Why Do I Do That?

I was doing a little shopping on my lunch break today.

Nothing major, just stocking up on some fruits and veggies for the weekend.

Produce goes bad pretty quickly around here, so I usually have to hit up the store every few days if I want to keep fresh stuff around the house.

So there I was, with my basket full of healthy offerings, standing in line waiting my turn. Only, when it was time for me to start unloading my items – I couldn’t take my eyes off the display of Lindor Truffles. The ones right there at the register.

At the very last minute, I grabbed 4 of them and practically threw them at the checkout girl.

Realizing how aggressively I had just behaved, I gave her a sheepish grin and said “Isn’t it funny how being on your period can ruin a perfectly healthy shopping trip?”

She gave me a courtesy laugh.

Yes, a courtesy laugh.

And I stood there with my cheeks turning red screaming in my head “Why do I do that?!?”

Over-sharing.

(Courtesy of blogs.babycenter.com)

It’s a specialty of mine.

Not just here, but also in real life.

And apparently this afternoon, I decided on a whim that the checkout girl needed to know I was menstrual.

Because, you know, that’s vital information for a stranger to have.

WHY do I do that?

You Should Probably Know…

I am not going to South Africa.

Despite the fact that he called me Skinny.

Or rather, he said I was “too skinny to score a decent price in Zanzibar” in answer to my concerns that he might just be a human trafficker.

Same difference.

All I saw was “skinny”, and it kind of made me squeal.

Because yes, I am still a teenager. One who came to terms with the fact that she would always be described as “curvy” rather than “skinny” a long time ago.

And for the record – one who likes being described as curvy. Because I kind of love my curves.

But still… I maybe wouldn’t hate living in a country (or traveling to one) where I was considered skinny either.

There I go though, getting way off track again.

The point is – I am not going to South Africa.

I was never going to South Africa.

Not really anyway.

It was fun to think about.

Fun to talk about.

Fun to dream about.

But let’s face it… running off to a foreign country to meet up with some man who found me on the internet (no matter how non-creepy he came across in his e-mails) is a good way to end up with your own Lifetime movie.

And I love my dad too much to do that too him.

Not to mention the boy.

Who I can’t help but thinking of when considering something like this.

No matter what we are, aren’t, or ever will be.

So, my feet will be remaining planted firmly on Alaskan ground.

For the time being anyway.

Until an opportunity comes my way that doesn’t seem quite so risky.

And then… all bets are off.

Jack’s Back

He made his arrival this morning.

Waking me up at the ridiculous hour of 3am.

Because Jack is considerate like that.

I figured that since I was up anyway, maybe I should try a little walk on the treadmill. Nothing too brisk or strenuous, just some of that morning movement I’ve been trying to get myself into the habit of doing.

Let me just tell you, whoever it was that said cardio was good for cramps;

LIED

I lasted all of 20 minutes. And then I spent an hour sitting down in the shower. Only getting out when the water began to run cold.

It was pathetic.

And kind of amazing all at once.

Of course, Jack’s arrival was even more ill timed than just being my 3am wake up call.

Because it turns out – I had an ultrasound scheduled today to check up on those less than friendly little cysts of mine.

I also had my annual on the books.

Figured I would kill two birds with one stone when I made that appointment 3 weeks ago.

Besides, Jack wasn’t supposed to arrive until sometime this weekend, and I am never early.

Never ever.

So I didn’t even think twice about the appointment date.

Guess I should have listened to the healer when she told me this weekend that he would be arriving sooner than I was expecting.

I swear – sometimes that woman freaks me out.

So, the annual was rescheduled for next month, but the ultrasound appointment was kept.

Making for a lovely vagisound experience.

Those cysts of mine have grown. One on the right now at 2 cm. And still the 3 on the left, all a little larger (but not by much) than the last time we looked. Still… I’ve been feeling so much better the last few months. And really, as far as growth goes – they're growing at turtle speed compared to how my endometriomas have grown in the past. So for now, I’m choosing not to worry about them. I’ve got a consultation with Dr. Cook on Monday, and we’ll discuss them then.

In the meantime, I’m entertaining Jack. Just me, him, the DVR, and my heating pad curled up in bed.

But hey – I’ve managed to keep the good drugs away from the party.

And that’s saying something.

A Girl Can Dream

I woke up this morning to an e-mail.

An email that I typically would have deleted immediately.

Because it was from a man. Who I had never before met. Sent to the email address connected to this blog.

And we all know how I feel about men approaching me through my blog.

But this one… I couldn’t quite bring myself to delete.

Partially because he wasn’t blatantly hitting on me, and partially because what he was proposing was just so incredibly… intriguing.

He said he had been searching for a photojournalist/writer/travel companion and had accidentally stumbled upon my blog. But that he was looking for someone interesting to partake in a coastal safari of South Africa with him. Someone who would be "impressed by Africas diverse beauty and wonderful people."

(Courtesy of wayfaring.info)

I know what you’re thinking. Scam.

Or human trafficking.

I thought it too. Which is why I immediately forwarded the e-mail on to a group of my girlfriends, and we spent the next hour humorlessly dissecting his plans for me.

Kidnapping.

Sex slave.

Human trafficking.

An opportunity to star in my very own snuff film.

They were all thrown out there.

Along with a few that aren’t quite appropriate enough to be shared here.

Of course, I also might have had a friend or two who thought it was a great idea.

An amazing opportunity.

Something not to be passed up.

So what if it was my friend B-Face (the crazy wanderer who has traveled the world on a whim and never stays in one place for long) who really thought I should go. Loo was behind it too. 100%.

OK, so Loo may be one of the most delightfully naïve people I have ever met when it comes to the intentions of others. She sees the best in everyone and makes friends everywhere she goes.

Seriously – I’ve had to put my foot down over her trying to introduce me to people she’s met on planes.

It’s possible neither of these women is the best at factoring general safety into the equation when it comes to an adventure readily presenting itself at your feet.

Even more possible that this is a bad idea of monumental proportions.

But… I might have e-mailed him back.

Just to get the details.

Just to check it out.

Just to see.

It is South Africa after all. And beaches and travel and excitement and adventure and…

Everything I’ve been craving lately.

I can pretty much guarantee it’s not something I would ever really consider doing.

After all, even above and beyond the safety issues that pop easily into my head when I think about meeting a total stranger who found me on the internet in Africa, there is always my job to consider.

And I kind of like my job.

But… a girl can dream.

So, I responded.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Well, you know – besides human trafficking of course.

Self Love

During our appointment this weekend, that’s what the healer told me I need to start engaging in a little more frequently.

Self love.

I tried to explain to her that upping the self love quota wasn’t really necessary for me.

Apparently though, that wasn’t the kind of self love she was talking about.

No – she was referring to me taking an active role in my own healing.

Which I have to be honest – I thought I was doing.

