Pussy Scratch

My New Blog

2009-11-23T15:39:00.000-08:00

Posting a shopping list for my brother yesterday produced a surprising little symphony of pings. Since I have all but abandoned this blog, I figured most readers had too. I forgot that many people out there have cool little robots keeping watch and letting them know when I post something. To you and your robots, I send a blushing how do you do.

And I want to let you know that I am indeed still blogging. It's just that I thought I would make a shift and start using my blogging powers for evil--to promote my business--instead of just to air my dirty laundry.

Check out my new blog, The Sexy Grammarian, where my sex education and writer's services worlds converge.

I will still post here occasionally, when I have something to say that's somehow inappropriate over there.

And thanks for reading!

Shopping List for my Brother

2009-11-22T17:32:00.000-08:00

Fresh Produce
Carrots 3
Celery 1 bunch
Onion 4
Shallot 1 lb
Garlic 2 bulbs
Italian parsley 1 bunch
Thyme 1 bunch
Sage 1 bunch
Rosemary 1 bunch
Mint 1 bunch
Crimini (brown) mushrooms 2 lb
Russet potatoes 5 lb
Brussels sprouts 3 lb
Orange yams 3 lb

Pantry
Aluminum Foil (full new box)
Whiskey ½ cup
*Brown sugar ½ cup
*Cornstarch ½ cup
sourdough bread 3
dinner rolls
cheap white wine 1 bottle
chicken broth 96oz
artichoke hearts 16oz
biscuits
honey
olive oil
jam/jelly

Dairy
Whipping cream 32oz
butter 16oz
whole milk 16oz
Parmesan cheese 16oz
Sharp white cheddar 12oz

Meat
Italian sausage 3lb
**Thick cut bacon 3lb
eggs

*you may still have some of this from last year—no need to re-purchase, unless you have less than ½ cup left

** get the bacon from the butcher counter instead of boxed

I did it.

2008-11-26T08:14:00.000-08:00

Writing Furiously!

2008-11-09T22:27:00.000-08:00

Hello again to my friends and supporters!

I am thrilled to announce that I’ve collected my NaNoWriMo fundraising goal in just one short week. Next Saturday night, I will be tapping away at my laptop along with a big room full of other ambitious novelists at The Night of Writing Dangerously.

Thanks so much for all you’ve done to help me get there.

If you did not get a chance to make your donation to The Office Of Light and Letters, you still can at this link.

But since I've made my goal, it’s also okay to just hang on to your money or send it to another worthy cause. There’s still plenty of opportunity to support me and cheer on my writing campaign.

For example, you can call me or write me an email congratulating me for making my daily and weekly word count goals.

That’s right, just nine short days of November have passed and already, I have written the first 15,000 words of my novel. Before you trouble yourself with the math, yes, that is up to par with the daily quota. And if you do want to do the math, my goal is about 1,670 words a day. Multiply that number by the day’s date to figure where I should be on any given day.

If you’d like to follow my daily progress, you can do so at this link.

From there you can also learn a little something about what I’m writing and the NaNoWriMo experience. Feel free to check up on me and make sure I’m sticking with my daily word count goals. I respond very well to peer pressure.

That’s it. Thanks again for your support.

Yours with laptop in lap,
Kristy

I don't know what else to say . . .

2008-11-07T12:46:00.000-08:00

We Interrupt Our Usual Friday Program For This Word From Our Sponsor

2008-10-31T14:30:00.000-07:00

Dearest blog readers-
Many of you have already heard that I am participating in this year’s National Novel Writing Month. NaNoWriMo is a wonderful and crazy Internet gathering of thousands of writers worldwide to support one another through 30 wild November days of artistic productivity. It’s actually a contest, and everyone who writes at least 50,000 words wins!
That comes to about 6 pages a day—or 10 pages if I don’t write on weekends. Good thing I’ve been thinking about this novel for years! No matter how you divide the word counts, it is an ambitious endeavor, and I am enthusiastic. I am also proud to count myself among the supporters of the fantastic organization that administrates NaNoWriMo, The Office of Letters and Light.
The Office of Letters and Light teaches kids and adults to write the books they want to read; draft the movies and plays they want to see; and build the kinds of neighborhoods in which they want to live. Their programs are web-enabled challenges with vibrant real-world components, designed to help participants become active doers in their personal lives and in the lives of their communities.
Can you imagine a nonprofit mission better aligned with my own life’s mission? For five years I have been building a business based on my passion for the writing process and my belief that we are all writers with something valuable to say. Letters and Light believes in ambitious acts of the imagination, and so do I. That’s why I’m a writer and why I choose to work with writers.
So, I am appealing to you because by reading my blog, you have already offered me your emotional support in my recent artistic outpourings. I am participating in NaNoWriMo’s fundraising event, The Night of Writing Dangerously, a 5-hour write-a-thon, and I need sponsors!
My fundraising goal is modest: $200. That’s just $10 from 20 people or $20 from 10 people. What do you think? Can you handle $15? Go make your donation now!

