When I Have Kids, I Won't Be So Lame (Monday)

As you have undoubtedly seen already, I've decided to call this week's posts: "When I Have Kids, I Won't Be So Lame". I'm sort of taking the liberty of speaking for all of those going through infertility. Let people in the fertile world take it as a threat, a promise, or as one of your New Year's Resolutions. I've been touching upon this subject for the past few weeks: How lame people we know get around the holidays. I know that when I was going through infertility, there were plenty of times when I didn't want to be around my friends with kids... either I was just too damned depressed or too damned jealous.

But on those days when I felt a bit stronger and independent and my mind wasn't as clouded by the raging self-injected hormones... I thought: You know, I can learn from their mistakes. (Maybe not mistakes--maybe just boring habits) Let me make some mental notes here on: "What I don't want to subject people to during the holidays when I have kids." 

Number one on that list:  After your parents asking: "Do you want to get a beating?" The next most obviously rhetorical question would be: "Want to see pictures of my kids?"

I mean the second the "question" is asked you've lost. First of all, nobody ever asks without actually having the photo already in their hand or up on the computer screen or phone. So what could you say then: "Ew,  no, put that away"? or "I'd love to but my religion doesn't permit me  to look at photos. We believe it's a form of idol worship." 

Those of us with fertility issues think people are inconsiderate of our feelings. But I promise you: It's not just us. People are so proud and bursting with their own family business, they're inadvertently inconsiderate of everybody's feelings. They're going to force that photo on you as if their life depended on it. Yes, if you're having difficulties getting pregnant a baby photo can cut like a knife. Doesn't mean most fertile people who are no relation to the baby want to suffer through it either. 

So, that's one area I find parents to be lame in around the holidays and that I'll ramble on about  this week. 

Then there's tipping anyone and everyone surrounding their child: Teachers, the school secretary, the assistant girl scout leader, coaches: "Here's twenty dollars Coach Davis. I'm sure you'll agree that Jamie should play more in the 2011 season. Merry Christmas."

Then there are those greeting cards that show up in the mailbox that don't stand up, with their kids photos plastered all over them that leave you wondering: "Did she just pick the worst photos of the bunch...or does this poor kid really have such unfortunate hair?"

Listen, I gotta go. Only five days left to avoid the stores. Well, five if you count days left to buy every single thing off the shelves. Six if you count the day after when everything's returned and put back.

I'll talk with ya again tomorrow.

The Great Thanksgiving Roast (Thursday)

(Start with "Monday" if you can. Read a day at a time. It's a good way to get a break from the relatives. Every half hour or so,  tell them you have a stomach cramp and slip out of the living room and into their computer chair. You'll send a wave of panic through your family as they realize the implications of someone hogging the toilet on this day of all days.) So, what were we talking about? Oh right. Keeping your spouse close by for the entire Thanksgiving hellfest. There is strength in numbers. And if someone asks you an embarrassing question, you can just shove him in front of you to deflect it.

"Helen, you're not doing any of those fertility treatment thingys are you?..."Dave? Where did Helen just go? I could swear she was just standing right there, where you are now."

I also think, there are still in 2010 some things people won't say in mixed company. This can definitely work in your favor. Women probably won't mention your menstrual while your husband's around.

Just like, when you're in the vicinity, men probably won't bring up their highly scientific theory on the culprit behind your husband's fatherhood issues: That time in 1989 when they all went to the beach during spring break and your husband sat on the scorching hot sand with a way too short speedo.

So, if you're a man and a woman together at this function, you've got it covered as long as you hang together. If you're a same sex couple... hopefully just showing up together still freaks out the most annoying of your relatives enough that they'll never even get around to bothering you about the trying to conceive part. Hold hands a lot and gaze into each other's eyes lovingly if you have to.     

For everybody: When you sit down to dinner, choose your seat wisely. Don't be the first to sit down at the table. You'll be stuck with whomever sits down next to you.

What happens if it's your aunt who whips out a newspaper clipping on endometriosis she's been carrying around in her purse since July 4th when you dodged her at the family barbecue? 