I pour myself into researching this disease, I seek out the best health care practitioners I can find, I keep up with acupuncture and now myofascial release, I pop supplements and suck down tinctures, I watch my diet, I exercise, and I juggle a crap load of appointments on any given day of the week. Even though sometimes it’s overwhelming. Even though more often than not, it’s expensive. Even though there are days when I just wish more than anything I could be like my friends who seem to be able to eat like crap and drink like fish while still popping out babies with ease and going through life with nary an ill health effect to be spoken of.

Seriously – what is with these bitches?

(And by bitches, I mean of course the amazing women who are there for me in every way I could possibly imagine, and more ways than I could ever ask for. The term bitches here is used with all the love in my heart, and just the teensiest bit of jealousy added in for good measure).

When you break it down, it’s hard for me to imagine how much more active a role I could possibly be playing in my quest towards a healthy life though.

As far as self love is concerned, I kind of think I’m doing a pretty good job.

On all fronts.

But the healer thinks I could be doing more.

Namely, she thinks I could be taking more personal control and accountability.

According to her, it’s wonderful that I take time out every week to see her and Teeny (both in an effort to deal with pain and naturally coax my body into behaving as it should – sans drugs). It’s fantastic that I keep up with Dr. Naturopath as regularly as I do, and that I continue to follow her nutritional and supplemental guidance with regularity. It’s incredible that I have found myself a surgeon to clear out the mess of endometriosis that remained after my 2 IVF cycles (a surgeon who now not only listens to me with compassion and offers advice in line with the more natural treatment plan he knows I wish to pursue, but who also isn’t quick to cut without a clear need.)

But it’s not enough.

I need to be a part of the team.

And according to the healer, simply following the schedule and doing as I’m told does not make me part of the team.

Apparently – I need to make more room for self love.

For rituals and routines and thoughts focused on kicking this disease out of my body once and for all.

It turns out that popping the supplements, and drinking the tinctures, and watching my diet isn’t enough. Not in terms of giving me some power on this healing journey.

And as far as the healer is concerned – I need to have that power.

Because otherwise, I will just continue to end up right back where I started.

The problem is, her idea of self love isn’t exactly in line with mine. She wants me visualizing. And meditating. Picturing a violet light rushing through my body. Taking time to shut out the world and focus explicitly on healing. Ohhhming, to increase the vibrations within my body. Because disease cannot live in a body with a certain vibratory number.

Or something like that.

She wants me doing this all daily.

And the truth is – it just really is not my thing. I am open minded and do believe there could be something to all of this, but… I am also the kind of person who thrives off of the tangible. The pills I can pop (be they medicinal or supplemental) that I know have a set purpose. The exercise I can commit to that I know releases endorphins which help my body to cope with pain. The dietary restrictions I can embrace because they make sense when breaking down how foods effect hormones.

I count on what I can see, touch, and understand.

It's one of the reasons, perhaps, why I always struggled with relying upon prayer for healing as well. It just never felt nearly tangible enough. As close as I hold my faith, prayer just never felt like something that was going to make a difference in terms of this disease.

So sitting on the floor and closing my eyes while visualizing a violet light penetrating through my body and eradicating it of disease?

(Courtesy of suehopkinsinfo.wordpress.com)

Well… let’s just say there isn’t really anything tangible about that at all.

And even more, if we’re being honest – I have the attention span of a toddler. There is a reason why, even as I am writing this now, I am also engaging in a text conversation with the friend I have dinner plans with tonight, and watching A Gifted Man on my DVR.

I function best with a life that is full. Busy. Chaotic. Complemented always by a soundtrack of music, or television, or conversation. And surrounded by every possible distraction you can imagine.

That is how I thrive.

The idea of shutting myself out to the world on a nightly basis in order to visualize my own healing?

It sounds painful to me.

Not empowering, but rather – unproductive.

And I am a girl who thrives upon productivity.

Still… I am in awe of the healer. Of her ability to lay her hands upon me at the beginning of each of our sessions and tell me where I am hurting - to even further then eradicate that hurt. Or her awareness of the world around her. Her healing touch. Her free spirit. Her insight into me, my body, nature and this disease that continues to blow me away. Week after week.

We’ve been making a lot of progress. Progress that I’m going to talk about here soon (I swear!) – I just want to wait until after the next visit from Jack first.

Because right now, I have to be honest – even I am in disbelief over some of the improvements I’ve seen. And I don’t want to go boasting about how much better I’m feeling only have to dislodge my foot from my mouth when the real test arrives in just a few days.

But right now, while I wait, it looks like I need to work on the self love.

I just have to wonder though.... if it is this uncomfortable:

Does it even really count?

My Favorite Season

There are a series of trails on the east side of town that always leave me feeling like I'm in the middle of nowhere.

Even though no matter how far you get on the winding path of trails, there is almost always a major roadway on one side or the other within a mile or two.

Perhaps it's the fact that there are bear and moose sightings back there all the time and you kind of have to be on the lookout.

More likely though, it has something to do with all the trees.

The trees that, even as the leaves are falling, have a way of making you feel like you're surrounded by nothingness.

You don't typically notice other people until they're right up on top of you, and the seclusion of the area (despite the reality of its location) is part of what makes it one of my favorite spots in town.

Of course, Loo takes all the credit for introducing me to this spot - since it's located right by her house and is a favorite of her dog BZ's to go walking through.

Whatever am I going to do without that girl?

Yesterday a friend and I went for a walk through the trails.

It was a perfect fall day, and I was afraid it might be one of the last where the temps were warm enough to enjoy the beauty that these trails have to offer.

Of course, because it's a series of trails that loop around and aren't so clearly marked - it only took us about an hour and a half to realize we might have been a little lost.

Which is something I had actually predicted before we ever even started out.

There were jokes about needing to be rescued by fire-fighters (wouldn't be the end of the world) and once I got Loo on the phone, she actually offered to bring BZ out to find us.

But in the end, we found our own way out.

After having to backtrack and turn around only a few dozen times.

Still one of my favorite spots in town.

And Fall - Fall is definitely my favorite season.

Too bad it has to go and ruin all the beauty by being so darn close to winter.

Yikes!

This may shock you to know about me, but I have a habit of speaking before I think.

It’s the whole lack of a filter thing.

I’ve pretty much always been like this. For as long as I can remember, I’ve never really been great at contemplating how the words flying across my tongue may be perceived before I actually allow them to escape.

Sometimes, this ends with me needing to dislodge my foot from my mouth.

But mostly, it just produces hilarious results.

Situations that you can only laugh at.

The boy and I were having a conversation about dreams a few weeks back.

You know, the kind you have at night when you close your eyes and go to sleep. Not the Martin Luther King kind.

Anyway, he was telling me about one he had recently that seemed incredibly real - a dream that had shaken him up a bit even after waking.

Which is when I told him about the dream I have every now and again that does the same to me. The dream where I'm pregnant. Where I have a belly, and can feel the baby kick, and am filled with the elation of that life growing inside of me.