Poison!

2008-10-28T14:01:00.001-07:00

It's a humbling experience, accidentally poisoning yourself.

I've been doing it for years, come to think of it, smoking at least a pack a day of cigarettes for a solid fifteen years. And I do like me a glass of wine or six on a Saturday night. And let's not even talk about the illicit substance list. Poison, all of it, I tell ya. And I get along well with these poisons. I really really do.

I've been sick for a week. Influenza, darling. Hacking and sneezing and snoring and coughing. Phlegm in my head and chest. Shivers and fevers. Aches. Pains. Exhaustion.

The last time I had a cold--and the time before that--I experimented with an herb called black cohosh with dazzling results. The stuff tastes like gravel, but it really breaks up the snotty phlegm and gets it moving on out of the old body.

The cold hit me full force on Wednesday. I spent Thursday and Friday in bed. Saturday, I was determined to attend a friend's birthday party and so went on a little adventure. That night, after an exhausting trip to a birthday party in the outdoors and feeling much worse for it, I realized I'd forgotten all about my secret weapon, the black cohosh.

Immediately, I brewed up a strong pot of the bitterest herb I know and drank it down. This stuff really is especially good at the tail end of a cold--when you think you should be better but you are still suffering. It chases away the last remaining colonies of phlegm and virus.

Have I ever mentioned on this blog that I am allergic to avocado? It's sad, heartbreaking, really, especially for a California girl. My allergic reaction is downright violent. I am down on my knees, begging for my life for an hour or so with horrible stomach cramps. And then I puke it all out, with gusto.

I was poisoned unwittingly once at my local raw food cafe. This place, beloved by many, offers organic, vegan, raw, and otherwise thoroughly trendy and wholesome dining treats with fantastic names. The way the menu reads, you end up sounding like a new age crazy whether you want to or not. For instance, if you wanted, say a mixed green salad with carrots, beets, tomatoes, sprouts, Brazil nut "Parmesan," and choice of dressing, you would say to your waitperson, "I am Satisfied." More in the market for nachos made from spicy sunflower unfried beans? Tell your server, "I am Honoring." And so on.

A girl who's allergic to avocado has to be careful in a place like this. There are bits of avocado lurking everywhere. "I am Passionate," I told the tall, sunshiny hippie girl taking my order. "You are Passionate," she exuded when she brought me my sundried tomato, olive tapenade, and basil pizza.

They must use avocado in their pizza dough, for I was one hell of a violent avocado reaction exactly 30 minutes after paying my check. I was down on my knees, cramping like an idiot, and crying for mercy, "I am Poisoned!"

But that is a story about somebody else poisoning me. Yesterday, it was all my fault.

I awoke feeling somewhat recovered from the flu. I brewed up my fifth or sixth strong pot of bitter yet satisfying black cohosh tea. I prepared for a morning meeting, despite a lingering headache. About halfway through the meeting I finished my tea. Soon after, I gave in to the pain in my head and took a couple ibuprofen tablets. I had a cookie.

And then WHAM! I puked my brains out--not like a controlled, teenage bulimic puke, but a violent, "I am poisoned," convulsing, shaking, desperate retching.

Was it the pain killers? The cookie? I was beside myself to be suffering a new symptom on my first big day out from under the spell of influenza. I cried. I went back to bed. I slept the sleep of the dead for five solid hours.

And when I awoke, I went to my witchy books bookshelf, and I read this about black cohosh:

Black cohosh is a powerful herb . . . . Large doses of this herb can cause symptoms of poisoning. It is very beneficial so don't be afraid of it. Do remember not to take it for more than three days in a row.

