I’m following BlogHer on Twitter. A recent tweet from BlogHer was this: “Please! Bring babies to BlogHer ’09, I will hold them all!”

I think my stomach actually heaved a bit when I read that. I know that women will bring their children. I also know that even a couple of you who said you might go may even bring your babies.  On the vein of the analogy, if couple Mr. & Mrs. Z called Mr. & Mrs. X and said, “Hey, DD’s not serving alcohol this year. How about we bring a bottle of wine?” That’s between them. But the hostess should do her best to remain as unbiased as possible even though her bestest friends may be booze hounds while her new friends are anything but.

I guess I have unreasonable expectations from the BlogHer execswho really should try to remain neutral considering the increased interest from the infertility community in creating a presence – a force, if you will -within the BlogHer community over recent years.

I have no idea what percentage of the registered blogs on are IF related, but I’m sure it is small, if not in the single digits, but it’s things like this that make me second guess my desire to go. Why would I want to be around a bunch of women who seem to, as a whole, have no idea how hurtful a comment so banal to 80% of women could be?

Maybe I need to keep in mind that while my own presence there will be as noticeable as a gnat on an elephant’s ass, if I can impress upon one single solitary person how important it is to recognize a fellow peer as a woman, not a “mommy” nor an “infertile”, then all the angst and paranoia I’m feeling that lead up to that moment will be worth it.

Hi. My name is Mrs. A and I’m an alcoholic.


Since putting this into draft, I’ve had time to think it over and while my initial reaction was one spurred by over-sensitivity, I still feel a bit chuffed. I know realistically you can’t go about life without offending some one at some time. I should know. Also, if I was to use my own analogy, BlogHer will have a cocktail party, and there most certainly will be bloggers there who are recovering or have an addiction and blog about that as well.

Live and let live, but still…. *sigh*


Sorry, none here, but I can’t help but wonder….WHAT. THE. FARK?

Aren’t search terms fun? This is just one that stood out today. The list is seemingly endless.

Tell me one of your most memorable search terms that you’ve used (if you dare to share) or that you’ve had show up on your blog?

Today marks Day 3 of 7 for National Delurking Week. Delurk!


This weekend I was trying to put on makeup. Trying, because when a baby is demanding in no uncertain terms, “pick me up! look at me! smile at me! look at me, now! really! NOW!” and the husband was gone and XBoy was having his own visual affair with the TV, everything feels “trying”.

So, I picked up a hand mirror and some of my makeup and sat down next to ZGirl in an attempt to kill two birds with one stone.

At one point, I had put the mirror down next to ZGirl to look down on her and make a face. I made a face alright, if the reflection in the mirror was any indication.

My face? It fell forward.

Two chins. The beginnings of a neck waddle. Loose eyelids.

There was more, but I could barely look at myself for a second longer. It was… frightening.

If I had a buttload of money, I’d have a surgeon on call 24 hrs (once I removed the money from aforementioned butt). An eyelid lift, a little pull at the temples (even though the before and after tv shows on plastic surgery where they peel the face off the skull freaks me the fuck out), a chin lift, some restalin here, some botox there, and even a little plumping of the lips…oh yeah. Any needle phobia I may have had went out the window after my first IUI attempt back in the summer of 2005. So what if it’s to my face and not my dimpled ass/thigh? Which someday I would like to fix as well.

Getting older sucks. Knowing that my O face looks the way it does? Sexy, it is not.

What one plastic surgery would you do if money wasn’t an object?

(You can use this as an excuse to delurk! Cool, huh?!)



That’s me whoring for comments. And since I realized it’s National Delurking Week (pretend that I’m from whatever nation you are from), you can meet me in the back alley and I won’t have to face the pimp hand any time soon. January 4 – January 10, 2009.


You’ve been dieing to tell me I’m an asshole? Or you need to admit anonymously you enjoy going commando? Or maybe to share what your favorite jelly bean combo is? Here’s your chance.

Comment whore? You bet. Subtle, I am not.





Mr. DD is standing in the doorway, coat and hat on, preparing to go get my coffee (isn’t he sweet?).

I notice that he’s just standing there, staring.

Is he staring at ZGirl, who is dancing madly in the bouncer and screeching and cooing in excitement? Or even at me, in my early morning beauty of uncombed hair, glasses sliding down on my nose and in my flannel pjs with moose on them?

Nope, he’s getting his zombie on by staring at the same thing as XBoy: vintage Looney Tunes Cartoons on TV.