If somehow this does happen, however, don't despair. Simply get up, go do something (get a spoon, read more of my blog...whichever), then return to the table and "absent-mindedly" sit in the wrong seat.

You don't have to sit next to your spouse, but you should definitely be within deflection distance of each other. And both of you need to keep your ears perked up for key danger words. For example:

Aunt with the article in the purse sits next to you, and in between stuffing stuffing into her teeth and unwedging it with the back of a matchbook, she tilts in your direction. You're not sure what she's about to do. She could either be internally rearranging the four glasses of club soda she chugged, or worse: She's about to talk to you. You hold your breath waiting to see out of which end the noise will emerge.

Your husband appears to be immersed in his slab of cranberry sauce, trying to decide what is proper Thanksgiving dinner etiquette: To turn it can imprint side down before tackling it or leave it as served. But his ears are wide open and zoning in on your aunt like he's the Bionic Woman.

And she speaks to you:

"Oh (okay, the word "oh" seems fine.)

"did I mention" (no objection so far)

"that my neighbor's daughter" (Warning: Lights begin to flash. I know my aunt. She wouldn't be telling me about this girl I never met unless she's  either having a baby or is a prostitute.)

"is" (Husband reaches for nearest bowl.)


"Peas?! Aunt Yenta, do you want peas? Does anyone at this table want peas? How about down there? How about you? How about you? How about you?"

Deflection. That's the name of the game. It's not really a family dinner. It's fricken air hockey.    

Listen, I gotta go before the  tryptophan kicks in and I fall asleep on my keyboard. 

I'll talk with ya again tomorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Infertility News: I Couldn't Make This Stuff Up (Monday)

So, what were we talking about? Oh right. Before the weekend rudely interrupted us, we were discussing how baby showers alone could suck all the positive energy out of our lives, and: Which would be easier?: If all of our pregnant girlfriends left the country or if they stayed and we went. Because, right now, clearly the nation isn't big enough for us and them.

At some point I'm sure I'll go off the deep end and exploit all of the celebs who are fifty and had their twins "naturally".  Yeah, we know. Their noses are natural. Their boobs are natural. Their tans are natural. Their hair is natural.

Of course if you ever saw a  picture of them from high school, (somewhere between five and thirty years ago-depending on which set of dates you believe), you'll compare it to present day photos and wonder if somewhere over those five to thirty years she went through the witness protection program.

Nowadays she looks younger, thinner, blonder, taller, and perkier (all over). But it's all natural as are her twins who happen to be of a completely different race than her or her husband.

She herself, and her family, are what scientists call "Genetically Impossible"

No, we'll save the tabloidy stuff. This week we're going to be chatting about real life infertility news:

"Infertility tourism" (Seeing the infertility sights, I guess) Or

The female prisoner in Australia who petitioned the court to continue her IVF treatments in jail (You won't believe what she's "in" for)

Or the IVF teens who were part of a study to see if they're like "normal" teens. (The frozen embryoed teens probably like the cold more than  "normal" teens.)

Listen, I gotta go. I write my posts the night before and now I have to do my usual pre-Monday morning rituals: 1) Get my work clothes ready for the morning.  2) Prepare my lunch to bring to work tomorrow. 3) Cry myself to sleep because it's almost Monday again.

I'll talk with ya again tomorrow.

Who's To Blame For the Infertile Insane? (Wednesday)

(Start with "Monday" if you can. You're headed for a three day week end. Why wait for the last minute to slack off?) So what were we talking about? Oh right. The fact that we all lose our minds just a little bit during infertility and its treatments. We're sad. We're angry. We're impatient. We're frustrated. We're stressed beyond stressed out. And someone must be to blame. (Not us. Clearly, not us.)

In yesterday's post, I tried to lay blame on my-- husband, partner in life, "So You Think You Can Dance" buddy,  fellow fondler, groping chum...whatever title is politically correct this week. And I failed miserably.

As much as I'd have liked it to be, I realized that it's not his fault that I had to go through millions of tests, thousands of appointments, and endless hours of  anxiety. But now I know whose fault it really is: 


Society is to blame for everything bad: Drugs, child abuse, premarital sex, teenage sex,  sex on the rides at Disneyland, plastic wrap that won't untwist, war, poverty, constipation, pollution, crocs, lousy schools, prostitution, thong underwear, NASCAR, the oil spill in the gulf, chin hair and tsunamis:  So why not our infertility woes? (Stay tuned. If I can't pin it on them, I'll try hiphop music next.)