The dream where I’ve been given everything I’ve ever wanted. And more. And where the reality of the situation seems so firm, that when I wake to discover my stomach as flat as ever (or at least, as flat as it's been since 3 surgeries, 2 rounds of IVF, 6 months on Lupron, and 2+ years of battling endometriosis have left it a little more "squishy" than I would prefer), my heart sinks. Every time.

I finished describing this dream in painful detail, only to find him staring at me. With a slightly horrified look on his face.

Searching for words, but able only to choke out "Yikes!"

Because it turns out – the boy is lacking a filter of his own.

And while there were likely 1000 thoughtful or supportive things he could have said in that moment, he said instead the first word that came to his mind.

I just had to laugh.

Because really, dreams of the baby making variety are probably those you shouldn't share with the new-ish man in your life.

Ever.

It kind of makes you look like a baby hungry psychopath who might attempt to steal his sperm when he’s not paying attention.

Which, you know – is totally possible.

Yikes.

Mystery Solved… Kind Of

WARNING: This is going to be a long one. Like, really long. Mostly because it comes complete with all the e-mails and research from the last few days. The last few days of me trying to get to the bottom of my new-baby mail. If you have no interest at all in how my name originally got on the New Parent Lists, or what lengths I went to in order to find the answers – please feel free to skip this one. I’m pretty sure my fingers hurt after typing it, so your eyes will definitely hurt after reading it.

The good news is: I have managed to track the origin of that pesky little “Congratulations on your new baby!” survey far further than I ever thought I would be able to. And, I’m pretty sure I’ve gotten myself removed from a variety of lists that could result in this kind of mailing in the future.

The bad news is: I’m still pretty thoroughly confused over who was responsible for getting me on this distribution list in the first place.

Let me explain…

I pulled out that survey on Tuesday and started looking for numbers I could call asking for information. There wasn’t a single one. Not anywhere on the two pages of information included. No phone numbers at all. So, I got online and attempted to find the company information (The National Opinion Network) there. I was able to pull up a website, but again - no numbers. All they had in the way of contact information was an e-mail address. Which I’ve got to admit, I wasn’t feeling too hopeful about. I just had a feeling that a marketing company of this kind wasn’t going to take a whole lot of time to respond to my e-mail, especially when it was pretty clear they had intentionally avoided publishing a phone number.

I kind of figured it was a lost cause.

Still, I felt like I had to try. So, without much hope, I composed the following e-mail:

I recently received a questionnaire from your company pertaining to the birth of my new baby. The problem is, I have no new baby. In fact, I’m infertile and went through 2 failed rounds of IVF last year. I don’t blame your company for this mistake, but would greatly appreciate knowing how (or where) exactly you got my name and information. At this point, a letter like this is just a cruel thing to receive for someone who is unable to conceive. It would mean a lot to me to know the source that supplied my name to you, so that I can ensure I am removed from any further mailings of this kind from any company.

If it helps to look up my name to obtain this information, it is (full name) and I live in Anchorage, AK. The user id on the survey I was sent is (user ID from letter).

As I said, I would really just appreciate knowing how my information was given to you in the first place. As I have never been able to conceive, I have never signed up for any parenting websites/magazines/mailings at all. It’s a mystery at this point how I would have ever been put on your list. Any information you could give me would be greatly appreciated.

Thank you.

Once I hit “send” I pretty much got over it. I figured I would never hear anything back, and that it wasn’t really worth worrying myself over. I more or less resolved to just forget about it and move on.

Until yesterday, when I actually got a response:

Date: Wed, 21 Sep 2011
From: questions@nationalopinionnetwork.com
Subject: Re: Infant Division Questionnaire

The National Opinion Network is a marketing research company that sends out surveys for various studies. We apologize for the inconvenience our survey may have caused you. Let me assure you that we only send out surveys. We purchase names for this particular research study from various list vendors who compile these names from maternity shops, magazine subscriptions, online opt-ins, public records, in store birth registries, etc. It is for that reason other companies may also be sending baby related items.

That being said, we have removed you from our database. We have also forwarded your information on to the list compilers so they also can remove your information. We have been able to isolate the vendor from which we obtained your name. Experian is the largest compiler of new mother names. Their Consumer Services should be able to be more specific about where your name came from and can be reached by calling 1-402-458-5247. Press ‘0’ to speak with an operator.

Again, we apologize for the inconvenience our survey may have caused.

Kind regards,
(The extremely helpful customer service agent)

I still had more questions, but figured I would save them for whoever answered at Experian. At this point, I was just surprised and thankful that this person had responded at all. So, I shot them back a quick e-mail thanking them for taking the time, and set about calling Experian.

Unfortunately, I hit a brick wall there. The woman who answered the phone at Experian said she was unable to find my name or address anywhere in her list. She sounded young, and like she was mildly uncomfortable talking to me (although I assure you, I was intentionally very nice to everyone I corresponded with on this issue – I know that none of this is the fault of the representatives I was interacting with), but overall she seemed nice enough. When she said she couldn’t find my name or information, I believed her. She said she would add me to a list of people that should never be mailed to at all, but that since I wasn’t currently in their database – they had not been at the root of the mailings I had already received. I thanked her for her help and got off the phone.

From there, I was pretty sure I had learned all I would possibly be able learn. But… I still had questions. Questions mainly centering around how my name could ever have been put on one of these lists in the first place. I understand that names and information are sold all the time, and that every day each of us is marketed to in various ways for many different things. But when you think about the items I have received (large canisters of formula, many smaller new baby marketing materials I've not bothered to mention here, and now a new mommy survey), and you pay attention to the timeline (the first canister of formula came shortly after my due date would have been had my first cycle worked, and this survey is shortly after my due date would have been had my second cycle worked), it all just seems like too much. This was not a coincidence in my mind.

Yes, companies sell names all the time. But this was all very baby related. We’re not talking about random KFC mailings, or Target coupons that perhaps anyone would possibly use at one time or another. We are talking about products marketed specifically to new mothers. These companies are not going to simply haphazardly send out those kind of samples without having at least some reason to believe there is actually a new baby in the home. And that’s what I’ve been trying to track down. Because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’ve never personally signed up for anything baby related. Which leaves us with 2 options – either this was somehow related to my IVF cycles (either through the clinic or online pharmacy I ordered from) or someone did intentionally sign me up for something.

I’ll be honest – my gut reaction was that this had something to do with Seattle Reproductive Medicine. And if that was the case, I truly wanted to know. Because while I understand that businesses sell names and information all the time, selling names under these circumstances just seemed unconscionable to me.

The idea of a person intentionally signing me up for anything like this did register as a vague possibility, but in all truth – I couldn’t really imagine anyone doing that.

The back and forth and not knowing was going to make me crazy though. And the fact that this wasn’t the first thing to arrive in the mail along these lines had me even more curious and driven to find an answer than I had been before.

I just wanted to know how it started.

