Automatic Pilot

You should automatically be directed to my current website, it not please click on the following link:

T.K.O. ...more or less...

Where Art Thou?

For the few who still have this blog on your bloglines, you're probably wondering what the hell is going on that there's a new post. Thanks to blogger completely fucking up how one signs on, sometimes the profile brings people here. I figure it should be safe by now to link to my current home so some of you newer visitors don't get dumped here, which is equivalent to the Twilight Zone.

Anyway, you can find all the newer stuff here. However, I do have a third blog that I use to give the details of where we are as far as our infertility treatment (I have been dealing with snoopy co-workers for waaa-aa-y too long). For that, you do have to send me an email at dd_tko@yahoo.com so I can provide the password and site location.

If you are here because of that whole harness fiasco, please, just let it go, mmkay?

The End...?

I will be making the typepad account my permanent home (if you still need the link, please email me at ddknockedup@yahoo.com ). Thank you to all of those who decided to follow me there. Your continued support during the next leg of my journey, where ever that may be, is more than heartily appreciated.

If you have however decided that since I am no longer part of the ART scene that it's either too painful or to boring to follow Mr. DD, X and myself onward and upward, I am still grateful you were here during the worst of times. May we meet again under the best.

Thank you.

Personal Factoid: If you are googling to find out where the term "Knocked Up" comes from, I've done the work for you:

"Knock up is 1663 in sense of "arouse by knocking at the door;" however it is little used in this sense in Amer.Eng., where the phrase means "get a woman pregnant" (1813), possibly ult. from knock "to copulate with" (1598; cf. slang knocking-shop "brothel," 1860).

Source: http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?l=k&p=3

No. 200 - Bicenblogentennial

Woohoo! 200 posts! I'm so excited...

...then again, not so much.

Ah, who am I kidding? Yes, of course I'm excited to be here! I love the community. I love the sharing and dissemination of equal parts information, support, and snark.

And to celebrate this Momentous Occasion, I'm not going to talk about moi. I want to know about you. We're going to do something like a meme, but it'll be a youyou instead. All you have to do...

** Guess what? You now have to go to my new site for the rest of this post. You can email me at ddknockedup@yahoo.com for the address. **

No. 199 - Where I Say the Dirty 5-Letter "R" Word

Well, it's officially been a year. A year since our doc referred us to the RE after he reviewed Mr. DD's SA with us, which to him was borderline. I took his word only and had nothing to research until recently. I had requested a copy of our chart from the RE and once in my grubby paws, I settled in to do some research on normal ranges for SA.

I quickly realized that Dr. Google's take on male infertility vs. female infertility is as different as...well, Mars and Venus. There are little to no variances on what research considers "normal" on SAs (and maybe not so much when it comes to the chemical/hormonal ranges for women) but holy crap! let me just state for the record, it's a good thing Men don't have...

** Forwarding link has been removed. Sorry for the inconvenience.**

No. 197 - Garbage Defined

Tonite I was going through some a bag that had been stuffed in one of the dark corners of our garage. It was some clothes that my Mom had been holding onto since I had moved back to Nebraska in '91. Why she held onto all those clothes, I have no idea. But even more mind-boggling is my desire to take some of those items home with me 15 years later.

One of the items was a fringed, white leather jacket. I was some serious hot shit back in the '80's with my mall bangs and fringed jacket that I use to love wearing even when it was hot outside just because I loved the smell of leather. Admittedly, I was a freak.

The first time I met Mr. DD's family, I wore that jacket. I didn't remember that, but Mr. DD's sister (Nutbag) did. She also remembered me wearing it with black hot pants (never had any, but I think she meant the black knit "biker" shorts that were the thing back in the late '80's) with a pair of thigh-high boots (again, I had boots, but they only came up to the knee and they were flat heeled - NUTBAG!). Obviously I made an impression. I wondered what the rest of the family thought as the occasion that Mr. DD decided to take me to after only a couple weeks of dating was his father's surprise 70th birthday party to which Mr. DD's entire family, including his father's brothers flew in from the east coast to attend.

They probably weren't overly surprised. At the time Mr. DD had a look that was entirely outside of the Small Town, Nebraska norm consisting of very long rocker-hair. I probably seemed just his type to them.

After I pulled the jacket from the bag, ruined with mildew, I knew it was time to let it go. I mean, what the hell am I going to do with a musty old coat that is so ridiculous, even in it's own day, that it couldn't possibly come back into vogue? I pitched it into the trash can as Mr. DD watched. Are you sure you want to let it go, he asked. Yeah, I'm sure.