Look at TV. Look at magazines. Everyone wants us to be 5'10, 110 pounds and have kids. But not too many. I'm not sure what the acceptable societal limit is.

When the Octo-mom had hers, everyone went nuts. When the Duggars had their nineteenth or thirtieth or whatever they went really nuts. 

But you definitely can't have "none". That's not allowed.

"Don't you want a baby? If you don't have one, you'll regret it. Like not going to your senior prom. Or college. Or not finishing college. Or not going back to college.

Or not taking that job. Or taking that other job.

Or not marrying that guy. Or marrying that guy.

Or moving. Or not moving sooner.

Or not becoming a nurse or a dancer or a methodist or a proctologist or a lacto-vegetarian. Mark my words: You'll regret it."

And you definitely aren't allowed to have only one child.

"What's the matter with you? Don't you want to give your child a sibling? You know what happens to only child /childs/children, don't you?" 

"My husband's cousin's mother was an only child. She wasn't potty trained until high school and she ran off with a drummer when she was thirty-six."

And you can't have more than four kids; five only if you absolutely have to. 

But at five, you're stretching it. (A pun of sorts.) People start to lose patience with you:

"Can you afford five children? Do you need five children? You know my taxes are paying for those children. Maybe you should buy a DVD. You really need something else to do in bed."

So, if society isn't responsible for our insanity, it's at least partly to blame for our infertility blahs, blues, and blechs.

Listen I gotta go. I want to have a big barbecue this weekend and I've got to go light a fire under my husband... So he'll get the barbecue ready...What did you think I meant?

Who's To Blame For The Infertile Insane? (Tuesday)

(Start with "Monday" if you can. You'd better do it. This week is about going nuts. If you don't read every word, people will know it's because you think I mean you.) So, what were we talking about? Oh right. How the only way to ever improve yourself as a human being is to blame all of your shortcomings on others.

I'm setting out this week to point the finger of blame at those responsible for our infertility insanity. So, here's the question at hand: 

"Who deserves the finger?"

The Partner

Frankly, I never cared for that expression: "Partner". It always reminds me of "Howdy Pardner" which makes me feel like my husband and I should be lassoing something on the Ponderosa.

It also sounds completely un-romantic. I've had bridge partners, tennis partners and business partners. Never slept with any of 'em. Unless you count...nevermind.

I prefer to slightly modify the title and introduce my husband to people as my groping partner.

It gives people a vivid visual into the true nature of our relationship, while allowing me to stare at their throat to see how well they control their gag reflex.

Anyway, whatever you call that person you nibble at night, they're the one to blame for your infertility insanity.  

I'll never question the amount of angst that men feel during matter who in the relationship is diagnosed as infertile.

But if the woman has "the problem", he will likely remain sane... while she goes diving head first into Lake La La.

On Day One, my husband and I were both sent for tests. Mine entailed holding my urine for several hours. His entailed visiting the dark room at the way, way, back of the video store.   

Medical professionals encouraged him to let it out with a smile on his face. They encouraged me to hold it in with a painful wince on mine.

I spent the morning with John, the cold-handed tech who ran red dye #2 up my fallopians, through my small intestine, under my lungs, and out my eye sockets. (I think his degree was from the University of Mapquest).

My husband spent his morning with his two new best friends: Booby Brown and her magician pal Davida Coppafeel. (He wouldn't tell me if she really did magic or just tricks.) 

He then returned to the clinic with the fruits of his "labor" and waited while somebody tossed his cupful (or maybe half a cupful) under a microscope.

My diagonosis:  "Your tubes are clear.  Let's schedule another dozen or so tests to see what else could possibly be very wrong with you."

His diagnosis:  "These are the most perfect sperm I've ever seen in my life. They're handsome, virile, athletic."

So I'm whipping out my calendar, and trying to figure out how I'm going to stop my life for several weeks for my next battery of tests.