Wedding 3.0

2008-10-10T09:51:00.001-07:00

Folsom Street Fair 2008

2008-10-03T08:22:00.001-07:00

Last Weekend at Wedding Camp

2008-09-26T21:30:00.001-07:00

Hey, Sailor Transforms and Delights

2008-09-24T16:29:00.000-07:00

I already told you to go see Hey, Sailor, but that was before I saw it. Now that it has opened and is about to embark on the second weekend of its run, I really must insist that you go. Really. Go buy your tickets right here, right now. Let's see if I can convince you.

Crystal Mason and Miriam Kronberg, onetime co-creators and directors of the Mission's art-treasure Luna Sea, have written a multimedia masterpiece--make that mistresspiece--bringing all the dark, erotic undercurrents of Melville's novel to the surface in this two-act, edge-of-your seat stage delight.

You have to have lived, gutter-swum, or worked in San Francisco's Tenderloin District to appreciate just how accurately Hey, Sailor's writing and performances portray this neighborhood's tragic charm. But you don't have to have those experiences to learn something about it from this show.

The five-character cast understands the true meaning of "ensemble piece," working together onstage like a functional family, while their characters display all the devotion and backstabbing of a dysfunctional one. And the venue could not be more perfect. If you are looking for an only-in-San-Francisco experience for yourself or your out-of-town guests, this is it.

Minal Hajratwala's performance as the villain's sidekick, Squeak, typifies what I loved most about this show and what I am always looking for in a good story. Squeak's character truly has an arc--from her initial complex combination of air-headed innocence and streetsmarts introduction to her sharp, clearheaded orchestration of the plot's denouement. We get to watch every character transform, really, and every actor onstage brings unique, powerful skill to his, her, and zir character's evolution.

Convinced? To say that seating is limited is an understatement. You don't want to miss this. How about that ticket-buying link again? Go.

Kinky is NOT a Diagnosis!

2008-09-15T16:58:00.000-07:00

Go sign this petition, people.

DSM Revision Petition

The DSM Revision Petition is gathering signatures from individuals and organizations
calling on the American Psychiatric Association (APA) to adhere to empirical research
when revising the diagnoses in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental
Disorders (DSM).

Statements currently within the DSM Paraphilias criteria are contradicted by scientific
evidence therefore NCSF must conclude that the interpretation of the Paraphilias
criteria has been politically and not scientifically based. This politically motivated
interpretation subjects BDSM practitioners, fetishists, and cross-dressers to bias,
discrimination, and social sanctions without any scientific basis.

Petition:
"We, the undersigned, support the American Psychiatric Association's (APA) own
goal of making its Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM) a scientific document, based
on empirical research and devoid of cultural bias. A diagnosis of a mental disorder can
have a severe adverse impact on employment opportunities, child custody determinations,
an individual's well-being, and other areas of functioning. Therefore we urge the APA
to remove all diagnoses that are not based upon peer-reviewed, empirical research,
demonstrating distress or dysfunction, from the DSM. The APA specifically should not
promote current social norms or values as a basis for clinical judgments."

To sign, go to: www.thepetitionsite.com/1/DSMrevisionpetition
(You can make your signature anonymous on this secure petition site so it doesn't
appear on the Internet)

To find out more about the DSM and the Paraphilias section, read the NCSF & ITCR: The
Foundation for NCSF's "White Paper on the DSM Revision" at www.ncsfreedom.org

For more information, email: DSMrevisionpetition@yahoo.com

Please distribute to organizations and individuals and ask them to sign on!

###

A joint Project of NCSF and ITCR: The Foundation of NCSF

The National Coalition for Sexual Freedom is a national organization committed to
creating a political, legal, and social environment in the United States that advances
equal rights of consenting adults who practice forms of alternative sexual expression.
NCSF is primarily focused on the rights of consenting adults in the SM-leather-fetish,
swing, and polyamory communities, who often face discrimination because of their sexual
expression.