So, I went back to the last e-mail from the extremely helpful customer service agent, and penned out another response to her:

Out of curiosity - is it at all possible that the clinic I did my IVF cycle through could have been responsible for releasing my name? Or perhaps the pharmacy I purchased my IVF meds from? The timeline of these mailings beginning just strikes far too close to what my due dates would have been had either of my cycles worked.

I’m sorry if this is a hassle, it’s just that I have received large containers of formula and other baby related mailings in the last few months, and I just cannot for the life of me figure out how my name was released. I called Experian as you suggested, but they did not have my name at all. They were pretty adamant that the information you have there did not originate from them.

I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this. I know for a fact that I never put my name into any birth registries, magazine subscriptions, online opt-ins, or maternity shops, which you say are all possibilities. As someone dealing with infertility, I have always been very careful about setting myself up for anything baby-related without knowledge of an actual baby on the way. To me, doing so would have just felt like jinxing my cycles. Silly, I know, but... that’s how my mind works. And as I said, these mailings all began around the time I would have given birth had my first cycle worked out. Now this one corresponds perfectly to when I would have an infant at home had my second cycle succeeded. I can’t help but be wary of the timeline, and how my information may have been sold to you. I realize I may be asking a lot by requesting you or your company divulge this information, and I promise my intention is not to cause any trouble, but... I can’t help but be very curious about where my information came from in the first place. I would greatly like to find the source, and put a stop to it from the root.

Thank you again for any help you can give me. I really do appreciate your attention to this matter.

I'll admit, I was afraid I was asking too much. I didn’t want to get this person in trouble, or put them in an uncomfortable position. I just… I wanted to know.

I figured since the first e-mail had taken almost a day to get a response to, the same would be true with this one. If I even got a response at all.

But then, less than 30 minutes later, I received this:

Date: Wed, 21 Sep 2011
From: questions@nationalopinionnetwork.com
Subject: RE: Infant Division Questionnaire

I double checked again, and your name came from Experian for sure. I don't know if you have any other children, but sometimes the names end up getting recycled. I received an email just before yours where her youngest child was 4 years old. Me personally, I was on the list for a survey when my youngest was 3, and for the last 5 months or so I've been receiving "Baby Talk" magazine, "American Baby", and Similac formula samples, and my youngest is now 5 years old. Like you, I can't figure out how I got on the list other than my name is being recycled.

Other things that could have happened are you may have purchased a baby shower gift or if you were doing online research for your IVF, the website may have sold your name assuming you would have a baby. The doctor's office could be responsible, but from what I've seen, I would not blame them.

Believe it or not, we mail receive names of "new moms" who have been deceased for 20 years, and I'll probably receive over 100 surveys of moms who are 70 years old or older this month alone. Sorry I can't be of more help, but we're just as confused over here as you are.

Thanks again,
(The extremely helpful customer service agent)

So, there it was. In black and white. Valid possibilities for how my name could have been sold that actually made some sense. Of course I’ve bought baby shower gifts online before! And you don’t even want to know about all the different avenues of research I’ve done online in terms of IVF and endometriosis. Either of those made sense as possibilities. And while I was glad that she acknowledged the doctor’s office could have been responsible (since the timeline still left me more than a little suspicious), her other possibilities made sense to me as well.

At this point, I really was ready to let it go.

Except… something was still bothering me.

Why was she so sure Experian was where my information had come from, and they were so sure it wasn’t?

I picked up the phone to call Experian again. And this time, before I pressed ‘0’ to speak to an operator, I happened to listen to some of the message first.

Which is when I realized that this was the same Experian that is responsible for credit reports.

Does anyone else see a major conflict of interest in a credit reporting agency being involved in the buying and selling of names?

Not really the point though. The point is, a light bulb went off in my head.

My loan.

The one I took out through the clinic to help fund the baby making process.

The one that a credit check was initially run for in order to gain approval on.

The one that has also been reported to the credit agencies for the last 15 months as I’ve diligently been paying it back.

Is it possible that could somehow have been linked to the selling of my name?

Still wrong… but slightly less sinister than Seattle Reproductive Medicine being directly involved.

A possibility at least.

After I pressed ‘0’, a man answered the phone. And I awkwardly went on to explain the situation.

Again.

He was incredibly kind, and offered to look up my name one more time. To see if perhaps the other agent had just missed something.

He found me immediately.

Leaving me to wonder if the first girl I had spoken to just hadn’t wanted to get into it.

He asked for a few minutes to review the records, and then he got back on the phone and said he had been able to track down the original source of my information.

He said that since they were a public provider of NPL’s (New Parent Lists), he was able to tell me who had sold my name to them.

He couldn’t tell me anything about the company (he said he didn’t know anything about them) beyond a name (Meredith) and a phone number (515-284-2042). But that was all I needed.

He promised me Experian would be removing me from all of their NPL’s, and they would do their part to ensure I no longer received any mailings of this kind.

I thanked him profusely, and he wished me luck on “You know… everything else.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Poor guy really was trying to be supportive.

My next step was to try the number for Meredith. Only, it just rang and rang and rang. For about 3 minutes, it rang with no response or message. So I gave up on that endeavor.

I got online instead and Googled “Meredith” and “New Parent Lists”.

It turns out that Meredith is a marketing brand dedicated to “providing women with information and inspiration to create a rich and meaningful life.” ~ Straight from the Meredith Website.

They also claim to serve more than 75 million American Women.

Digging further into their brand, I was able to find that they have their hands in a lot of pots, including being the parent company for many different magazines geared toward women. American Baby and Parenting being just a few of the names they are responsible for.

I think it’s here that I should point out that I haven’t had a magazine subscription to any magazines since I was about 16 years old and used to read Cosmopolitan. I have certainly never had any magazine subscriptions delivered to my current address. Or any address in Alaska for that matter.

I dug around the website a bit more until I found the contact page. When I saw several numbers that were similar to the one the Experian agent had given me, I knew I had found the right Meredith.

So, I gave one of the numbers a try.

And it was from here that I was transferred and transferred and transferred some more. It was as if no one really knew where I belonged or who I should be talking to. I told the story over and over again, and was continuously sent off to someone else. I suspect that the number I was originally given belongs to a very small department not really known about to the rest of the company – because how many people really take the time to track down to this level how their information was sold?

Finally though, I was transferred to a supervisor. One who seemed to know not only what I was talking about, but how to find the information I was looking for.

After hearing my story, he explained to me that they get the information for the NPL’s they sell from two different sources – their magazine subscriptions, and online opt in programs. (Keep in mind that other companies likely get their information in other ways, but this is how Meredith makes up their lists.) Upon hearing about the formula I had received, he said he could pretty much guarantee that was where this had begun. But he looked up my name anyway, only to confirm that I had never been a subscriber to any of their magazines.

But my name and address had been entered into an online marketing campaign offering free formula to new mothers.

Formula we all know I eventually received.

This took place in early 2011.

Months after my second failed cycle.

And an actual person would have had to be responsible for typing my information into the online form.