While all around me my husband's sperm are high-fiving each other, having just been inducted into the clinics's Sperm Hall of Fame.

We had entered the fertility clinic for the first time in our lives on a Monday morning.

By Tuesday afternoon, my husband's internal parts had been cleared of all charges of wrongdoing, thus completing their commitment to the infertility program.

As promised when we initially signed all of the paperwork, he received his sanity back as he passed through the clinic door. 

And all eyes turned back to me.

So maybe it's not actually the partner's fault that we go nuts and they don't. 

And, truth be told, if the infertility treatments are going to land me in a mental institution, I probably should have a designated driver to take me there.  

Listen I gotta go: I've got to get some gel. It's 98 humid degrees here and  my hair's about to take over the neighborhood.

Who's To Blame For The Infertile Insane? (Monday)

Last week I touched upon how we all start infertility treatments as relatively sane people and shortly thereafter go bonkers. I alluded to the fact that the fertility clinics themselves, were to blame for us going nuts. 

Don't get me wrong. I love fertility clinics. I mean,  so many doctors around the Country have been so generous to me and my writing I want to give them all hickeys.

Even though, I've always pictured patients in an insane asylum walking around wearing paper hats and matching booties: Exactly the wardrobe my doctors insisted I wear to attend my egg retrieval.

When you read the posts on online infertility support groups, there are a lot of people crying, hugging, on their very last nerve, beating the hell out of each other with baby dust and forever on the verge of completely flipping out. What a pretty group we are.

Sometimes I think we should be required to wear bumper stickers on our backs like people taking driving lessons. Instead of it saying "Student Driver" it might say: "IVF Patient".

They both provide those in close proximity with the same warning. "Stay back. Stay way way back. This person is not responsible for her actions. This person could lose total control at any moment."

When you see that "Student Driver" bumper sticker what do you do? Switch lanes. Get away as fast as you can.

The same could apply to the "IVF Patient" in the supermarket. People would hurry to switch aisles and check-out lines. You'd see shopping cart skid marks all over the place.

"No, that's okay. I know I'm only buying a bar of soap but I think I'll just go over to line #8 behind the woman with the six screaming kids, two jam packed shopping carts, and an accordion file-ful of coupons.

Yeah, the one with the cashier who's name, according to her name tag is  'Trainee', (I think that's French). Yes, her: The one who can't seem to master the art of finding the end on a roll of receipt tape and who is waiting for 'the key'. Don't worry. Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine."  

But the beautiful thing is that our insanity, our nuttiness, is never our fault. Or, at least, most of our actions have a good explanation behind them.

I look at infertility treatments as a door. We're pushing, with all of our might, on that door: The door perhaps to our future.

Well, now our screws are loose and we're becoming unhinged. And somebody is responsible!

This week, let's explore exactly who or what is indeed responsible. I mean it's not us. No, of course it's not us. What a silly notion.

Listen I gotta go. I'm incredibly messy, always late for everything, and can't wrap a present to save my life. While I'm at it, I may as well figure out who's to blame for ALL of my shortcomings.  

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My Private Infertility: Trying To Keep Everyone's Nose Out Of My Uterus (Friday)

(Start with "Monday" if you can. Maybe you can print it out and take it with you on a bathroom break. I'm not proud.) So, what were we talking about again? Oh right. People who, for some unknown reason, want to know every detail about our personal business: Infertility issues and all.

All week I've been proposing my board game series designed to deal with such folk.  All week, the games' objectives have been to get people to shut up and go away.

To wrap up the week, however, I'm doing a 180 on these people: Details? You want details, you say? In the wise words of the car commercial:             "You asked for it. You got it. Toyota."

My final offering in the Busybody Board Game Series is: "All or Nothing".

You want information on my personal life. That's fine. But it's all or nothing.

So let's begin:

My unfortunate coworker/victim approaches as I search the vending machine for a mid-morning snack to supplement the eight snacks I brought from home.

As I scrutinize each item to see what I can get for sixty cents, she gets in line behind me eyeing the last remaining KitKat bar.