National Coalition for Sexual Freedom
822 Guilford Avenue, Box 127
Baltimore, MD 21202-3707
917-848-6544
media@ncsfreedom.org
www.ncsfreedom.org

My Autumn Palette

2008-09-12T08:16:00.000-07:00

Today

2008-09-10T12:11:00.000-07:00

I knew it. I just knew the sun would come out. And here it is. I'm so glad. And so are my kidneys. We did not like yesterday's cold cold cold. Boo on cold.

I've done something very brave. Mad. Lunatic. I've mailed a check to a man who runs an acting class. I'm going to take a class about acting. Somebody smack me.

I think I feel about spirituality and religion the way my mother feels about sex. It's okay with me if other people want to do it, I guess, but they should not speak about it in mixed company.

All Dressed Up for the Wife's BDay

2008-09-05T10:50:00.000-07:00

Two Liner Tuesday

2008-09-02T12:01:00.000-07:00

Head over to Dawnie Dee's blog today to play. Lots of bloggers come up with lots of fun things to keep their readers coming back. This is my favorite.

For a little background on Two Liner Tuesday from Dawnie Dee, read the first one.

Getting In Touch With My Inner Child

2008-08-29T08:12:00.001-07:00

Stones

2008-08-28T07:45:00.000-07:00

Remember the stories about the stones? They come to an end here. I won't return them to the places from whence I stole them, as I had intended to do. They have another fate, just as apropos.

Last January, when H and I first happened upon this beautiful building where we now live, when we first walked up to it, something took my breath away. I loved the design. I loved the location. But there was something else.

Stones.

All those years I'd been yearning for a condo, and once or twice, when I was really desperate, I'd stolen stones from them, promising myself that if I could just have this one little thing, move into this one little home, I would return the stones. A little bit of weird magic.

So when I walked into this building, this beautiful homage to modern design, the featured bed of stones in the front lobby was a little hard to believe.

But there it was. Like Tony and Dawn's hundred yellow ribbons 'round that old oak tree, this building hissed, "Yessssss!" to me. "Yes, you will return those stolen stones, and you will return them to me."

And the rest is history, as they say. The building has two such expansive beds of stones, one in the front lobby, overseen by a friendly security guard, and another in the back lobby.

As I am currently more comfortable performing my witchcraft and art with some privacy, I have placed these two stones in the back lobby.

As you can see, they are a little different from the other inhabitants of their new home. Just different enough for me to be able to glance at them and smile when I walk by--just similar enough for them to be my little secret. Can you pick them out in the shot below?

I like a story that comes full circle, don't you? And just because I like to keep on drawing circles, here's another.

Here in our new neighborhood, we are surrounded by people who've got more money than we do. Just a stone's throw from us, for example, is the St. Regis, one of the city's most glamorous residences. The other night, H and I were walking by it and stopped to admire its billion-dollar lobby from outside. We peered through bamboo shoots, our chins and fingers resting on the edge of a million-dollar planter.

"Is this the sort of place where you'd like to retire, baby?" I asked, my eye caught by something in the planter.

"I would love to retire here. Hotel living. We would be so happy."

I smiled at the uniformed security guard and looked back into the planter, placing my hand over a stone there. In an instant I hid the stone in my sleeve and took H's hand in mine.

"Okay, well, let's start planning for that," I said.

Hey, Sailor!

2008-08-27T08:59:00.000-07:00

When I was a junior in high school, it was 1988. AIDS was new and so was gay, at least in my world view. My Honors English teacher, a progressive, visionary man, assigned Herman Melville's Billy Budd. I read it twice. I'd never been exposed to anything so dark, so lurid, or so gay. I fell in love with the writing. I wrote essay after essay about it. I wrote poetry and love letters, imagined devotions between the characters. I dreamed about it.

Imagine my thrill when, twenty years later, I met some very nice dykes who had written a play, based on Billy Budd and set in San Francisco's Tenderloin district. One of my favorite bloggers and a very dear friend is in the show too. It opens September 18, a couple blocks from my new home. I already have my tickets.

Go buy yours now.

Thank you, Curtis

2008-08-25T08:00:00.000-07:00

Last week, two beloved bloggers mentioned Curtis Mayfield, and although his name was familiar, I realized I didn't really know anything about the guy. Luckily, in 2008, you can hear the name of a musical artist, plug her or him into Pandora, hear a selection of songs by and similar to that artist's sound, and read a well-written bio.

