Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day: Finally: The Perfect Holiday.

Valentine's Day is the perfect holiday for people trying to conceive.  I know you think I'm about to go into the importance of rekindling our romance. Yeah yeah... I'll get to that in a minute. But first and foremost:

Most of us have cringed at some time or other during our infertility adventure just at the thought of holidays. Christmas, Hanukkah, Easter, Thanksgiving... whatever you celebrate, wherever you celebrate it, most holidays include children in your face: They are in relatives' phone galleries, old fashioned photographs, albums, or even worse... in person. At some point during the course of the holiday, you know some oblivious-to-your-pain person is going to shove some form of a child in your face. But not on Valentine's Day. Valentine's Day is the one day everyone is trying to abandon their kids... drop them off... leave them somewhere... so they, the parents, can be alone. That's the beauty of the day: If you're trying to conceive and you go out to a romantic  dinner at an elegant restaurant on Valentine's Day and somebody brings a small child... it's the one evening of the year when everybody around you is irritated too. There is camaraderie in the restaurant. We are not alone for once. Everyone in the restaurant exhales an angry huff simultaneously. We give that couple and their plus one dirty looks in unison. Everyone is outraged at their insensitivity... not just us. That is the incredible power of Valentine's Day...

And then, yes, there is that re-kindling aspect of it too. No, we don't have to wait until February 14th to be romantic and proclaim our love. A sexy, sultry, lovey-dovey spontaneous moment can happen any time, anywhere: Like when we are getting a butt shot in the bathroom:

"Hey... I like the way you stuck that needle in there... Same time tomorrow?"

Or at the doctor's office, as he's about to enter the donation room with his  plastic cup:

"You know that see-thru nighty I have hanging in our bedroom closet with the tags still on it?... Just something to think about while you're in there... No no... not the price on the sleeve... think higher up... or lower down."

Or when you have prepared a beautiful candle-light dinner for two at home:

"How about we feed each other flax seeds,  pumpkin seeds, and lean meats? And then we can move over to the couch to have our milk instead of coffee, wine, or beer. You know there's nothing sexier to me than strong bones."

Let's face it: Valentine's Day is a dopey holiday and a perfect excuse to put down the vials and the pens and the calendars and go somewhere together that doesn't smell like antiseptic for a change.


Thanks for stopping by! I hope you feel just a little bit better than you did when you got here. If you'd like more laughs at infertility's expense- take a look at my own Infertility / IVF /FET "adventure" recommended by top fertility professionals across the U.S. -Available on Amazon / Nook / Kobo


Valentine's Month #3 - Why Even Bother?

There are a few reasons why I've labeled February as "Valentine's Month." (Not to take a thing away from Black History Month or Heart Health Month.) It's just that this month has a lot of meaning for me. My husband is exactly nine days older than I am. So this, right now, is the only period throughout the year when I can say I married an older man... for at least another few days anyway.

Also, Valentine's Day falls within that short period between our two birthdays. I also think it's cool (I'm probably the only one) that even though he is only nine days older than I am, we were born in two different years on the Chinese calendar. We were pretty old when we met each other and even older when we got married. (Hence my infertility issues, I'm sure.) Even though I admit it's somewhat of a dopey cash cow holiday, I went a lot of years having sucky Valentine's Days. A lot of people handle dateless or lousy date or no-show date Valentine's Days perfectly well but not I. For decades not years, I perused the seasonal aisles at Walgreen's just to look at the dozens of Valentine's items I had no intention of getting from anyone. So once I found a Valentine's Day keeper, I made up my mind to suck every living inch out of the holiday that I could. My husband, as the lucky winner of me, must now dedicate the rest of his days making up for the thousands of would-be Valentine's who done me wrong. I'm not talking monetarily here. I'm not looking for The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills presents of sports cars and diamonds. But somewhere in that Valentine's/Birthday celebration period I do like personal notes, candy, flowers and lots of hugs and kisses. I'm needy not greedy.

There are plenty of times when we all take our relationships for granted. I'm not sure if that's the right way to describe what many of us do during infertility, so let's just say our relationships can take a beating during infertility. There's the basic issue that somebody's body has failed. So I'm letting you down or you're letting me down. It's somebody's fault. Then, to add to the romance, you get to make an appointment to share your bedroom habits with somebody you met ten minutes ago with cold hands and a lab coat.  Then, to add to the spark, that same person tells you when you must touch each other and when you can't touch each other. Of course the high-priced bills, the mood-altering drugs, and the thrice-weekly doctor appointments that shift the focus of your marriage vows to the "For Better or Worse" emphasis, don't help. And the closest you get to any real intimacy is when your lover love love jams a nightly needle into your ass.

So during infertility especially, but always: Valentine's Month should be like every other month: When focus goes back to why in the world you ever picked the cute, hair-thinning, lovable son-of-a-bitch in the first place.

Thanks for stopping by! If you'd like some laughs at infertility's expense... I was a professional stand-up comic and now I write humor for newspapers, magazines, blogs, etc. I wrote this little eBook during my own infertility adventure to sort it all out and to de-stress myself with laughter. Hopefully it can do the same for you. (4.5 stars/66 reviews) available on Nook & Kobo.

Valentine's Month part 2

Infertility and its sadistic treatments have a way of gnawing at your relationship like a sewer rat. (Okay, not a pretty  visual... But I miss my NYC so much.) So at this blog, we're doing: "Valentine's Month" to repair all the damage. It's like Botox for your heart.

The key to a decent Valentine's Month, I think, is having a decent Valentine. If you have a loser Valentine who says all the right things, buys all the right gifts, and takes you to all the right places, do the math: Mr/Ms. Loser + Right words + Right gifts + Right restaurant = Mr./Ms. Loser.

