Do your parents mind if you are [fill in a word that means less than adequate here]?

I have a serious question (for a change). I hope you can help.

Every once in a while, someone asks me this question. “Do you parents mind that you are gay?” Sometimes it comes out like this: “Do you parents support your relationship?”

I never know what to say. First, because I don’t really have an answer. Yes, no, kind of. What does that look like, exactly? Parents supporting one’s relationship. I’m sure there are tons of straight people whose parents hate/dislike/are irritated by their child’s husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/lover. Do they get asked this question? Maybe I should start asking people this question at cocktail parties, if the person indicates that they are married or coupled in some way.

But I also kind of get it. Maybe. Sometimes it seems like the asker is trying to show empathy about my current position in society. But it also seems like they are also reinforcing a homophobic stereotype — that every gay person’s parents are disappointed that they are gay. What about the gay parents? Are they disappointed when their kids turn out straight?

The person who asked me this last night and who shall remain anonymous to protect the innocent, had a legitimate reason for asking such a personal question. But once I was asked this question at a kegger. The guilty party was a former colleague who asks me if my parents “minded” if I was gay. Again, I didn’t know how to answer, but it did occur to me later to ask her if her parents minded that she was short and had red hair.

Do you have a good answer to this question?

Does the Cat in the Hat belong on the national sex offender registry?

parental advisory

Parental Advisory: Sacred imagery and childhood memories may be desecrated in this post.

I read books to my children every night before they go to bed. Or someone does. Yes. Thank you. You can hold your applause until the end of this post. So, I’m becoming intimately familiar with the Disney princess line-up, some Winnie the Pooh and a smattering of Dr. Seuss.

And I really like reading most of these books, especially because I’m learning something new almost every time we read together. For example, did you know that it’s not easy to be a princess? Because you have to work really hard delivering hand-sewn clothes (that your entourage of seamstresses make), books and baskets of food to orphanages. But mostly because it’s really hard to walk around in that huge dress and avoid hitting your enormous mass of bows and curled hair on door frames and the ceiling of the carriage.

But there is one book that I just can’t get over: The Cat in the Hat. Is it just me or is this a story about a pedophile? Let’s review.

catconvictThe book starts when a bad mother leaves her two children unattended in their house on a rainy day. Then, a large, mostly naked cat shows up and let’s himself in. He’s wearing nothing but a striped top hat and a bow tie, and he’s carrying an umbrella. Suspicious. But at least he’s not wearing a trench coat. Although given the rainy weather, this might actually make sense.

Then the Cat proceeds to balance all kinds of household items on the tip of his umbrella, including a teacup, some milk, a cake, three books, the Fish, a rake, a toy boat, a toy man and a red fan to engage the children. And they are afraid, but they say nothing and keep staring out the window. The only one who seems to have have a voice and any education about good touching and bad touching is the goldfish. But his protests are ignored. He is the lowest vertebrate in the group after all.

But here is the real kicker: Thing One and Thing Two. Small and fuzzy, they suddenly appear out of a box. Sally and the main character don’t know what to do, so they shake hands with them. And then the Things start running around the house. But the phallic symbol in the striped hat is still in charge and trying harder and harder to convince the children that they are having fun. And when their mother arrives, right after the house has been quickly put back in order and the animated genitals have left the scene, we are posed with an important question. Would you tell your mother if this happened to you?

WTF?

And the answer is YES. You would tell your mother, both of them. And the police. And give the fish a job touring local schools to talk to children about speaking up when a perverted cat asks you to shake hands with his Thing.

 

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IVF treatment: It’s just like a vacation to a foreign country, except for the fun part

I’m still making progress in the book The Complete Guide to IVF. That is a bold title, by the way. I am not sure that guide will ever be complete because this shit is complicated. And let’s be honest, the doctors don’t know everything there is to know. There is a section called “unexplained fertility” on page 7, so how complete is that?

But the author is British and a mother, so she’s an authority. If she was reading this book to me, she would have one of those clipped accents that would make me feel like everything she is saying was either funny or true. And she’s probably related to Queen Elizabeth who granted Humphrey Gilbert a patent for overseas exploration in 1578. Holy crap. Our relationship could go way back: The Gilberts and the rulers of the British Empire. This was meant to be. But I’m getting way off track.

In my defense, this is all sort of related, because while reading this book I’m learning to speak “reproductive technology” and “British.” Or English. British English?

For example, are you aware that being overweight can cause fertility problems? One woman in the book had to lose eight stone before she could have a baby. Yes. I had to look that up. And when you try to Google, “what does stone mean?” you get some answers such as “hard, solid, nonmetallic mineral matter.” Duh! I knew that! I don’t think that’s what she meant. But if you go to Yahoo you find out that one stone = 14 pounds. I’ll do the math for you. She lost 112 pounds. Holy crap! (again) So if you are carrying the equivalent of a small person’s worth of extra body weight, it might be difficult to get pregnant. I’m guessing it might be difficult to do a lot of things. And if I lost that much weight, I would definitely be bragging about it in pounds or even ounces.

