An update of sorts.

So I guess the writing has been a little spotty for the past year. What can I say. I’m kind of an all-or-nothing girl, which is something I need to change — for a lot of reasons (food being one of them). It’s good for my well-being to write. So I’m going to write when I can. That may mean once a week… or once every three weeks. We’ll see. Seeing that some of you are still out there, waiting for some sign of untitledlife is humbling as well. I am amazed that anyone is still out there. So thanks for pulling me back into the fray.

I have a lot to update you on. Let’s see. I’ve lost 108 pounds and now weigh 255 pounds. It’s a lot, but it could be more. That makes me a size 22, and a 20 sometimes. I’m tall and curvy, so I think it looks better than it sounds. I think. I’ll post some pictures here soon. I’m just happy to not be the fattest person in the room anymore. There I go with my lofty goals. But really, I’m quite happy with my weight loss. I hope it continues. I’ll get into it more in a future post.

We’re also trying to get pregnant, but it’s not going so well. My eggs are follicly challenged. Or follicly collicky, as I like to say. I have PCOS, so I have plenty of eggs, but they’re all duds. I’m taking Metformin to control the cysts, and I’ll start Clomid next month. If that doesn’t work, we’ll move on to shots, with a dash of intra-uterine insemination thrown in for kicks. After all, it’s not a party until someone jacks off in the closet. In a sterile specimen container. With four nurses in latex gloves outside the door. If that doesn’t work, we’ll move on to in-vitro. Good times. Expensive times.

I get a little crazy about this whole infertility thing. It really pisses me off that I have no control over this. Surely there must be something I can do to make this happen. I have way too much love for one child to bear. I can’t possibly expect untitledson to shoulder all these kisses, hugs and ear nibbles. They will destroy him, or at the very least, turn him into one of those boys who sits home with his mother to watch “Dancing with the Stars” and knit cat berets. The boy needs a relief pitcher. Or someone smaller and weaker than him to endure the occasional noogie. And if mommy has to endure the bi-weekly transvaginal ultrasound to make it happen, so be it.

Last dance.

From today until about, oh, Wednesday, I need everyone out there to think fertile thoughts and cosmically send them my way. These next few days are our last chance at conceiving a baby. No pressure, though.

Now, if you’re not feeling particularly sexy, may I suggest locking yourself in the handicap bathroom stall at work (come on, you know you use it when no one else is looking) with a pocket rocket or the latest issue of Juggs or something. This is no time for modesty, people. Like I said, it’s my last chance, and I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to break out the crazy voodoo shit to make this happen.

untitledhusband has had to overcome his crippling fear of needles and blood to inject my backside with a fertility drug called Repronex (hormones that stimulate ovulation) every month. Sounds painful, but it’s hurt our pocketbook more than my rear end. Much of what I have read online says that if the injectibles haven’t worked after three months, they probably are not going to work. Month one I had a good-sized follicle, but for some reason, it did not fertilize. Second month, same thing. Some infertility bulletin boards suggest shooting room temperature egg whites up your cooch before intercourse — somehow, that makes the little swimmers survive longer. The first two months, I refrained from such stitch witchery. But at this point, I’d shove the entire chicken up there if it would result in a pregnancy.

If things don’t take this month, I won’t say that I won’t be frustrated and a little bit angry. Because I’m sure I will be. But I’m fully aware that there are many women out there who cannot have any children. For me to be all pissy because I can’t have a second, well, that’s not right. So all I ask for now is strength — strength to get me through whatever this month’s outcome will be. Strength to deal with the fact that life is rarely fair, and that undeserving assholes win the lottery, get promoted and more often than not, walk away with the free salad spinner at the Tupperware party.

All this makes me question who exactly is at the helm up there. untitledhusband believes it is no one. My scientific mind agrees with him, but my desperate heart so wants to believe that someone, somewhere is looking after me, making sure that I get a little somethin somethin for letting people into traffic and saying hi to the Wal-Mart door greeter. If no one is driving this car, well then, life is just a bunch of coincidences and consequences. Now is that a downer or what?

So in lieu of remaining confused and let down, I choose to give my doubts a rest and find some hope and faith. At least for a few more weeks. I desperately need to believe that god or whomever is not going to pass me by this time. So I am officially taking my sadness and my shrivelled old eggs and passing them off to god. But by doing so, I damn well hope that she’s going to book it to the end zone and do the funky chicken when she gets there, cause sista girl needs the Hail Mary right now.

Two-day warning.

I thought I’d just warn everyone that today, I got my two-day warning. It’s the headache I get two days before my period arrives.

untitledhusband and I have been trying to get pregnant for a year now, and I’m tired. I’m tired of the grandmas dropping hints about wanting another grandchild. I’m tired of co-workers and even complete strangers asking how many kids I have, and if I plan on having more. I’m tired of packing away untitledson’s baby things, not knowing if I should be saving them or giving them away. And yes, I’m tired of writing posts that’ll make everyone laugh when I feel like doing just the opposite. I’m sure I’ll be back to my old self in a day or two. But for now, I just can’t pull out the funny. I hope you understand.