I'm listening to my own Curtis Mayfield Pandora station right now. In the past ten minutes, I've heard from Al Green, Marvin Gaye, and of course, Curtis himself--not a bad selection for a Monday morning at the desk.

The first song they played was, "No Thing On Me," Curtis's cocaine song and one of my all-time favorites, though I had never stopped to think much about the artist. And reading his bio, I've learned that he was a pioneer of funk and wrote many more of my favorite songs. But having been introduced to funk through the next generation's genuis, Prince, Curtis Mayfield had just never quite entered my radar.

And I'm setting out to remedy that. So many artists have enriched my life. Some I've appreciated, and others have just hung out on the periphery, playing background music and decorating the walls. I'm working on expanding my knowledge of these heroes and thanking them.

So, thanks, Curtis. You've made my world a better place to be.

Photo (of me) Friday

2008-08-22T08:26:00.000-07:00

Return of the Kristy

2008-08-19T08:20:00.000-07:00

It has been four months since I posted to this blog. Yet again, Pussy Scratch is reborn.

This blog began as a place to market my sex class for men, Dyke Trix 4 Straight Dicks.

When I needed a place to hope for conception, I let my writing here turn inward. Who would have thought that a blog about pussy could get more personal?

Readers here have also held my hand while I dreamed another dream, and here I am, dear dreamers and readers, writing from our very own little block of concrete in the sky.

So what is next? Change, of course, the stuff of butterflies and chameleons, reinvention, the stuff of Madonna and Cher. I am challenging myself to take a blog that's been about pussy, trying to get knocked up, and getting middle class economic assistance to a deeper level, to once more, get a little more real. Because change is afoot in my heart and in my writing.

I'm going to tell you about creative process. I'm going to tell you about making a home. I'm going to tell you about sex.

Mostly, though, I am just here today to recommit, after four months of silence, to blogging regularly. Stay tuned.

Downtown Living

2008-04-18T11:18:00.000-07:00

The sun is blaring through my 17-foot wall of windows, and I am doing business in my new home office. We've unpacked our belongings and have been settling in to this lovely little cement block in the sky. The shock of winning this opportunity to buy San Francisco real estate and the misery of our totally wacked escrow experience are beginning to fade. So is the disappointment of abandoning the effort to make a baby.

My attention has turned to mundane activities like buying a kitchen island, painting these walls, and installing a shower door. My editing and writer's coaching business is flourishing.

I like my new life. It's not where I thought I was going, but here I am.

Commercial Break

2008-04-14T13:24:00.000-07:00

We interrupt our previously scheduled updates about life in a SOMA loft to promote anotehr round of Dyke Trix 4 Straight Dicks, my wildly popular sex ed class for men who have sex with women.

Go here if you want to sign up for tomorrow night's class at Good Vibrations on Polk Street in San Francisco. The class is tomorrow, Tuesday night, and next Tuesday night 4/22, from 8pm to 10pm. It's a two-part class.

I reel men in with visions of girl-on-girl action and then teach them what lesbians know about our sexual selves. It's basically a pleasure anatomy class designed for men who love women. My students are always enthusiastic. The women in their lives are always grateful.

So, know any men who might benefit? Send them to me.

Homo-nership*

2008-04-02T17:35:00.001-07:00

So many stories to tell, but packing has to come first. Escrow is closed. That I wanted to post.

*Credit goes to the lovely TinaBean for this snappy title.

Squatters, really.

2008-03-30T19:47:00.000-07:00

On Friday, we rode a shiny elevator to the 35th floor of a shiny building and signed big stacks of papers. At the end of it all, Stella, the seller's agent, and my wife somehow finagled it so that we could get the keys. So we're in.

Possession is 9/10 of the law. It's surreal. The place is ours, for all practical purposes.

There's still funding and recording and closing, but we could care less. The big strong men will move all our stuff this coming Saturday. In the meantime, we lead the lives of confused, stunned, very happy squatters.

There's another story to tell, an evil tale of homophobia and complacency. I'll write it down soon, I promise.

You can't begin to imagine what all this means, but you can get the beginning of an idea if you read back through the Big Bad Luck BMR Blitz Bog-A-Thon. So read it if you dare. I won't be posting much this week because I'm kinda . . . busy.

Approval!