Which means at this point, I can definitely stop pointing the finger at Seattle Reproductive Medicine on this one. Although, I still wouldn’t recommend them to anyone ever looking to pursue IVF, based on a variety of other reasons that have nothing at all to do with this. Their customer service is awful, and if you are a traveling patient you will be passed around from doctor to doctor with no real one on one care or attention. It kills me that they have such a market on Alaskan women.

That said, the two women I know going through IVF now (or within the last month) both avoided SRM based on my experience. One went to see Dr. Sher in Vegas, and the other is in Arizona now at the clinic she chose. Both women have had incredible experiences and one on one attention with doctors who they genuinely feel care. They both also have paid a great deal less (we’re talking thousands) than I did for my cycles at SRM.

So again, if you’re an Alaskan woman looking to do IVF, do not simply follow your doctor’s suggestion as I did when they push you towards SRM. There are far better options out there, and I would happily discuss any of those with you via e-mail (singleinfertilefemale@yahoo.com) if you ever have any questions about some of the places I've heard good things about.

Just because SRM was not responsible for selling my information in this case, does not mean they are the best clinic for you to go to in terms of general patient care.

OK, off my soapbox. I promise!

As far as figuring out who it was that was responsible for signing me up for that formula in the first place – I have to admit, I’m at a loss.

I can’t really fathom anyone in my real life being responsible for doing it. Even if the timeline pointed to it having been done prior to my first cycle failing (which it doesn’t), most of the people in my life knew and understood the odds of IVF actually working. I can’t comprehend any of them, even with the best of intentions, actually signing me up for anything prior to there being a live baby in my arms.

And I really don’t think there is anyone in my real life at all who would do something like this with malicious intent.

Which kind of leaves me with the internet world. I’ve tried to be very careful about keeping my personal information private since the conception of this blog, but the truth is – if someone wanted to find me or my private contact information badly enough, they could. And a few have. There have even been a few instances that have made me a bit uncomfortable in the past, but to be honest – nothing has ever made me fear for my safety, or even really fear for my privacy. Could I see someone from out there in the internet ether doing something like this? The truth is, I don’t know. But I suppose it’s easier for me to consider that a possibility, than it is for me to think it could have been someone from my real life.

It’s hard for me to wrap my head around someone actually intentionally doing this at all though. Not because it was so incredibly painful (it was a kick in the gut, but not anything that has torn me down for days and days), or because I can’t figure out why someone would put the time into doing it (it probably wouldn’t take more than a few seconds for someone with my name and mailing address to accomplish), but just because… I can’t imagine ever doing something like this to someone else. So, it’s hard for me to imagine what kind of sick, sad, pathetic person would find entertainment in this kind of thing.

All that said, for those of you who have also received mailings like this – I hope the e-mails above provide you with some relief and answers to how you too may have been included on similar lists. There are obviously a lot of possibilities there, and for someone who doesn’t have the direct link of a fairly recent IVF cycle (or something else that would make you understandably curious about how your name was sold), I think it’s possible that your name could have gotten out there any number of ways.

If the experience I had is any indication though, you should be able to find more answers as well if you are willing to dig deeper. I was surprised that the companies I spoke to gave me any information at all, but for the most part – everyone was kind and more than willing to help. So if you can’t stand not knowing, definitely start making some calls (or sending some e-mails if that’s what it takes).

In truth though, I don’t really feel all that better for knowing. I’m relieved to know that I’ve officially been removed from any and all lists related to this most recent mailing (and I’m hopeful that those are the same lists that were involved in the previous mailings as well), but the whole thing was definitely time consuming. Possibly more time consuming than it was worth, considering the fact that I still have questions about who was responsible for this.

Not to mention the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach just knowing that another person (rather than a company) is responsible at all.

So, the mystery is solved… kind of.

I have no idea who signed me up. And I don’t even know if I really want to know.

It’s over. And while I was warned by each and every company I spoke to that there may be mailings already in process that I will still receive, or that it’s possible my name could be on other lists as a result of this situation, for the time being – one can only hope that the baby related mailings are finished.

For now.

For good.

Forever.

Or at least… Until I actually have a baby to call my own.

For All You Gluten-Free Girls

I've made a new discovery.

One that I am more than a little excited about.

All because while I fail miserably at committing myself completely to the restrictions of the endo diet (both because I have never seen any actual results while doing it, and because... I like food... especially cheese), I manage to succeed fairly well at providing myself with appropriate substitutes every now and again.

So that I'm at least limiting these things that are apparently oh so bad for me (yet taste oh so good), if not cutting them out entirely.

It works for me. I don't feel crazed and restricted, and I know that at the very least - I'm still doing something.

My big rule is to not buy anything on the bad-for-endo list when out grocery shopping unless I am really craving it. Which means that for the most part, I have been keeping dairy and gluten out of my house. When I eat with friends though (either out, or at their homes) - everything is fair game.

Which leads me to the amazing find I have for you girls who are limiting your gluten intake (or doing a better job than me, and cutting it out completely).

When I was in LA visiting The Devirginator, we hit up the farmers market at The Grove. Because he knows me well enough to know... that is a place I would love.

And I did. Completely and totally. I wanted to live there. I wanted to do all of my grocery shopping there. I thought it was the best collection of fresh, yummy, fantastic foods I had ever seen in my life. And I wanted to go there every day.

I sitll do.

Do you think they would allow a cot set up in the middle of the market?

While we were there, wandering around the booths, I spied a pasta stand with a prominent gluten free display.

Up to this point, I have been wholly disappointed with gluten free pasta. The options available at the local health food store have a consistency I can't get used to and a flavor that always leaves me disappointed.

I have not embraced gluten free pasta at all.

But this stand - it had a variety of different flavors. Delicious sounding flavors!

(The Gluten Free Della Terra Trumpet Trio at pappardellesonline.com)

And I couldn't help but get excited. Rattling on to The Devirginator about what a find this was as I picked through the options and tried to make a decision - all the while moaning about the fact that I would never be able to find anything like this in Alaska.

The owner of the stand happened to be standing nearby and overheard our conversation. Which is when he stepped forward and told me to just grab one bag to take home and test out - ensure that the flavor and consistency were worthy of my excitement. He handed me his card and said if I liked the pasta after trying it (and he was pretty sure I would) he would happily ship me as many bags/pounds as I wanted of the other flavors. Parcel post.

For all that excitement I had, I have to admit that I didn't actually get around to cooking the pasta until last night.

But I am here to tell you - I loved it.

Obviously it wasn't exactly like a gluten-filled pasta, but it was the closest thing I've been able to find. And with all the yummy flavors available, it more than meets my needs as an appropriate substitute.

So this morning, I picked up the phone and called Pappardelle's. The man who answered was the same guy I had spoken to last month while in California, and he remembered meeting me. I ordered up 4 pounds of various flavors (Basil Garlic Small Trumpet, Chipotle Lime Small Trumpet, Della Terra Trumpet Trio, and Tomato Basil Mafaldine), and with shipping and everything the total price was still less than I would pay for the plain, flavorless, textureless gluten free pasta I could purchase at the health store up here.

