Pregnant for 22 Hours

 

Delia and I went to the doctor and got some very unexpected news a couple of days ago:

Maybe we shouldn’t have immediately tweeted about it and told a few choice members of our families … but it was probably the only chance we’ll have of telling people that news. It was fun while it lasted! Stressful, but overall a bizarre-yet-positive learning and bonding experience for us. And it was so lovely reading all of the excitement and congratulations from you folks online – thank you so much for being so happy for us!

You are good people, and we experienced your well-wishes and hopes for the best to happen as real love. I hope for all of us to thrive and be joyfully aware of how much new life is around and IN us EVERY DAY, and nurture that in ourselves and each other.

IMG_7859


If you want to read more about what we went through a decade ago trying to get pregnant before Delia could move forward with HRT (hormone replacement therapy) and her transition, check out my blog archives at FertileTrixie.com. I still want to explore and share more about that experience and what I learned from it: that having difficulty conceiving doesn’t mean you aren’t fertile in tons of potent and amazing ways. Also I love a lot of fertility-related fetishes and taboos.

The doctor didn’t seem concerned about the false positive (which I’ve always heard is super fucking rare / weird to get), so I am going to follow up with my GP to see if there’s something wrong with me that caused it. Maybe I have a big huge hairy toothy ovarian cyst growing inside me, or a stone baby! It would explain so much, and be so much easier to take care of the fruit of our loins if we had her contained in a jar of formaldehyde.

 

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Spicy Granny Porn

Chewing on sweet stale candy last night, inspired to incorporate it in the weird granny porn I want to make:



Like what ARE these #flavors anyway? Gladiola licorice? Wax museum clitty? Uncle Monty’s after-shave-soaked balls strangled in a bolo tie? I looked it up and found them described here:

Spice drops candy is the nostalgic, candy-shop classics! Spice drops satisfy your craving for true spice flavor and old-fashioned, chewy goodness. The colorful gumdrops boast soft centers with spicy flavors of anise, cinnamon, clove, sassafras, peppermint and spearmint—each sprinkled with sugar for a sweet taste of yesterday.

As a kid I thought these were repellent, but lately I’ve had a hankering for them. I find what must be the clove especially compelling, and as you know I’ve developed a taste for anise in my sexual maturity.

Spice drops seem like holiday candy ... maybe that explains my craving.

Spice drops seem like holiday candy … maybe that explains my craving.

Somebody on Yahoo Answers described spice drop flavors in less complimentary terms:

…stop eating spice drops. You could eat old bathroom potpourri and get the same flavors. If all you have ever known for candy is spice drops, start out with a starburst. It will really knock you on your ***. It tastes like something other than a piece of tree bark that died alone in a subway car after a night of regret. If you like spice drops, then good luck with all of the radio shows you listen to and I hope you enjoy your nickelodeons.

When the young man finally takes a spice drop from her glass swan candy bowl, you know he’s lost to the silver side of the glitter mumu.

On a related note, how did you feel about Mrs. Roper in Three’s Company? I felt like Mr. Roper was mean to her, soured her on life and never gave her a chance to sparkle.

mrs roper

I didn’t understand the “nag” hag caricature they were trying to portray (or whatever they were doing; it’s been a long time since I watched it so I’m not sure). Looking at images of her now I see what my attraction was to her.

Growing and Changing

Growing is hard work, and out of your control a lot of times. It happens whether you think you’re ready or not.

Photo May 08, 3 30 11 PM

I truly want to grow and think I have a pretty great attitude about it, but I don’t. Not completely: I want to be in charge of WHAT changes, HOW MUCH … WHEN and towards what (perfect) ends.

The good news: I might be past the worst of my midlife crisis, and am embracing good changes. Want to read about them? This month (National Bike Month, coincidentally) I’ll post more here about a significant lifestyle change we made at the end of March right as my grandma died (which was harder for me because of other family issues it brought up than actually losing my grandma) and this crazy overheated early spring unfolded … AND as the person I’ve been spending the most time with other than my wife decided to move out of state for a new job.

AND PRINCE DIED! Maybe that has nothing to do with me and I shouldn’t take that loss so personally, but his passing has been a touchstone of grief and strengthening wellspring of affirmation and inspiration at the same time.

wild roses

42 is Just a Number (and not even the right one)

Note: I was in a bad mood when I started this post, but writing it adjusted my attitude to CRAZY INVINCIBILITY by the end!


 

My mid-life crisis anxiety has been so revved up over money challenges, fear of failure, our biological clocks ticking, overwhelming necessary work transitions/reinventions, social/interpersonal sadness, and feelings of incompetence that I got fixated on how I’m about to turn 42 . . . to the point where I started thinking I already *am* 42, and was telling people I’m 42, and about to turn 43.

But I’m still 41! For a couple more days.

The whole trying-to-get-pregnant thing (with doctors who are younger than I am looking at me like, “lady you better HURRY UP if you’re serious about this, because you are fucking OLD! Do you know how old you are? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re REALLY PUSHING IT, Grandma”) amped up my fear to the point where all I could think is that I’m too old . . . and just getting older. That it’s too late for alllllll of the good things I want, and all the good things I want to be. That tons of doors are shutting all around me. My time is up – I squandered it. Wasted my youth, my privilege, my health, my IDENTITY. Now I just have to figure out how to make do really fast and SAVE us from all of our debt.