2008-03-27T08:20:00.001-07:00

The state of California has approved our closing costs loan. Now we can't say they've never given us anything . . .

What's next? The bank puts our documents into the hands of a FedX person who delivers them to the title company. We have tomorrow off to honor Cesar Chavez, so we're hoping to be able to do our signing sometime during the day. Maybe we'll have keys by Monday!

Escrow Hell

2008-03-26T10:40:00.000-07:00

This is the e-mail I sent to everybody at our bank and title company today:

Wouldn't it be great if today was the day that things started moving again? Helen and I have had about enough of all this frustrating rescheduling and waiting on CalHFA, and we appreciate that all of you have too. They have been "waiting for manager's approval" for over a week now over there.

We all want the same outcome, so what can we do to light a fire under these CalHFA people today?

At this point, we have packed all our things and have no place to go and no place for our belongings to go as of Monday--the last day of this month. We have a refrigerator arriving at [new address] in a few days and no way to receive it. We have nervous sellers who are threatening to put the unit back on the market. We are out of contract with no new contract date set. Every dollar we've saved is sitting in an escrow account, probably earning interest for someone other than us. We are very unhappy [name of bank] customers!

Please, Roddy or Alma, advise Stella about a reasonable contract date. Please, someone, tell us what we can do to get things moving at CalHFA! Aren't we all on the same team here?

Sincere, enthusiastic, frustrated buyers,
K & H

Like it?

Is this normal? Do people have to reschedule movers all the time because escrow didn't close on time? Do state bureaucracies defer dreams as often as they build them? Last night I had to unpack boxes because they should have been moved and unpacked by now and now I need stuff that's in them again. So frustrating!!!

Better than Craigslist

2008-03-24T09:07:00.000-07:00

I just want to say that if you have anything to sell, post it on your blog instead of Craigslist. I was off to the post office with that monitor within hours of posting it. It had sat on Craigslist for 3 weeks before that!

Not really, of course. I love Craigslist. They just didn't come through for me on this one little issue.

Speaking of Craigslist, we've had a lot of fun picking up free boxes around town from nice Craigslist moving box recyclers. It looks like we'll be able to pack everything we own without ever buying an unused box. That is cool.

Meanwhile, our second escrow close date came and went on Friday with nary a whisper from Roddy or any other banker or bureaucrat. The rats. Now that they have our money, I imagine there is no motivation to rush at all. I have rescheduled the movers, the police department (in SF you have to coordinate with police to close a metered parking space or two when you move), the refrigerator delivery, the Internet hookup, the phone hookup, and our date to vacate our current home.

We don't have a new move date, but Stella, the seller's agent, is kicking banker ass today to get us one.

Stay tuned.

Who will buy?

2008-03-21T08:41:00.001-07:00

Why won't anybody buy my fertility monitor? It's a nice monitor. It didn't get me or my wife pregnant, but it did do its job, rightly predicting the days before and the high day of ovulation. And it did get another member of the lesbian fertility community pregnant, just before we bought it second hand. So it still has some luck to rub off on YOU!

These things retail for $200. I think we paid $75. All I want is the cost of mailing the thing. Let's say $20 on the outside.

It comes with 19 test sticks that don't expire until late 2009.

What do you say? Take this thing off my hands! I'm trying to MOVE here!

Pictures, finally!

2008-03-20T09:30:00.000-07:00

More than a few of you have asked for pictures. I hesitated because what I have is not so pretty. But since I know all too well just how hard it is to be patient, here's a tiny tour, just to give you a taste.
When you walk into our loft, you walk in through the door above, which takes you down a hallway that's almost big enough to be a room.

Just off the long hallway is the apartment's sole bathroom. Because the bathroom also acts as a steam room for these two bathing enthusiasts, we dream of decorating the hallway like a spa.

At the end of the hallway, on the left is the kitchen. This area needs a refrigerator and an island. We bought our refrigerator last night, to be delivered next Wednesday. From the hallway and kitchen you look east to the 17-foot windows and twinkling city lights. Glorious.

Yes, the stairs are ugly and not the ones originally conceived for this room. Notice the horrible misuse of materials. Why the wood banister in a room that's made of cement and glass? No worries, we'll fix it eventually.

This view is of the top half of the big window wall, viewed from over the loft's ledge. Up in the loft there are two little bedrooms and a big closet with washer and dryer.