He cut off his hair a year or so after we got married, and I just recently threw the ponytail into the garbage as well during some spring cleaning. I've realized that our impending move will be very cathartic. It's time to get rid of a lot of things I haven't thought about or even seen in years. Even the not-so-far-in-the-distant-past items have met their fate at the bottom of the garbage can: my follistim case and extra needles (which I actually thought I threw out months ago) bit the dust, but not before I opened the case to look inside and noted that there was still a little bit of the drug still inside the delivery pen. After I threw it away, I cried.

I didn't cry when I threw away my coat. I didn't cry when I threw away Mr. DD's ponytail. I cried when I threw away the follistim. The former objects represented memories of the past. I still have those memories, though faded. But the follistim represented a potential future and throwing that away made me wonder if I was throwing away the hope of what I had envisioned my future to include.

No. 195 - Trial Separation

I've been on the fence about my current relationship, and I think it's time for a trial separation. It's not that I'm terribly unhappy, but I just think I could do a little better. You've seen the writing on the wall, so there shouldn't be any mouths agape out there. Maybe I won't be happy and I will want to come back to what I'm accustomed to, but right now I need to know if there's something better. In fact, I've had something in the wings now for the past week and I have been dying to tell you all about it.

I told Mr. DD this weekend. He just shrugged his shoulders and went back to watching TV.

Oh, and I want you all to be a part of it. Really! I want to thank Beth at Prop Your Hips Up who really inspired me to take the leap.

...and in case you were worried, it's not my husband I'm leaving; it's Blogger. I have set up a fun-factory over at typepad and will see what I think at the end of the trial month. Now, for your viewing and reading pleasure (I use the word "pleasure" loosely), stop by my new site and let me know what you think. I'm already digging the much shorter URL address! And be honest, dammit. I'm not going to spend what I can on mochas in a month for a site you think sucks. I need my caffeine!

No. 194 - Fertiles Say the Darndest Things!

We attended a BBQ Friday nite at the house of a couple Mr. DD and I met a couple years ago and became friends with. They are sickeningly sweet and wholesomely Christian: he is a podiatrist (Dr. SSWC) and she is a substitute teacher (Mrs. SSWC) and they have 4 children, with their youngest (Ooopsie) the age Vivienne would be (I remember going to a fund raiser in October 2004 where we both talked about how miserable we were in our pregnancies) and their 2nd youngest is a year younger than X.

Mr. DD and I have been quite frank to those who ask, including the SSWCs why we don’t have more children: his guys are lazy and my eggs are rotten and we’re seeking professional assistance. They also knew about our miscarriage fairly soon after it happened.

I wasn’t too surprised then when Mrs. SSWC asked me about how things were going. I gave her the synopsis of the past several months and said we were done with the RE in The Metro. She then of course asked the inevitable haveyouthoughtofadoption question, to which I explained Mr. DD’s concerns with adoption, which include potential medical conditions that wouldn’t become evident until later in life. She responded the same way I had to this concern and that is no baby comes with a guarantee, even if it’s biological. For example, if Vivienne had been born alive, she would have been severely handicapped and it would’ve not been because of something we had passed on, but due to a completely random genetic flaw. Does that make a difference in how one loves a child? It shouldn’t…and to me, it wouldn’t.

She then told me how before they had Ooopsie, they had also considered international adoption, preferably “oriental, because…oh, my god, those eyes are so cute!” She then went on to say how expensive it all is and that Dr. SSWC expressed that they shouldn’t then have to travel overseas for weeks at a time and that they should deliver the child to their home for that kind of money.

Yep. That’s what she said. To which I replied:

“This isn’t Pizza Hut!”

“Oh, (ha-ha) I know! And I guess it doesn’t matter since we got pregnant about that time with Ooopsie. (ha-ha).”

And, yes, I kept listening to her. I’ve heard of Fertiles saying stupid things, but I’ve never actually heard one saying it. It was like hearing the call of a legendary and extinct Do-Do bird.

Then she talked about her sister, who at the age of 32 gave birth to identical twin boys who have Downs and are currently 9 mos. old. Mrs. SSWC asked her sister if she was going to have more children. The sister explained that her doctor told her that her eggs were old and proceeded to educate her sister, Mrs. SSWC (the wife of a man who went to medical school) that you are born with all the eggs you have in your lifetime and that you cannot make more. Mrs. SSWC asked if had known that, and isn’t that crazy?!

Another woman, who was invited to the BBQ scoffed at the announcement and said if she’s only 32, her eggs should not be “old”. I injected with a brief explanation of FSH and atypical elevations can and do occur with women in their 30’s and even their 20’s (using my experience and powers of Google for Good, not Evil!).