I'm pretty pumped.

So, if you're in the market for gluten free pasta, I strongly recommend you check out Pappardelle's.

To be honest, even if you're not in the market for something gluten free, I would check them out. They have a lot of other yummy offerings that I've already had to talk myself out of buying (Cave-Aged Gorgonzola & Roasted Red Pepper in Roasted Red Pepper Parsley Fleck Dough? Ummmm.... Amazing.) And don't even get me started on the sauces and dips they have. I could definitely get myself in trouble making purchases through this LA based pasta shop.

As it stands though, I'm pretty excited to get my package of yummy, gluten-free goodness in the mail.

And I'll just keep telling myself that I don't need all the rest.

Until the day when I cave.

Which I think we all can agree is inevitable.

Willpower of an 8 year old I tell you...

(For the record, I haven't been asked to write a review for this company, or been compensated in any way for this post. I am just genuinely excited about the product, and wanted to share that with anyone else out there who may also struggle with the gluten-free lifestyle. This is a substitute for sure worth trying!)

Lofty Ambitions

My roommate and I met up in the kitchen this morning.

My roommate, who by the way, I adore. Not the girl who was never around mind you. She actually moved home to Texas back in April (after only being here about 2 months), which is when the current roommate moved in.

I know I don’t mention her much here, but I have honestly gotten so lucky in the roommate department. We get along insanely well and I love having her around. I was dragging my feet so much initially when it came to getting a roommate, but I am so beyond grateful I did. She beats an empty nursery any day!

She also got engaged about a month ago. Luckily for me, she doesn’t believe in living together before marriage - thus buying me more time with my truly fantastic roommate. Unluckily for me, she had a fairly expedited timeline in mind for the momentous event.

Which means that in January, once the “I do’s” have been exchanged, I will once again be roommate-less.

Is it wrong if I’ve secretly begun devising plans to stop this wedding before it ever happens?

Never mind. I know it’s wrong.

Consider my hand slapped.

I just wish everyone would stop getting married (and pregnant) on me.

I'm starting to feel like the last one left of my kind.

You know, the single (in the ring on my finger sort of way), childless, with no plans of eradicating either in the foreseeable future kind.

This is all, of course, insanely beside the point though.

(Would I be me if I didn't get ridiculously off track with my words?)

The point is, she and I met up this morning in the kitchen. Where we were both preparing our first meal of the day and discussing the events we had planned for the rest of the week.

Which is when she complimented me on my hard core, never-ending run last night.

I thanked her, told her how excited I was that we now have a treadmill to motivate us through the winter, and explained my new lofty ambition.

To start getting up early enough in the morning to pound out a run before work.

Because after all, isn’t a morning workout supposed to be the best way to start your day?

At least, that’s what I’ve heard.

It’s possible that the last time I attempted a morning workout was about 3 years ago. The ex and I were in the beginning stages of our relationship, and his job had him working insanely long hours for a few weeks. I decided that if I was going to be spending the night at his place, I might as well get up and try to do something with my day when he left for work. Even though I still had another 3 hours before my job expected me to be there.

So, I found a yoga class starting at 6am. And I convinced myself that I could do this. That it was a good idea even. A fantastic way to start the day.

The next morning rolled around, and I managed to groggily pull myself out of bed at the same time he did. We both dressed, and ate, and brushed our teeth – kissing each other goodbye at the painful hour of 5:30am.

From there, I drove to the gym. Where I arrived at 5:45.

And I sat in the parking lot staring at the front doors.

I’m not sure how it happened, but the next thing I knew – I was driving home at 6:15.

Having never even gotten out of my car.

I crawled into my own bed by 6:30.

And slept for another hour.

Making me more than a little tight on time when it came to getting to work.

Needless to say, I never attempted the 6am yoga class again.

It was a joke of an effort in the first place.

I had to come to terms with the fact that – I am not a morning person.

So when I said this to the roommate this morning, it seemed to be all she could do to stifle a laugh.

Finally, she said “You’re kidding, right? You can barely get out of bed in time to actually make it to work in the first place. You have to be there in 15 minutes, and look at yourself!”

I took a second to assess the situation.

She was right. It was 7:45. I had to be at work at 8. And there I was. In my robe, with wet hair and not a lick of makeup, cooking myself breakfast and haphazardly tossing enough food items into a bag to constitute as lunch.

Getting up in time to actually work out first is going to be a challenge.

A lofty ambition if ever I’ve had one.

Right up there with the goal I’ve had for quite some time now to get in bed by 10 at night.

Sunday I managed to turn the lights out by 12:45.

Last night by 11:25.

I like to consider this progress.

But enough progress to get up with my alarm at 5:30 (OK, who am I kidding – I’ll have to hit the snooze button until at least 6), work out for 45 minutes, shower, and get ready for work?

Lofty ambitions.

I’m setting the alarm anyway though.

If nothing else - it will give us something to laugh about tomorrow.

You know; after I actually manage to wake up.

Pretty Sure a Line Has Been Crossed

At first I thought it was just a sick joke.

Then I started to wonder if there were more sinister intentions involved.

Now, I'm sure of it.

Because this:

Is the letter I found in my mailbox this afternoon.

For those of you who can't make out the fine print, that first line is all you really need. It says:

"Dear New Parent:

Congratulations on the birth of your new baby!"

It goes on to ask me to participate in a survey about all the joys of new motherhood. It promises that my name will not be sold to anyone, and that my answers will remain confidential.

What I really want to know though, is who the hell sold my name to them.

I'm pretty sure a line has been crossed.

It just seems wrong.

And at this point, I really think it's fair to assert that someone, somewhere (be it Seattle Reproductive Medicine, or just some mean person out there in the universe whose motivations I cannot even begin to understand) clearly sold me out.

Bastards.

The good news is, I inherited a practically new treadmill from friends last night. All for the price of just one sushi dinner. So very worth it. Especially because my new motto is that if everyone else gets to get knocked-up, I get to be a  knock-out. I think it's only fair. They get the growing bellies and sagging breasts, and I get to have the body of a 20 year old.

Forever.

It's possible, right?

So after opening this lovely piece of mail, I ran.

And I ran, and I ran, and I ran.

All while watching 90210 and telling myself it doesn't matter.

Those unexpected kicks in the junk don't matter.

Don't get me wrong - I'm still going to try to track down a number for this company tomorrow and call them demanding answers.

Because this just seems FAR too personal to be random marketing.

But it doesn't matter.

Not really.

Or at least - not anymore.

Not since my legs turned to jello and I remembered how good a long hard workout can feel.

Good until tomorrow of course.

When I am pretty sure I am going to ache all over.

But hey - at least I won't be concerned about some letter in the mail.

A letter congratulating me on my new baby.

The one that just never quite made it here. 

Leaving me now with a survey.

One I wouldn't even begin to know how to answer.

