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I put on my pearl earrings and my black twinset. Paired with my gray knee length swirly skirt and straight long hair brushed out, I look very conservative, hopefully a bit maternal. As in all things, I must accessorize appropriately.
I wanted to make a good impression. It’s not everyday a girl gets to meet with her fertility specialist. One never knows if he makes a decision on who should or should not be a mom depending on what she looks like. I tried to exude a nice, professional if not humorous air. As if I want a kid, but I’m not biting my nails and I am certainly not one of those obsessive women in the forums I’ve lurked on trying to glean bits of info on the real life effects of the drugs that have been prescribed.
I’ve been kind of quiet over here on Heisse Scheisse for the last long while, but that does not mean life has been quiet by any means.
I’ve had to make a lot of decisions lately that are have a zero “Do-Over” tolerance. One of those decisions came about when my beloved OB/Gyn said “Jen, its now or never. I can’t promise to keep the baby maker healthy for much longer. Please go talk to Dr. Lovely Eyes.”
Today’s news was not great. Apparently with my medical history, hormone history and age, Dr. LE is not quite sure how much time I have left. He prefers to start with IVF in four months if the injectables don’t work by then.
“Well, Jennifer. With your history, the use of Drug G will give you an 85% chance of twins. You need to be okay with this possibility before we continue.”
“You know, I am okay with that. I consider having only one child child/societal abuse* and since I might have only one shot at this, I’d like to make it as efficient as possible. If we could go ahead and schedule twins and a C-section with a tummy tuck, I think we’re good. Time is a limited commodity, and all.”
I was only sort of joking and I think he caught that because there were crickets after that mouthful.
So I had the full battery of tests and picked up a prescription for an injectable drug to be started on my next cycle.
Hmm. Well. Okay then.
This has come not out of the blue, but on the top of relationship decisions which lead to whether or not I stay in Germany and for how long decisions, which lead to employment decisions which lead back to baby decisions.
I knew this day was coming. I have been struggling with the multitude for quite sometime. My general attitude has been to let go and let the gods decide. I can’t leave for a while anyway so let’s let this decision go for a while. Since I’m here, I might as well do this. Since I’m doing this I can wait on that.
Am I being vague? Yes, I am. Do I want to go further into this line of thought? Not really. I don’t want to go into it privately, with friends, with a therapist or in my head, let alone on paper, or Internet paper as the case may be.
However, is taking a fertility drug really letting the gods decide? I’m making a conscious choice. One that will have everlasting effects on all the other decisions I haven’t wanted to make. So what am I doing? Exactly, what do you think you are doing, Ms. M? Making decisions by proxy? Letting circumstances decide your future?
Or is it faced with the reality that I might not have a family ever because I’ve put it off for so long by not making the right choice when I should have, I’m panicking and making the only decision of which I am sure? I want kids. I want a family. When all is said and done, regardless of what continent I live on and who is in my life, I really do want children.
So all those decisions and what has resulted? A trip to the babymaker extrodinaire. We’ll see where I am in a few months. Otherwise I’m just goose stepping to the rhythm.
However, if I become one of those crazy hormonal women with little tags that say “Go, Spermy Go!”, I give you permission to kick my ass.
*Before I go into how only children tend to be a bit on the selfish side and only know how to share because they get to, to show how generous they can be, not because they HAVE to and all that entails, let me just say I know a few only children and that might not give me the right to judge them all, but I gives me the right to judge enough to know I do not want to do that to society at large. And as god as my witness I will not share my drink, so don’t ask. (Obviously the oldest child, here.)
And my relationship with my siblings is such that I would want my child to have a chance to experience the same. Also, “only” children have the sole responsibility for aging parents and I think this is awful. No one should have to deal with that alone.
Please add 9 and 6.
Now add 15.
In the real world, this is too much math for my liking.
I was the insolent teenager who voiced the words “I’ll never need this in the real world!” because I was going to be an English or Psychology major and there was no way in hell I would ever surround myself with numbers?
Yeah.
Well, I’m sitting here trying to figure out an overhead percentage in order to figure out a pricing model. If I lost you with the the overhead percentage thing, well, you are not alone.
Oh yeah, and I’m doing it in German.
I need this: Der Zuschlagsprozentsatz
I am currently lost in a forest of word problems. And in this case there is no answer in the back of the book to make sure I’m doing my math correctly.
Now, why do I need word problems when all I need is a few different numbers that require simple checkbook math to calculate. Well, that, my friend is a different problem.
Hamish, where are you when I need you. Oh yeah, business school, you rat bastard.
Ace, I think I might need you to check my pricing.
Mr. Hilton, my algebra teacher who was also the girls basketball coach and taught algebra in terms of basketball, must be laughing his ass off.
I hate math.