Eventually the topic was changed and the words evaporated into the night air. I still very much like Mrs. SSWC and will foster the friendship. Do I think less of her? No, not really. She said some pretty ignorant things, but there was no malice in her comments. They were said under the illusion of how she thought things were. I’m glad she said something because if she goes away with just a little more understanding then I know that something good will come of it

No. 193 - Wordless Wednesday, 2nd Installation

Evolution of Dance

(requires audio)

No. 192 - Adjusting

Ever since X was able to talk he has known the word penis. It was one of the very first times I remember him asking “wa's dat” during one of his baths. I’m thankful that I was the one he asked. If it had been his Dad, I’m sure he would be calling his penis anything but (Johnson, Pee-Pee, Boy-Bits, Tallywacker, Junk, etc. all come to mind with a shudder). I’ve also never given X any reason to think of his penis just like he does with any other part of his body.

Up until recently, that is.

He seems to have developed the habit of adjusting his “Junk” during rather inopportune time. During the “graduation” ceremony from pre-school, I have recorded for all posterity the video image of him with his hands in his pants in front of his peers’ parents and family; in church – which isn’t so bad until he notices me giving him a dirty look to which he announces in his very un-church-like voice, “I’m fixing my penis!”; and more commonly, sitting on the sofa during an episode of Sponge Bob emanating this other TV character.

Now I’m trying to get him to understand that it’s OK for him to make adjustments, but to temper the procedure with discretion.

“X, that’s something you should do in privacy.”

“What’s Privacy?”

“You know how Mommy locks the door to the bathroom when I’m going potty? It’s because I want privacy.”

“But I don’t have to go potty. I have to fix my penis.”

“I mean that I want you to keep it to yourself.”

“But I do keep it to myself because I can’t share my penis. It doesn’t come off.”

Mr. DD jumps in with this: “We don’t want you to stick your hands in your pants. It’s dirty,” to which I nail him in the ribs with my elbow. I don’t want to attach a shame factor to this, but on the other hand, the moment his finger goes up his nose, I tap it away with a hushed and terse, “Dirty!” Will he now be embarrassed to show his nose in the future? Will he have issues with future girlfriends or even his wife who lean in and admire the faint freckling of his nose? Will he be unable to "smell" upon demand?

So, I have a dilemma. I don’t know what to tell him that will convey that it is OK to make the adjustments, but that they must be done in private. I mean, how do you reason with a child who when told it will take 30 minutes to get to Grandma’s house, responds with “Why?”

No. 191 - Where There Is Strength; There Can Be Solace

Most of us have been there. You know, in the place where we feel all has been lost or is about to be. I was just there 25 days ago. I hate feeling lost; feeling hopeless. But I am scrambling up and brushing the dust off my ass and applying betadine to my scraped and bruised knees.

It's much harder now to read pregnancy blogs without feeling both happy and envious at the same time. Especially when some of the pregnancy blogs were started around our first IVF as they are now describing the wonders of feeling their baby move. I wish I had known of blogging when I had X so I could have written about that miracle. But I was ignorant and made assumptions. New mothers blogging about their baby's newest development catches at my heart and even as I smile in that "yep, been there, done that", I still am saddened that it all is part of the past.

However, it's been much harder for me to read the posts announcing BFNs and eminent losses. I don't know how many times I've said "I'm so sorry", but I know it's been many more times than "Congratulations!" especially in the past several months.

Beagle at Fortune Cookies Follies' second IVF resulted in a negative.
Dino D at Frozen Not Fossilized is going through her fifth loss.
Linda at I've Got Bad Plumbing second IVF resulted in a negative.
Soralis's beta is today, but her EPT was negative yesterday.
and Sunnie at The.Sunnie.Side.Up. also received a negative**Updated: See this post about surprising turn of events!

I know sometimes we just don't know what to say, but let me be honest here. Nothing you say will give these people the Miracle. That's not the point. Instead, when you offer words of strength or solace, you give strength and solace. That's what these women did for me when I posted our second IVF was over.

If you haven't yet, please stop by each of these beautiful women's sites and let them know that they are in your thoughts, even if you don't know what more to say than "I'm here thinking of you." I know there were infinitely more cycles that have recently failed that have not been mentioned. I hope they have someone they can lean on during this time as well.

No. 190 - In Homage...