I make the mistake of inquiring about her week end. She waxes poetic about taking the kids to some...(I really don't know. I pretty much got bored into blankness at that point.) And then, just as I came to, I heard this exiting her mouth:  

"So how come you never had kids? Don't you want any?... You probably shouldn't be waiting so long to try, you know."   

That did it. Them's are fightin' words! Let the game begin!  It's "All or Nothing"!

I take a deep breath:

"Well, I didn't really want to get married in my twenties. I liked this one guy in college but he had another girlfriend and I was really upset about it and I sat on my bathroom floor in my dorm for two days crying into the toilet."

(She's still there, mentally chanting the mantra. "Don't press A5, Don't Press A5".)

"Then, in my thirties, I had only one date: We sat on his bed in his basement apartment that he shared with his sister, (at least I think it was his sister), and watched Italian soccer for three hours. I wanted to jump out of the window but then I thought, just my luck, it's a basement apartment. I'd probably land in the laundry room and break my leg and be lying there in the dark all week end until somebody had to wash their clothes for work on Monday."

(I recount the sixty cents in my palm for the ninth time, this time starting with the dimes.  She must be PMSing. Who else would be waiting this long for chocolate?)

"So  then one day I went to a gay Chanukah party where I met my husband. He didn't call me right away and that really bugged me. Who knows why guys say they'll call and then they don't? But then we finally got together."

(She remained, tapping her foot and huffing, but still there. Maybe her blood sugar had dropped so low by this time, she was too weak to bolt. )

"So we tried to have a baby from the first day we were married. I mean we were looking at calendars and having sex, counting days and having sex, using ovulation charts and having sex, having sex and having sex. Then I had an infection, I mean I don't think it was an STD or anything, but you can never be sure. So once I was fine, I went for fertility treatments."

"I started with IUI, you know intrauterine insemination and they did three rounds of that, and I got a little pregnant but not enough to be pregnant pregnant. Then the fourth round, they overdosed me on the hormones. I was taking 250 IU's a day and I told the doctor that would be too much but he said to do it anyway and then it turned out I was right..."

(And if she was PMSing, why hadn't she tried to rip my head off yet?)

"So then they had to start me on IVF, you know, in vitro fertilization like that baby Louise that was the test tube baby born in England years ago, only the baby isn't really born in the test tube like I used to think..."

In these forty minutes,  a line of sixteen people had formed behind me at the vending machine. I felt like I was blocking the only ATM at the State Fair or even worse: A buffet.  

Like playing "telephone" as a kid, grumbles started at the back of the line. By the time the message made its way up to me  I heard: "Tell her: Two puddings, the fork and my onion wedding. "

But since none of those items were in the machine and I know the people I work with pretty well, I feel sure I deciphered their original message correctly: 

"Tell her to put the fking money in already!"

Listen, I gotta go. I have a sudden urge to get a chocolate covered wafer candy bar. What do you call those again? I'll talk with ya on Monday.

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My Private Infertility: Trying To Keep Everyone's Nose Out Of My Uterus (Thursday)

(Start with "Monday" if you can.  It's a great mind game. You can pretend it's Monday but know that it's really Thursday.)  So what were we talking about? Oh right. More mind games people play. People love to say: "He plays too many games. I don't like people who play games."

It depends. If someone wants to ask awkward, humiliating questions that are none of their concern, I say:  Let the games begin. 

I try to never write the same thing twice but a few weeks back I introduced you to my "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" game. And it works oh so well for dealing with your garden variety yenta that I'm reviving it here.

The game goes like this: (Lori vs Opponent #1: The Nosy Neighbor)

You don't ask me why I don't have kids and I won't ask you...

(My turn to pick a card)  

Why the newspaper delivery guy's car is still in your driveway at noon.

You don't ask me why I have so many doctor's appointments and I won't ask you...

Why last Thursday, the same newspaper delivery guy jumped out of your second story window wearing only one shoe and hopped to his car like Thumper on crack...

You don't ask why I haven't felt like socializing in the past several months and I won't ask you...

Why nobody on the block, but you, has gotten a newspaper since March.

You don't ask why I'm always irritable and I won't ask you...

The true meaning of "home delivery".

(At this point, the clean-up crew comes along and mops up Opponent #1. Neeeext!)