Mushy Heizung
Definition: Car seat heating
English translation: Pussy Heater
Alternate phrases: Mushy Toaster
Eier Heizung/Toaster (Egg Heater) referencing testicles
Thank you, Lena.
Talking about my mom at lunch one day…
Me: My mom loved fairies.
GBF: Well, then she would have loved me!
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Wearing my new wide legged, cropped pants…
Me: Do I look like a fat girl trying to be stylish?
GBF: No Sweetie, you look like a stylish fat girl.
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GBF: Well, look who’s calling the pot a kitchen implement of colour!
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GBF: If the pump fits and the handbag matches…
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Telephone Marketer: Hello, may I speak to the lady of the house?
GBF: Honey, I’m as close as you’re ever gonna get.
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I met Shaun five days after my mom died, the first day of the new me and the first day of my new life.
It started off like every other day of my life with spilled coffee and a jacket with sun faded stripes that I hadn’t noticed before the coffee spill. Right after meeting my new supervisor, I met Shaun, wide smile and mischievous intelligence in his gorgeous eyes.
I was so not fashionable, hiding my girth in large flower print blouses and long black mumus that were the only options for women over a certain size. (I still don’t understand that. Why large prints? As if being fat is not punishment enough.) Just coming out of a long period of depression and self-imposed isolation, I was not at my best. But Shaun was that person. You know, that one person who sees through the crap and makes a difference that you cannot imagine, mired in that tarpit of depression.
All I can say is Shaun saw through the glum, picked my ass up and gave me strength and confidence to move on up, Jeffersons style.
He introduced me to non-mainstream pop culture, real friendship and self-esteem. Not to mention music, books, movies and food I would never been exposed to if not for him. You cannot blame him for my penchant for celebrity gossip, although you can blame him for my unique brand of cattiness.
He also introduced me to truffles and cashmere, the bastard. My life bank account has never been the same since.
He is the essence of loyalty and royalty. We share the same sun sign and as Leos, we rule in harmony rather than cutting each other down.
He walked by my side into Neiman Marcus’ even though my hose had a huge run and my lipstick made my teeth look yellow. Later he helped me pick out a much better colour.
He drove my ass up to yoga and laughed with me when I almost smothered myself with my more than ample bosom.
He picked my hung-over ass up in his big 4 wheel drive truck, wearing his Golden Gate Wrestling t-shirt and drove around searching for the house where I had left my favourite sweater earlier that morning during a particularly shameful walk of shame. (It was a key element to my wardrobe, okay!) He was prepared to go up to the house and retrieve said sweater, had I been able to find the house. That is the kind of friend Shaun is. I think he was also a bit curious to meet the men of that house, but that is a different story, for a very different sort of blog. (A blog my father doesn’t read, perhaps.)
He offered his laundry room when I was poor and didn’t have one quarter, let alone six for a single load. He gave me his house when he was out of town and encouraged me to invite people over which I did many, many times.
When he brown-bagged lunch, he’d bring me one too. You know the typical brown bag lunch… Coq au Vin, Tahitian Sea Bass in parchment paper. Things as ordinary as that. I mean, it was only slightly better than the Taco Bell down the street so I did him the favour of not turning it down. EVER!
I, on the other hand, lent him my clothes for drag night, walked his dogs and laughed at all his jokes.
Shaun is my more than my gay boyfriend. He is a lifeline. We might not talk for a couple of months, but it never matters. We pick up where we left off as if time were imposed construct.
Enjoy his writing. He is better than I am, by far and he never, ever makes a spelling error. I cannot even tell you how many e-mails he would return to me all tarted up in red, instructing me on spelling and grammar. He’s ruthless.
He’s new to this blogging world, but we are better for it. Go give him some time and a bit of encouragement although I have to say, a little goes a long way with him. God only knows what we’re getting into!
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Here are the links to some posts that include GBF.
Original Gay Boyfriend Post, 2005
Okay. Enough people have e-mailed me about this that I think I should come clean.
Boweltown is not the real name of my city. It’s the rough translation from the German name into English. Darm=Bowel, Stadt=City (poetic license to change it to town)
It’s funny name, Darmstadt. Darm… Stadt… Darm. Stadt… (Stars… Hollow… Stars… Hollow…)
At first I started using darm in place of damn, but it didn’t catch on and people thought there was something seriously wrong with my digestive system.
Then I translated it in conversation for my sister. We thought it was funny. Another facet of the whole poop culture that I found myself immersed in. And I needed a code word for where I lived because I was anonymous at that point. Lo and behold it worked with HeisseScheisse.
I’m not so anonymous anymore. Everyone knows who I am and most know where I live and have seen my sex toys, soo..
Once more for the record.
I live in Darmstadt. Or my loft is in Darmstadt. Currently, I’m living in Hamburg. No need to translate that.