Did I Forget To Mention The Proposal?

Yesterday I posted a picture on Twitter.

A picture of me.

In a wedding dress.

With the goofiest grin on my face you have ever seen.

Leading me to realize that I might have forgotten to mention the proposal.

The one that took place over Labor Day weekend.

After a day of looking at rings.

(Courtesy of reception-wedding.com)

Which was only supposed to be a day of looking at rings.

You know – just to get an idea of what the personal preferences may be.

But then, there he was. After a long hike on a beautiful day. Down on one knee. Unexpected and out of the blue.

Asking Loo to marry him.

You didn’t actually think I was talking about me here did you?

After admitting just yesterday that 90210 influenced my dating life in all the wrong ways?

No. I most certainly was not talking about me.

Let’s face it – We’ll be lucky if I manage to get a ring on my finger by 40.

And even then, I’ll probably have to buy it myself.

But my dear friend Loo?

She’s another story entirely.

Good and kind and funny and beautiful and warm and genuine and…

Engaged.

Remember those lists Loo and I wrote on New Year’s Eve? The ones where we detailed what we wanted from our future loves, and then sent off into the universe in a little burning ritual next to a pair of ice sculptures.

Well, Loo met her “one” just a few months later. And within a week of dating him, she was asking me to be a bridesmaid.

I laughed at her of course. This is my friend who is a hopeless romantic and sees a happily ever after in every first kiss. I thought for sure she was jumping the gun on this one.

But here we are.

Her engaged.

And me trying on wedding dresses.

But only the ugly ones.

And only because she didn’t want to be putting on dresses by herself.

Quick tid-bit of information: It turns out that bridal shops aren’t too keen on women who aren’t actually getting married trying on their dresses.

Who knew?

Still, they humored us.

While Loo tried on beautiful, sleek dresses that gave her a perfect silhouette, I tried on gaudy, poufy dresses that couldn’t have been more different in terms of what my actual wedding “style” would be.

Because when, and if, I do actually get married – I can pretty much guarantee you it will be barefoot on a beach in a $40 sundress with hair and makeup that were done in 30 minutes or less.

But don’t tell the bridal consultants who tried so hard to put up with us yesterday that.

They kind of take their jobs pretty seriously.

Apparently weddings are a big deal.

This wedding is pretty much already planned.

Entirely.

Because my Loo is one of those girls who has been planning her wedding since she was 6.

The date is set, the photographer booked, and the bridesmaids (all 8 of us) confirmed.

Did I mention the blessed event will be taking place in Texas?

Where Loo will be moving in just a little over a month.

For both her man, and a new job.

And her family and everything else that are also in Texas waiting for her.

Where I am not.

So, it’s bittersweet for me.

Because while I am beyond enthused for my friend and her happily ever after (and that little piece of paper we burned off into the air that seemed to do a bit of good for at least one of us – the jury’s still out on whether or not it worked for both of us), I am also heartbroken over having to say goodbye.

She’s my best friend up here.

And while I have other friends – other girls I cherish with all my heart – Loo is my… well, she’s my Loo.

And I hate goodbyes.

So, while most of the wedding preparations are going to have to take place thousands of miles away from me (making it impossible for me to be as involved as I would like to be), we chose to take yesterday out as the first day of wedding dress shopping.

To give me at least a piece of the action I could claim as my own.

Today also happens to be Loo’s birthday.

So we got in some celebration as well.

Since it’s likely going to be the last birthday of either of ours we’ll be able to celebrate together.

Did I mention that I hate goodbyes?

And gaudy wedding dresses.

But I love my Loo.

One of my closest friends in this world.

Engaged.

Growing up.

Getting married.

And leaving Alaska.

All because of a ring on her finger.

And a man on one knee asking for forever.

It’s funny how quickly things can change

Happy birthday Loo!

I can’t wait until we get to celebrate your happily ever after!

Even if it is in Texas.

That Thing I Learned This Week

Technically, there were a lot of things I learned this week.

Like the fact that I might be just a little (teeny, tiny) bit attached to my laptop.

(Down on my knees praising the piece that got it up and running again kind of attached.)

Or the fact that the numbers on the scale have ballooned more than I would like since coming home from vacation. With no indication of going down any time soon.

Meaning: drastic times call for drastic measures. And I will be getting my butt back in gear starting Monday.

No excuses. Period.

Or, no using my period as an excuse. However you want to look at it.

But really, that thing I learned this week that sticks out to me the most is so much more important than any of these other things.

So much more life changing.

Or affirming.

Or whatever.

Again – however you want to look at it.

And it all started with 90210.

Yes, 90210.

And no, not the new version.

Although, I do admit to watching that as well.

I'm talking about the original. The one I’ve spent the majority of this summer watching from the beginning.

(Courtesy of classic-tv.com)

Thank you to Netflix for having all 10 seasons available and ready at my disposal.

I used to love this show. In fact, I distinctly remember it as being the first scripted drama I was ever really into.

I was in 3rd grade when it first started airing. And I am proud to brag about the fact that I watched every week religiously. Without fail.

Now that I’m re-watching it, I’ve got to admit that I’m questioning some of the parenting decisions made by those in charge of my upbringing. Because holy crap, that show is so not kid appropriate. But to be fair, dear old mom (the custodial parent during those formative years) kind of had a few other things going on at the time.

We won’t get into that here.

The point is – I’ve learned a lot in my revisitation of the 90210 years.

Like for instance: no wonder I have a sordid dating history!

Brenda and Kelly were my role models, and Dylan was the perfect boyfriend in my mind.

Dylan!

And all his overall wearing, booze drinking, lady juggling ways.

Dylan was not a good guy.

Not even close.

But in my pre-teen (can you even call someone aged 7-10 a pre-teen?) mind, he was it. The end all/be all. The goal. The objective. The purpose.

I wanted to find myself a Dylan McKay someday.

Lucky me. I’m pretty sure I’ve found at least a few who could give good old Dylan a run for his money.

But it’s not even just Dylan. Really, every guy on that show was scum. They all cheated at some point or another. Each and every one of them. They struggled with drugs and other addictions. They lied. They manipulated. And they passed those girls around like a favorite book.

Don’t get me wrong, the girls were no angels either. But those boys. Oh those boys! Even Brandon, the supposed “good” one. I swear, from the beginning of this re-watching journey of mine, I have been disgusted by Brandon. Every time he does something wrong, he manages to somehow turn it around. To project his anger at the girl who is justifiably struggling with forgiving him. There is a pompousness to him. Even in the beginning. This feeling of entitlement that you get from him. Like, he knows what a catch he is, and anyone who dares to question him isn’t worth his time anyway.

Brandon is a big fat jerk face.

And these are the men I grew up watching. Idolizing. Lusting after even at a young age.

You don’t need to be a psych major to see how that little girls dating life is going to turn out.