Lori vs Opponent #2: The Nosy Coworker

You don't ask why I come to work three days a week with a bandaid on my arm, and I won't ask...

(My turn to pick a card)

Why the vacant desk next to yours apparently has no computer under it anymore.

You don't ask why I come in to work late three days a week and I won't ask...

Why you were on your hands and knees under that dark desk after quitting time mumbling: "How do you unplug this damn thing?"

You don't ask why I've become extremely moody and I won't ask...

Why you went to Staples on your lunch break to buy a new computer desk for your den.

You don't ask why I don't go to the company family picnics and I won't ask...

Why when you purchased the desk, you had to have it delivered because there was no room in your trunk... because it had a computer in it... and a keyboard.

...And there was a mouse in the glove compartment... and a mouse pad...  

(At this point, the clean-up crew comes by with a vacuum and sucks up Opponent #2)

Listen I gotta go. I just remembered I had something in my trunk I'd better put somewhere before the wrong set of eyes reads this. I'll talk with ya again tomorrow.

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My Private Infertility: Trying To Keep Everyone's Nose Out Of My Uterus (Wednesday)

(Start with "Monday" if you can. My blog is like a soap opera. If you don't follow it every day for thirty years you'll never forgive yourself.) So what were we talking about? Oh right. How to get people to mind their own business as mundane as their own business may be.

And that's really what I think this is about.

In my opinion, people close to you are not entitled to any information about your personal chromosomal, reproductive, conceptional business, but you can at least understand why they want to know. When their nose is in your business, at least their heart is in the right place. 

Then there are the extraneous yentas in your life who just want to know because it seems like there might be something  juicy there to write about on her Facebook wall. 

An hour ago she wrote about shopping for underwear at  Target. Twenty minutes ago she wrote about trying on said underwear at Target. Ten minutes ago she wrote about waiting in line to pay for same underwear at Target. Five minutes ago she wrote about driving the underwear to its new home.

Two minutes ago, she wrote about trying on the underwear again at home. Thirty seconds ago, she wrote about how the underwear fit much better at the store. (Maybe she shouldn't have treated the underwear to KFC  on the way to its new home.)

Eight seconds ago, she wrote about the injustice of Target's no-return policy on underwear. And in another minute she's going to post photos about the whole madcap episode.

Then she's out of wall crap.

And then you walk into her room, her office, her web:  Just as she's in the market for some new crap to sling onto her wall.

Your only defense: The "Prying Lying" game.  There's only one rule:             You pry.   I lie.  

I invented this game because some busy-body nobody, someone I barely knew once asked: "You're not doing those shot treatments are you?"

I pretended I thought she said "shock treatments" and responded:  "Well, I did have a lobotomy, but that doesn't make me a bad person."

So here are some examples to get you started:

Someone comes up to you and asks: "Why don't you have any kids?"

Acceptable responses:

"I don't want any kids. I had an abusive childhood: My mother always beat me at Scrabble."

"I misplaced some of my chromosomes last year along with my library card and my remote control. The doctor told me there's a chance I would give birth to a stuffed animal."

"I'm really a man."

"I'm planning to adopt Brad and Angelina's kids when they're done with them."

"I strongly believe it would be inhumane to bring a child into the world today. I'm waiting until there's peace in the Middle East, economic stability around the globe, and no oil flowing through the elementary school water fountain."

"We think my mother, father, and in-laws would all make lousy grandparents so we're just waiting for all of them to die."

"I'm lactose intolerant and don't want to risk passing it on to a baby."

"My husband and I don't believe in pre-marital or during-marital sex."

"I figured I waited this long to have kids, I may as well go for the Guinness Book record."

Yes, I agree. Some of the responses are sick. The point is:  If they ask what they shouldn't ask, they get whatever they get.    

Listen, I gotta go. I want to get my soda and chips ready. There's an exercise show coming on that I never miss.  I'll talk with ya tomorrow.

