Infertility Treatments Overseas: Mixing Misery with Pleasure (Thursday)

(Start with "Monday" if you can. The beginning of the week were spectacular posts. Spring's pollen hadn't hit me full blast yet and I was able to actually see what I was typing.) And if you'd like to laugh a bit more on the weekends (I'll do my best to get you there) and be in on some  offers coming down the pike, please do subscribe over there on the right. Not there... The next one.)    So, what were we talking about? Oh right. What a grand idea to travel overseas to see the world and get fertility treatments. I wonder if any other country would be interested in an exchange program. You know, instead of exchanging students, we can exchange patients.

For years my husband has been trying to get me to get him an au pair. You know, those young girls (usually young, beautiful girls)  who you sponsor to come from foreign lands to watch your children. Well, right. My husband would like one of those for himself. Every year it appears on  his birthday wish list, and every year I say: "You may as well just cross that sh-t off."     

But what if we had an exchange program? Like in high school. Let's say somebody in France had really bad skin. I can't imagine acne has been a thorn in France's side for decades. But let's just say, for some reason, French scientists have never gotten around to solving the great pimple problem. 

And so, there's a huge demand. Desperate teenagers and young adults are lining up to be exported to the amazing U.S. of A to keep them from forever being a social outcast in French society. (Hey, look at me. I'm  a fiction writer!)

And we over here desperately want and need less expensive, high quality, fertility treatments.

So my husband and I can pack up and live in a beautiful chateau on La Marseillaise (wait, I think I mean "La Seine".  Right. "La Seine" is the river. "La Marseillaise" is France's theme song). So we'll head over to the beautiful chateau overlooking the Seine to live for the next month or so to embark on our baby-making journey.

And here in the States, the blemished French girl would get to luxuriate in our three room apartment which, by the way, is on the fourth floor of a four floor, non-elevator building.

My husband and I can walk hand-in hand down the Champs Elysees, and  Mademoiselle Acne can have a nosh at Applebee's. 

But who knows? A young girl in our neighborhood may decide to stay. I admit it: A French girl walking around Wal-Mart with bad skin wouldn't fit in. If she went in braless with a shirt three sizes too small, sweat pants, and house slippers...Then she'd fit in.

Listen, I gotta go. Baseball season has officially begun and I have to get a wire hanger and rig into the Baseball Channel before they pull my free preview.

I'll talk with ya again tomorrow.

If you haven't seen Friday's post about Spring Break and travel agents over at Fertility Authority, please do take a look.