However: Mr./Ms. Good Person + Valentine's Date that went awry = Mr./Ms. Good Person + A few hours of your life that went awry... and oh have I had my share of both.

The reason the math turns out this way on my calculator is because sometimes good guys or girls have the best intentions to make your Valentine's Day great and it just doesn't work out through no fault of their own. Sometimes it's through the fault of a lousy restaurateur. And on Valentine's Day lousy restaurateurs often become greedy restaurateurs.

A couple of years ago my husband made reservations for dinner at a local restaurant that we'd been meaning to try. The place was, I'd like to say "dimly lit" or "romantic atmosphere" but the place was frkn dark. I spent half the dinner calling to my husband: "Are you still there?" We held hands the whole time not out of affection as much as sheer necessity. If a waiter had accidentally bumped into the table and knocked one of us under it, the other one would have just kept on eating unaware that their Valentine was on the floor unconscious.

The entire room was filled with teeny tables for two that, in my opinion, were a little too close for comfort to one another for anything with the possible exception of speed dating. And when I say teeny tables: It looked liked they took one normal one and sawed it into sixty doll house ones.

We were the first to arrive. So here the entire room is empty and they sit us just below the service station that was ready to go with plates brimming with olives, garlic, and mounds of feta cheese all perched about six inches from the top of my head. I'm pretty sure this isn't what's meant by "head cheese". Taking the high road, my husband suggested we just slide over to the next table, a mere half a bread-stick away.

Then in came the second couple. In this sea of empty nothingness, I give you one guess where they were seated... Right. At the feta cheese-head table. So here we are, trying to eat appetizers and all I feel is this woman's elbow making nice-nice with my elbow. In the black abyss, I have no idea if this woman is coming on to me or just eating lefty.

Finally, enough is enough. We call the manager over, curious to know if he also was dimly lit. Even in the blackness, I could see from across the room it would be futile. Anytime you see a guy over 40 wearing tight leather pants, it's over. We asked if we couldn't possibly be seated at a different table.

He explained to us and the other couple (I think they were still there. Did I mention it was a mite dark?) that we couldn't sit at any of the other fifty-eight available tables because they were, each and every last one of them, reserved.

Smart...Let's inconvenience the four schmucks who showed up, to accommodate a hundred and sixteen phantom guests who may have decided twenty minutes ago to just stay in and watch a movie.

So up we got and left hand-in-hand.

The point is, I guess...I'm still with my same great Valentine and I don't even remember the name of Leather Boy or his feta hair salon. Obviously infertility is more frustrating and a whole lot more important than a dinner out, but I think the principle is the same: If you've got a great love in your life, you can get through it, one aggravation at a time...Most important, always remember to walk away from each aggravation hand-in-hand.

Thanks for stopping by. Talk with you again soon!

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Valentine's Month: Rekindling for the Burned Out (Tuesday)

(Start with "Monday" if you can. No, I know. But this Monday, for some reason I was actually lucid...One might argue...coherent even.... And if you agree, please do subscribe to this rollicking good time of a blog. There's a lot of bonus fun that will come your way on the weekend.) So, what were we talking about? Oh right. How important Valentine's Day is to couples dealing with infertility. So important in fact to reignite that lovey-dovey spark that infertility keeps blowing out (the bastard), that I proposed an entire  Valentine's Month

Then I mentioned how all of my life I've had this fantasy of wearing a sexy negligee and then an emergency erupts and Mr's. January thru April from the firemen's calendar rush in to rescue me.

Except the way the fantasy ended up playing out in real life, I bought this Valentine's Day night gown nightmare contraption and couldn't get into it without cutting off the circulation to no less than six parts of my body. It turned more into a Stephen King movie than the soft porn flick I'd been aspiring to.

Part of the issue was, I couldn't figure out where anything went. That's how Valentine's Day "sleep wear" is: There are holes where there shouldn't be and no holes where there should be. And feathers tickling me in bad spots, and itchy lace unofficially serving as dental floss in places, where, I don't care what his mother told him, I have no teeth.

In anticipation of one memorable Valentine's Day, I bought crotchless panties. Boy was that embarrassing. Not because I bought them but because I forgot they were supposed to be crotchless and tried to return them. "Ma'am, this underwear is ripped. Hello? Where's the crotch?" (As I held them up to the customer service person, looking at her through the featured attraction.) 

I felt so taken advantage of....not by my husband, by the store: "Hearts and Other Parts". I felt taken advantage of because I paid $35 for them. The same underwear with the crotch was $22. I paid $13 extra for the frken hole.

Another big problem for sexy lingerie is, if you're old enough to spell the word "gravity", you're probably too old to wear it. I think I'm in decent shape (here's the part where I lower my voice and look away from the person to whom I'm speaking)... "for my age". But put me into an itsy bitsy teeny weeny red heart shaped bedtime bikini and I look like a little Jewish Buddha.

I look in the mirror (big mistake) and ponder what would best solve the problem of the four car pile-up in my mid-section: A breast lift, a tummy tuck...or would it be too confusing for a surgeon to sort out where the top ended and the bottom began? Should I just have it all removed and get my neck stapled to my hips? Or do I need a baker to come at me with a rolling pin and smooth out my happy loaf?      

My husband watched the show "The Doctors" the other day. And a woman asked about her apparently sagging private parts. I'm not sure how you'd ever realize such a thing was happening. Certainly this woman is way more observant than I am...or has a lot more time to kill. So I asked my husband if he'd, by chance, observed that part of me falling from grace. He said:"That's ridiculous.  All I've ever noticed sagging are your boobs and your ass."..........Nice.

Listen I gotta go. I have to find a clean sheet. I can't let my husband sleep on the couch without one. It's a new couch. B'dum bum.

I'll talk with ya again tomorrow.