And finally, and a the risk of sounding xenophobic, I wanted to mention one more thing about foreigners before you get to onto something more important like watching that cat video on YouTube. The author (on page 32 in case you want to look it up) suggests that some people prefer to have their IVF treatments in a foreign country. Really? There are lots of reasons for this including more options, better eggs, better sperm and the opportunity to pretend like this isn’t happening, because you’re on “vacation.” But I can tell you from personal experience, using a clinic in my own town, that you don’t need to travel to a far-away clinic to feel like you’re in a foreign country. But it’s good preparation for parenthood, which is like a whole other planet.

Getting pregnant could involve a small amount of drilling. No, not that kind.

In attempt to better understand my medical records, and to do what I promised at the very beginning of this whole writing mess, I bought a book on IVF. Thank you for not pointing out that I should have done this research BEFORE I went through IVF. My rationale is the following: I could have, but I’m pretty sure that it would not have affected the outcome. And side note, I was terrified. So this blog, as a reminder, is sort of like looking up at the diving board after you have jumped off. I’m going back to scare the shit out of myself, now that I know there is a happy ending.

So let’s get right to the scary stuff. Or at least to one alarming thing that I found last night while doing some medical research. Laparoscopic ovarian drilling. Holy God! What is that? The words ovary and drilling should never be part of the same sentence. Just like genital and wart. Or wet and fart. I could on, but I won’t. Drilling should be reserved for dentists and oil companies. Or, on second thought, maybe just dentists. I am for drilling to remove bad stuff, only, like tooth decay.

However, if one has polycystic ovaries, there may be some laparoscopic drilling required. Or at least it could help. I had neither. Thankfully.

But in case you are still wondering what this all means, I will share with you what I have learned. A polycystic ovary has a large number of developing eggs near the surface of the ovary. Now, if you were trying to get pregnant, I’m guessing that this would be good news. Eggs, lots of them. That is what I’m sure I would have heard if the nurse had discussed this with me. Oh, but do not be fooled my friend. All these little, cute, dressed up eggs in miniskirts are cock teases. They just hang out with their friends and never get released into the Fallopian tube.

So, what to do? Go after them with a drill, obviously; a laparoscopic one that makes small holes in the surface of the ovaries to get those bitches out of there.

Put a check mark in the “lucky miss” category for me. I’m grateful to have avoided the drill.

 

What does a threatening letter and $2.72 in postage buy you? Spoiler alert: a tall stack of lab orders

I got my medical records. And by that I mean I got a big stack of test results from the lab. But let’s get to the good news first. There were a few pages that I could actually read. One said I had a baby. She was a girl. Delivered vaginally. I remember this part. And if I forget, I know I can just go to her bedroom and have a look at her. So good job, me! One part of the whole fertility treatment experience makes total sense.

The other good news is that I do not have HIV-1, HTLV-1, HIV-2, HIV-1 NAT, Hepatitus, Chlamydia NAT, N. gonorrhoeae NAT, HIV-2 NAT, HEPATITIS BcAb, CMV NAT, HTLV-I/II NAT, HSV-I/II, Hepatitis, HCV NAT, Syphilis. I know. I’m bragging.

And who knew that nats were such a problem? I knew those things were annoying but I had no idea that they were involved in all of these social diseases. Oh never mind, those are gnats, and this is NAT. Now I’m confused (again). And I’m also wondering what the difference is between yelling HEPATITUS and not yelling Hepatitus. Fortunately, I have neither, so let’s just move on.

So here we are. Medical records in hand. Clarity and fond memories on the horizon. And one important lesson under our belt. If you don’t get what you want the first time, ask again, nicely. And if that doesn’t work, yell “LAWYER!” Because that works. And if it doesn’t maybe you can try “HEPATITUS!” and see what happens. Good luck.

 

What do you think of the new look? Vote for my new banner!

A friend of mine, who believes that she owes me a favor (that’s the best kind of friend), just put together these bomb ass new designs for my blog banner! What do you think? I am in the unfortunate position of needing to pick just one, but let’s enjoy all of them for just a little while. And be sure to comment, so I know which one you like. I have given each one a letter and a nickname to help with identification.

A – Sperm bombs

A

 

B – Test tube bubbles

B

 

C – PFLAG

C

 

D – BabyBjorn Bathroom Door

D

 

E – Black beans? Or pinto?

E

 

Vote now! Vote often!

I’ve been so stressed about Michelle’s hair, I forgot to blog

I have been absent. I’m sorry. I usually try to be as predicable as machinery with my blogging schedule, but I took a few posts off. I was busy. Why? Well, there has been a lot of news of Michelle Obama’s bangs to follow.

First, there was the creation of her bangs. And now she is saying that she is not sure she likes them. She even finds them “irritating.” And let me say that it’s always upsetting when a lady, especially a First Lady, is willing to admit out loud, using her voice that something is irritating. So it’s been a bit of a roller coaster.

Oh, and it was my birthday.
And we’re buying a house.
And I’m hiring interns for my start-up.

That’s all.

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