This was supposed to be a happy-go-lucky positive-thinking post where I talked about OH WOW SEE ALL THAT NEGATIVE THINKING JUST MADE ME AGE MYSELF PREMATURELY AND I’M AS YOUNG AS I FEEL AND I CAN FEEL *GREAT* AS LONG AS I TURN THIS FROWN UPSIDE DOWN AND RECOGNIZE THAT I’M JUST AS FULL OF POTENTIAL AS I WAS TEN OR FIFTEEN OR TWENTY YEARS AGO IF NOT *MORE* AND YAY SO HAPPY AND EXCITED ABOUT EVERYTHING!!!

Guessing I need to not work myself up into having more attachments to big dreams, but to surrendering to just being happy with what IS, right now; I have white hairs sprouting up in my pubes, and I don’t actually just LIKE having text on my kindle enlarged to hugeness . . . I need bifocals or reading glasses to wear with my contacts because I’m becoming farsighted in addition to my already-deeply blurred life with this astigmatism and near-sightedness.

And my neck. My motherfucking NECK! How did I not see these ghastly loose flabby neck wrinkles coming?!? They’re in my genes and I made it worse by gaining and losing so much weight. Yes, forty extra pounds is MUCH WEIGHT. I’ll tell you more about that in more explicit pictures one of these days.

I hate it when people bitch about shit like this. I hate how much I’m doing and saying stuff that I hate.

I don’t want to be pretty. I never really did. What I wanted was to be immortal.

Apparently I don’t know how to make realistic goals.

But wait, THAT’S NOT TRUE!! I mean, it’s true many of my goals and dreams are unrealistic, but FUCK IT – our lives are awesome because we do shit most realistic people don’t have the balls to do.

I used to be 5’2″ until I made it a goal to be 5’3″ in my thirties. GUESS WHAT?? I’m an inch taller! I made myself taller. IT’S THE TRUTH!!

And speaking of even more fantastical transformations: this is my wife, Delia, now:

Sexy TS Cougar Delia in Vegas

Delia showing off her tits in Vegas.

 

This was my wife twelve years ago:

Houseboy in coveralls drinking beer

There was so much more to her transition than gender presentation.

Fuck “reality”. What a stupid cage. I’m going for immortal.

And thanking Delia (who NEVER complains about getting older, or any of the myriad challenges much bigger than mine that she meets with sweetness and serenity) for it. And remembering that there are a lot of people who can’t just *think* themselves into being healthier and happier. I want to get rid of our debts so we can do more to help other people.

My birthday is on St. Patrick’s Day / Tuesday the 17th … there’s a 42% chance I’ll be on cam if you want to say happy birthday (and look at my big boobs)! I may even do a very affordable gold show, so keep an eye on my twitter feed to see if/when I might log in.

Why??? NOOOOO, Internet!!!!

One of the reasons why I need no-device / no internet days is because I CAN’T STAND IT WHEN PEOPLE SAY SHITTY THINGS TO/ABOUT MADONNA on Instagram. I fucking can’t hack it. It epitomizes everything that’s wrong with the internet, the way everything has been turned upside down and power has been given to the people for evil instead of good errrr fighting REAL evil or using your voice for something useful. Whatever. Nobody should ever get to vandalize MADONNA with insults in such a live pile-it-on manner. It wounds me. It really does.

I also realize . . . I should probably just unfollow Madonna because I don’t really need to see that much Madonna in my timeline anyway. And legit criticisms would be one thing, but just stupid ugly bullshit . . . what? I just do not believe in unmoderated comments.

Today:

  • severely blue winter sky
  • long phone call with the IRS
  • being a shitty GWC (“guy” with camera) who hasn’t gotten images and videos back to guys she shot
  • a self-pitying fear-riddled phone call (mostly about money) to my wife
  • ordered bluetooth keyboard so maybe I can text people more efficiently when I’m trying to fucking work, so they will think I’m a nice person and I can be part of the modern human race without sacrificing THE SPEEDY AND COHERENT FURY OF MY TYPING SKILLS
  • did some planning for weekend visit from nephews, trying to figure out how to make them recognize and love Moog synthesizers (to the point where they will not only endure, but ENJOY this thing I want to go to on Saturday, which could totally backfire on me if they end up being the ones who want to stay and hear something that makes them feel like they are “inside a purring cat” while I might want to run outside screaming)
  • mulling over things in my unpublished audio and blog archives which made me burst into laughter at my ridiculousness and vocal fry
  • tits swelling up and sore from what is probably just PMS
  • wrote email to support over three problems in goal-tracking app that I desperately need (haha) to turn over new well-disciplined leaves of health and prosperity
  • my pussy feels weerd

I also posted on Goodreads, like this about the book I finished yesterday:

The End of EverythingThe End of Everything by Megan Abbott

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Four stars because of the taboo stuff and other intensely sticky stuff, but I kind of got tired of everything being bone-deep and blood-thick. I’m not super duper in love with some elements of style in this and Dare Me, but I would read them a billion times anyway and anything Megan Abbott writes. To the point where now that I’m done with this book, NOTHING ELSE BUT MORE MEGAN ABBOTT WILL DO. Maybe I take her more seriously than I should. Which is a problem all of her characters have. With everything. Which I love.

View all my reviews

I’m trying to figure out what to read next that I will actually finish. I want to read the latest Sarah Waters, but after The Little Stranger I’m very fucking reluctant to dip my toes into ANOTHER one where reviewers urge you to have patience and it will get better. I don’t know if I have it in me. If I pick up a book for pleasure, I want it to be fucking pleasurable. Not a test of my patience.

Oh my god that’s probably what everybody feels like when they try to “cum” to my site. Sorry folks!

Cheekbone Return

I’ve lost a noticeable amount of weight, which I’m finally starting to actually like a little on my face combined with aging. I love my cheekbones sometimes! Not that this selfie illustrates that so great, but whatever . . .

naturally joker-like mouth

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