Right about the time ZGirl hit five months, the breastfeeding went the way of Buh-Bye. I just couldn’t see how pumping at work would maintain my supply when I was limited by time and means in how often and length. There was no way I could sneak away every hour and a half and then add 10-20 minutes on top of the time it took in a vain attempt to increase my supply.

Plus, ZGirl hated breast milk from a bottle. Maybe I did create an abundance of lipase which caused her to turn up her nose, but the only way she would take any breastmilk is if I used a little to cool off a too warm bottle or add it to her cereal, which I served cold.

So, by a silent mutual agreement, I stopped freaking out about it. When my period started it was the final nail in the boob buffet’s coffin. She wanted nothing to do with me.

Mostly, I felt free. I could hand her off to Mr. DD and not worry if she was going to end up in a screaming fit. The change in formula from Infamil to Similac really made a significant difference, and for that I am glad I did some research regarding the taste of formulas.

Now I say, “Mostly…” because of course there’s a bit of me that was surprised by how I ended up missing those nursing sessions. I read for years from this blogger or that blogger how it happens and I never gave it more than a “Oh, you’ll get over it,” kind of comment, but there I was with the shoe on the other foot, engorged breasts, cracked nipples and a baby who had bit me twice within 24 hours.

Since then, I went from pumping twice a day to just once, and then once every other day to being at the point I am right now: done completely.

The pump, the pads, the hated nursing bras, they will all be retired/given away/thrown out. (I will be more than happy to pass on the pump, a nearly full box of disposable breast pads and an unopened box of milk storage bags to anyone who wants them – my treat) The only reminders I will have of her no longer breastfeeding is her stinky formula burps and poops, which finally meant that the open trash can had to be replaced by a real diaper pail.

Once in a while I’ll let myself believe that I can still turn it around. I can start pumping every hour! I can start taking supplements! I can ask for a prescription! but then I let myself enjoy the fact that her chubby little wrists and fingers, and her long, lean form, and her chunky thighs developed because of me.

And I feel some solace from the change since that’s been the hardest part: she’s evolved from a mewling newborn to a funny little person who giggles when I nom-nom those same chubby parts of her.


I think it bears repeating, that while I will not be convinced that the donor is someone I will ever refer to as my daughter’s biological mom/mother, that does not mean that I am going to keep the fact that there IS  a donor a secret.

Some of you may interpret my strong feelings about what is “mother” or what may have been “father” (if any of our donor sperm cycles had worked) as an indication that I am in denial about the donor, and therefore may never acknowledge what she did for us.

Nothing could be further than the truth.

Every moment I look into my daughter’s crystal blue eyes, my heart swells with gratitude. Those eyes are the donor’s eyes. It’s almost as if someone wanted to make sure I never forget what a stranger did for us so they gave ZGirl her distinctly colored baby blues that obviously didn’t come from me, some one who has eyes the color of wet sand or from her father, whose green eyes are remarkable on their own. Everytime someone makes a comment about her beautiful eyes, I smile with pride. Maternal pride.

“Weren’t we lucky to have a donor with such lovely coloring?” I wish it was something I could say, but that will be my daughter’s response when she is ready.

Another thing. I’ve been asked this question ever since we first discussed donors and our decision to go anonymous, which was about two years ago: “What if something medically related happens with the child and you need to contact the donor or even possibly the donor’s children to seek help?”

Let’s say for a bone marrow transplant.

Well, we would end up well and truly screwed if the donor’s family was the only key to my daughter’s well-being. You see, no one ever asked us that question when XBoy was an only child for 6 years. Oh, well, unless you count my SIL’s MIL who said to us when XBoy was six months old, “Are you going to have any more children? You know, in case something happens to him?”

While I appreciate the concern for my daughter, it makes me wonder why is it there for a donor-conceived child but not for a non-donor conceived child.

Finally, my MOTHER FATHER post must have pricked a nerve since it become an email topic that eventually made its way to Lindsay, who is a donor conceived child and has her own blog, Confessions of a Cryo Kid. Lindsay also left a comment and after her second sentence I felt my hackles rise and was preparing a reply. But then I realized I didn’t have to. She told me what no one else has been able to because no one else who has weighed in on donor children has been a donor child themselves. So to the person who emailed my post? Thank you. Really.

With that, I plan on putting this topic on the back burner once again and bringing back to boil topics like the death of breasteeding, where to find the cheapest diapers on earth, and some great new cosmetic finds.