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My Private Infertility: Trying to Keep Everyone's Nose Out Of My Uterus- Tuesday

(Start with "Monday" if you can. I know what you're thinking. "I hated Monday. I thought it would never end. Now this chick wants me to relive it?" Yeah, I do. But just for a few minutes.) So, what were we talking about? Oh, right. I was about to introduce you to my new line of board games specifically designed to get people out of your infertility business and back where they belong: On their couches dipping chips and watching whatever's taken the place of "Dances with the Stars".

The first game in the series is called: "The 25 Cent Privacy Pyramid". It's the ghetto-bargain basement-trailer park version of the $25,000 Pyramid game show: You list things and the other contestant, your nosy opponent, has to figure out what everything on the list has in common.

Here's an example:

My Endometriosis

My Irregular Periods

My Husband's Sperm Count

The Number Of Home Pregnancy Tests I've Taken

Nosy Opponent: "Things That Are None Of My Business?"

 Me: "Right! You're great at this game!" Okay, let's try another one.

My Mood Swings

My Rocky Relationship with My Husband

My Taking Out A Second Mortgage to Pay for IVF

My Three Cutesy Pregnant Coworkers

Nosy Opponent: "I know! I know! 'Things That You Don't Want To Talk About!'"

Me: "Good answer! 'Things That Are None Of Your Business' would also have been an acceptable response.'" On to the next round!

Making Dinner

Calling Your Husband To See If He's Really At Work This Time

Mowing Your Lawn

Seeking Fresh Breath

Picking Up Your Kids From School

Tightening Up Those Thigh Muscles

Nosy Opponent: "Things That I Should Be Doing Instead Of Standing Here Wasting Your Time?"

Me: Yes! "Things That Are Your Business" would also have been an acceptable response. 

Learning a Foreign Language

Watching Football

Playing Golf

Squeezing My Husband

Writing Something Humorous

Sticking One Of My Needles In My Eye

Almost Anything Else

Nosy Opponent: "Things You'd Rather Be Doing Than Standing Here Dodging My Awkward Questions?"

Me: On the nose! "'Things That Are None Of Your Business' would also have been an acceptable answer.

Thank you for playing today's  25 cent Privacy Pyramid and remember, most of the time it's None of Your Business! 

Listen, I gotta go. The ice cream man's coming down the block and I'm a dime short. I'd better go change into something low-cut. I'll talk with ya again tomorrow.

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My Private Infertility: Trying To Keep Everyone's Nose Out Of My Uterus (Monday)

So what were we talking about? Oh right. Last week I went on and on about what was wrong with my medical team. This week I'm going to go on and on about what's wrong with us. Why don't you have kids? Why are you so depressed? Why are you having mood swings? Why don't you want to go out with us? Why aren't you fun to be with anymore? Why don't you want to play with my kids? Why don't you want to babysit for us anymore? Why are you always going to the doctor? Why are you waiting so long to have a baby? Why don't you want to make me a grandma?

Why do you feel you owe these people an explanation?

Why don't you just say: "Why don't you mind your own business?"

I saw absolutely no reason to share my infertility information with anyone but my husband. I had to tell him. He started wondering why I kept asking him to stick me in the ass with a long needle night after night.  ("Lori, I know people are  into some weird things, but this makes no sense.")

And I didn't want to bring home a baby one day and have him ask: "Where'd that come from?"

It is extremely liberating to feel you owe nobody any information. And I mean absolutely nobody but the other parent-to-be. Not your mother. Not your sister. Not your neighbor (especially not your neighbor). Not your boss.

I'm not saying some of them don't have legitimate concerns and sincere interest in your life and your well-being. I'm just saying that that doesn't give them license to see into your future or your reproductive organs.

This week I've created a series of board games to help you navigate around the yentas in your life.

I think they may be of use to you when dealing with friends and relatives who really do care.

For mere acquaintances and virtual strangers in your life who "just want to know" for curiosity and gossiping sake, I suggest you just use the old stand-by: "Screw off".

If you're too polite to employ that fool-proof phrase, feel free to let me know. Remember to include their email or mailing address. I'd be happy to cut and paste it over to them on your behalf.  

Listen, I gotta go. I was so sick this morning I couldn't go to work. I'd better go lie down. Perhaps poolside with a nice book and a frosty beverage.  I'll talk with ya again tomorrow.

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