Dear Internet,

Hi. How are you? I know it's been a long time since you've heard from me. I'm sorry about that. It's been shitsville around here - big, stinking piles of shit. And then there's the self-pity - mountains of it. I keep telling Alex "I'm not having a very good - life." I sort of think it's funny when I say that, but Alex never laughs. I've always said he has no sense of humor.

Speaking of humor, Alex and I have been cracking each other up lately with this neat little trick. We'll be having one of our hilarious talks about, say, the headache I've had for the last two months, or so-and-so is pregnant after trying for a whole year, or we might have to sell our house eventually to pay for IVF, and then one of us, let's say myself, will make both hands into guns and point them in my mouth and pretend to shoot. The non-shooting partner always tries to protest that this action is not at all funny, but they're ususally laughing at the time. This is what passes for humor in my house right now. You can see why I might have stayed away.

No one really wants to hear about this. And I completely understand that. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of hearing myself talk about the hot flashes and the headaches and the vaginal ultrasounds. Jesus, everyone I know has heard me talk about the fucking vaginal ultrasounds. But people, I've had three of them in two weeks. For a little while I was buying myself little presents after each one. I figured that if I was having something shoved up my vagina someone should get me a present. But each time I have the pleasure of seeing my ovaries on a tiny black and white screen in a small dark room while an old man holds a dildo like object in my cooter I then have to go write him a check for $164. Now I just make batch after batch of chocolate chip cookies and eat until I fall asleep.

Yesterday when I went in for the latest round of hide the wand with my doctor I suddenly found a focus for all my pent up rage. The waiting room is divided into two sections by this giant penis-sustitute aquarium. What is it with men and aquariums? Does it make them feel like lord of their own little squirmy kingdom? Well, I now hate those fucking fish. I hate them with every venomous cell in my body. I'm secretly planning on poisoning the water and watching them all choke to death and slowly rise to surface of the water and then laughing maniacally. Who's your lord now, bitches?

See, you haven't really missed me as much as you thought.

It's just, internet, I don't really have anything nice to say. And what is it your mom always tells you? I'm bitchy and moany and sad. And I could tell you about how I had to give myself an injection tonight in preparation for the IUI tomorrow and that Alex said he would sit with me while I did it and then felt so sick he had to leave the room while I stuck the needle in, but I can't make it funny. It doesn't feel funny. Mostly what it feels is unfair. Mostly I want to rail at the universe about how I don't deserve this. I've had enough hard. I want some fucking easy. And if I can't have easy, then I'll settle for a million dollars. That would make it easi-er. And who wants to hear from a money-grubbing, self-pitying, barren, vindictive, fat bitch? Come on, hands up.

That's why I'm spending all my time with the dog. I know he's not really listening to me. He understands a small number of words, but most of them have to do with walking, going to the park, or food. The medical terminology kind of goes over his head. But in his favor I will say that he looks really, really cute when he's sleeping, he lets me kiss him as much as I want, and his feet smell like popcorn.

I'll try harder to write more, internet. Really I will. But I can't promise that it will be funny, or ineresting, or even readable.What I can promise is that it will contain foul languge and at least one slang word for vagina.

Hope you're well, enjoying the cool weather and the downfall of the Republican party. At least there's that. And Christmas music.

Love,
The Queen of the Vaginal Ultrasound