...to two of my favorite, non-girlybits blogs: The Peevery and M.I.L.D.E.W.:

SmallTown aired a “how to” on local television regarding our new traffic round-abouts. Go get a taped copy and watch it every day until you figure it out! And here’s a tip: YIELD does not mean STOP. That’s why Yield signs are yellow and not red just in case you are illiterate as well, dumbass.

Putting down the window of your car 3” while you smoke does NOT qualify as trying to be a good parent to your two small children sitting in the backseat.

See those lighted signs in the hallway with the letters E. X. I. T.? They indicate where the stairwells are…so stop bothering me while I am trying to work (blog) by asking me where the stupid stairs are.

In the same vein: my open window to the hallway is an imposition to me and not meant for your convenience as this was the only office space available to me. It is not for you to look into every time you go by; it’s not a drive-up window for supplies that belong to me; and if I ever see you look through and down to my desk again I will report you to the Compliance Officer for a HIPAA violation. Nosy bastard.

There really should be a warning on laxatives against combining a dose of said laxatives with 16 oz of white-chocolate mocha the following morning.

Your speech at the catholic school “mandatory” meeting (aka We Want Your Money) about how kindergarten enrollment is down and stating humorously to the crowd “you need to have more kids” was, unfortunately for you and your A/R department, the only part that burned itself into my memory.

I don't care if you are my son's grandfather and my husband's father. Using derogatory language because you are a close-minded, insensitve, loud-mouthed bigot in front of my son will be your problem until you go to your grave (and probably in the therinafter). It will never be my son's.

When you tried to throw this Mommy bear off your scent by saying, “We’ll be fine” after I called you at 8:30 at your friend’s house where you took X two hours earlier (who still hadn’t had supper), you really should have known better. But hopefully I made it abundantly clear when I responded with “It’s not YOU I’m worried about,” and won’t make that mistake again.

It’s no wonder it takes 6-10 hours for me to get my Blogger comments to finally show in my yahoo email account – but only seconds to go to my gmail account – as Blogger is a Google product. Blogger, your days are numbered, and this time I mean it. Suggestions for a new webserver are welcome.

Never have wiser words been spoken (compliments of The Peevery): Suck it.

No. 188 - Wordless Wednesday

No. 189 - Ah, Hell

Who wants the possibility of getting some good karma? You do? Well, then, it's your lucky day, my friend.

Guess who was the only one who did not get to watch the season ending of Grey's Anatomy?

Yep.

Me.

AAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaggggggggggghhhhhhhhh!

And I swear I couldn't sleep last night because I was letting Sunday's episode bounce around in my head trying to figure out how everyone's story's ended and dammit, I know that each character had their cliche' ending, but I GOTTA know!

So I would like to ask (no, BEG!) each of you to post about ONE of the characters and what happened on the final episode because I know that trying to cram two hours, even in summary, about the whole show would be rather tedious.

And no. I can't ask my office-mates. They don't watch. Savages.

And. AND! Regarding my last post? Stacy herself has worn those friggin' skinny jeans on Oprah's show when they did Jean Intervention. I still like watching What Not To Wear, but Stacy's credibility needs some work.

No. 187 - It's Square to be Hip

I’ve always been a bit of a fashion victim. By that I mean I’m usually trying to keep up with the new trendy styles, but fall short due to funds; access to said trends (Nebraska has never been know for setting any trends unless you count the rage from a couple years ago for women to wear bandannas; a trend set by my mother 30+ years ago to cover her curlers when out milking cows); and thighs that don’t seem to want to fit into the latest and greatest slim-fitting jeans – tell me – is anyone wearing these? And loving it?

Then the news hit that it was fashionable to adopt Chinese babies. Or for that matter, international adoption, with China being a popular destination for the “rich and famous”. The pashmina’s seemingly casual appearance with strapless gowns was finally ousted by the Ultimate Baby Wrap, designed in fabrics reminiscent of the baby’s home country. Again, short of funds; access to said babies; and a husband who moaned that I had too many wraps already, put me at the short end of the fashion stick.

Then lo! What should be in Sunday’s paper from The Metro? An article about how being pregnant has usurped Manolo Blahnik with its fashion statement value (and may even be cheaper than a closet-full of Blahniks). Unfortunately, this is only a blip from the article, but the picture speaks a thousand words, doesn’t it? But I have a way around this one, and it doesn’t include me having to borrow my Asian neighbor’s baby for nights out on the town. Nope. I can actually create my own sympathy belly at home out of the now passé’ bandanas and pashminas. AND, best of all, inclement weather will no longer catch me off guard as I can always reduce my appearance to, say, 6 months gestation, if the wind picks up. I can’t wait to show off my new look tomorrow at work!