(Just to clarify – I am being ridiculously snarky and sarcastic right now. I do not actually blame 90210 for my failed dating history. Wouldn’t want anyone here mistaking my humor for an inability to take responsibility for my own actions.)

All that aside though, I’ve continued watching. Because it’s 90210. And because at its heart, it kind of sort of reflects on 10 years of my life. 10 years where I escaped into the drama that was these fictional characters lives. 10 years that I learned from (however erroneously) and grew up with (although, more than a decade behind) these characters on the screen.

I was like the annoying kid sister hanging on to their every word and choosing to pretend that I belonged.

And so I can’t help it. 90210 is nostalgic for me. And I’ve relished the chance to catch up with all those old episodes again.

Which brings me back to that thing I learned this week.

(Whew – apparently a week away from my keyboard has left me more verbose than usual!)

So here it is.

That thing I learned this week.

Kelly Taylor had endometriosis.

Wait… you don’t remember that either?

That’s probably because it was only ever mentioned on one episode.

And the word was never repeated again.

But if you go to Season 7, episode 30, you’ll see it.

Kelly’s pregnancy, miscarriage, and the subsequent blaming of the loss of her child on endometriosis.

They even go on to explain that the disease is also responsible for her painful periods. And that it could keep her from having children in the future.

Now, keep in mind, this diagnosis came about after 1 doctor’s visit. There was no surgery, or actual confirmation as there would be in real life. And I’m still failing to understand how a miscarriage could possibly be the determining factor of her diagnosis.

Seeing as there are about 1000 things that can cause a miscarriage. And endo is typically far more responsible for prohibiting conception, than for terminating it.

So, not exactly a realistic portrayal of the disease or how a diagnosis would come to be.

But still. There it was. That word. In 1997. Used on television to describe a character’s infertility.

A real and true diagnosis.

Instead of the hostile womb theory so many shows seem to choose to take on nowadays.

Probably because it sounds more dramatic.

Even though it’s a completely and totally fictional diagnosis.

Which drives me crazy.

But again – I’m getting off point.

The point is, that I didn’t remember Kelly going through this at all.

I had seen every episode of 90210, and I had no recollection of her ever being diagnosed with Endo at all.

Probably because at the time, I was 14. I had never heard of endometriosis before, and someone dealing with a miscarriage or infertility wasn’t exactly something I could relate to.

(Unlike the drug abuse and sexual liaisons that were otherwise depicted on the show – right?)

Besides, as far as I can tell – they never mention it again. The following episode, Kelly seems to be completely over her loss. And equally over her inability to bear children. Even though just a week prior, she had been crying to Brandon about how she would never be able to bear his children – the only truly realistic moment in this entire made for TV adventure.

I don’t think it’s ever brought up in the future either. I’ve only just now started season 8, but I’m willing to bet that Kelly will never mention her infertility to future male suitors. Or that her horrific periods will ever knock her down and leave her in bed for days on end. I could be wrong, but I really think I would have remembered it if it had ever become a bigger part of the story line.

I don’t think it did though. I’m pretty sure this was just a one-episode fluke that was never again written into the series.

Which makes sense. Endo is not a sexy disease. Nobody really wants to hear about how Kelly Taylor’s uterine lining is implanting itself to other areas of her body, causing bleeding and scaring and pain every single month.

It just doesn’t rank up there with her overcoming her scandalous high school reputation, or her coke addiction, or that time she found herself caught up in a cult.

Endometriosis and infertility don’t really make the cut.

Especially not back then.

Still… Maybe that’s why I was so surprised to hear it in the first place.

Kelly Taylor had endometriosis.

She could have just had a miscarriage. An unexplainable and random miscarriage. It happens all the time. Both in real life, and on television. They didn’t need to give her a diagnoisis behind it.

They certainly didn’t need to make her infertile.

Or if they did – they could have just made it that pesky hostile uterus.

But instead, they used a word that I can only imagine was even less talked about back then.

Certainly on scripted television.

Kelly Taylor had endometriosis.

I’ve got to admit – I kind of dig it.

Even if I never hear about it again. Even if she never really struggles with the reality of her infertility. Even if you never hear about the pain she experiences. Or the emptiness she feels over not being able to have children. Even if none of that ever even seems to cross her mind.

Kelly Taylor had endometriosis.

In 1997.

Before I even knew what that word meant.

To be fair – before I was even old enough to realize that David, and Brandon, and Dylan were all kind of scum.

No matter how dreamy my teenage mind built them up to be.

Kelly Taylor had endometriosis.

Kind of cool – no?

Remember The Part Where I Told You I Sucked?

Yesterday.

Towards the end.

I told you I sucked.

I was referring to the emails I am more than a little behind on responding to.

The emails I am now going to be even more behind on given the recent separation from my laptop.

But it turns out: I just suck.

Wholly. Completely. Totally.

I was obviously being overdramatic yesterday. Very intentionally so in fact. I was poking fun at myself and my obsessive attatchment to that thing with keys and a screen I hold so dear.

I was simply trying to be a bit... Cheeky.

Apparently I failed.

I gave a few of you a scare, and hurt someone going through a very real trauma right now. For that, for all of it, I am truly sorry.

I never meant to hurt, or offend, or lead astray. Ever.

And I really am sorry.

For my failed sense of humor, and my complete and total insensitivity to those going through REAL losses right now.

For those of you who are the praying kind, Millie from Keep Calm and Carry On (sorry, can't link from my phone, but you should be able to find her through the SIF community if you would like) and her husband could use your prayers.

And for those I hurt or offended or scared; I hope you can accept my very sincere apology.

Now, I'm grounding myself.

Backing away from the Internet world until my laptop returns to full strength.

Hopefully Friday.

Hopefully.

I'm thinking that right now though; I kind of deserve the forced separation.

Again, I am very sorry.

I suck.

I know it.

And I'm sorry.

We Are Currently Experiencing Technical Difficulties...

I don't deal well with death.

Or goodbyes.

Or never-ever-afters.

Basically, I prefer to know that those I hold dear will remain always by my side.

But this weekend, something tragic happened.

And I've got to admit; I'm not coping so well.

My laptop (i.e. My other half) met a tragic and unexpected end.

It's still on life support, but currently in a comatose state.

Out of commission until at least Friday, when the part necessary to resuscitate it will hopefully arrive.

Until then, I am laptopless.

Commense hyperventilating: now.

I'm not sure if you all recognize how serious thus is. Hiw very much I actually rely on my laptop.

I take it with me everywhere. I can't remember the last time I sat down and watched a movie or television show without the ever-present company of my other half.

I fell naked. Lost. Alone.

And already beyond annoyed with typing on my phone.

Perhaps this will be a good break. A necessary separation so that we can better appreciate each other in the end.

After all, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

But in the meantime, don't expect me around here over the next few days unless something crazy happens.

Because I really do loathe typing on my phone.

And as for those emails I was already drastically behind on answering.... Ummm, yeah... I suck?

Have mercy on me (and my typos), I'm going through tragic loss!

Can it be Friday yet?