As for the escrow update, blech. These bank people! It's not looking good for our amended closing date tomorrow. Now I just have to hope that we have keys in time for our fridge delivery!

Stillness Meme

2008-03-19T09:45:00.000-07:00

You are all waiting for some news. So am I. We've packed a lot. We've set up movers and requested space for their truck from the city. We've transferred our phone and electric services. All our money, and I do mean all of it, is sitting in an escrow account.

But we still really have no idea if the deal will close this week.

So I bring you distraction. It's been helping me a lot. This is from Cousin E, who hangs out at MySp@ce. I don't understand MySp@ce's interface very well. I got an email this morning from them telling me I had a message from Cousin E but when I finally figured out how to get to my MySp@ce account, all I found was this meme.

So here you go. My first meme:

1. If you're being extremely quiet, what's it mean?
I'm sleeping.

2. If someone hit you, what would you do?
Thank you sir, may I have another?

3. Do you still have feelings for your ex?
Funny you should ask. I just unearthed some baubles from a prior relationship while packing. I tossed them into the giveaway box without a thought. So, I'd say, no, no feelings for all those old dumb people who didn't love me enough. Nope.

4. Last time you laughed?
This morning, in the shower when my wife dropped the soap.

5. Has anyone told you they missed you lately?
Yes.

6. Are you wearing any clothes that don't belong to you?
Nope.

7. Would you ever date your best friend?
I am married to my best friend. But no, we never really dated.

8. Do you regret anything from your past?
No regrets!

9. If you could seek revenge on someone, would you?
I'm not really the revenge seeking type. But I do often wish that all the white christians on this planet would pay up already for the damage they've done.

10. How do you react when people cry around you?
Sympathy. I'm big on sympathy.

11. Do you bump into someone's arm if you want to hold their hand?
No, I hold their hand. What kind of question is that?

12. Last argument?
Whether to smoke the uppers or the downers.

13. Last kiss?
Perfect.

14. Would you kiss them again?
Forever.

15. Are you jealous of this person?
I envy her her beauty, but I have my own beauty so . . .

16. Would you ever strip for money?
Been there. Done that.

17. Do you have a crush?
On my wife. And Fifty Cent.

18. Do you know how to belly dance?
Not yet.

19. Are you in college?
All done.

20. What are you listening too?
Hedwig and the Angry Inch.

21. last beverage?
Tea.

22. Last nap?
Last week . . .

23. Do you own a planner?
Blingberry.

24. Favorite month?
Pride month!

25. Would your parents be mad if you got pregnant?
Shocked and thrilled is more like it.

26. What are you doing Saturday?
Buying a refrigerator, I hope.

27. Sweetest thing anyone has ever done for you?
She married me. Twice.

28. Kiss on the first date?
Every single time.

29. Favorite color?
Red.

30. Are you racist?
Yep, but I know it and fight it and grow from it.

31. Excited for anything?
My new loft! My new loft!

32. Would you ever steal someone's boyfriend or girlfriend?
That's how I got my wife.

33. Last time you were confused:
Right now.

34. Last time you smiled?
Right now.

35. If you could cuddle with anyone right now, who would you pick?
My wife.

36. Rent a movie or go to movies?
Go!

37. Been to Mexico?
Just this Christmas.

38. Own a gun?
Technically, yes.

39. Happy with life?
Quite, thank you.

40. Name something that gives you chills:
George Bush.

41. Boobs or ass?
Tits AND ass, thank you.

42. Abs or arms?
Give me the arms.

43. length or width?
Width.

44. Ever have a crush on someone you knew you couldn't have?
Probably, but my memory is foggy . . .

45. If you had to marry anyone of the OPPOSITE sex, who would it be?
Puke. Boys are gross.

46. Something random about you?
Raised in a cult.

47. Dream Job?
Got it.

48. Hero?
My wife.

49. Who do you love?
Wife. Cousins. Brothers. Close friends. My loft seller's real estate agent.

50. If someone knocked you down on purpose, what would you do?
Pull them down with me.

51. Ever been in a fist fight?
No, but I kicked mugger ass once.

52. If you could show off any part of your body, what would it be?
Tits. Do it all the time.

53. If you could look like any celebrity, who would it be?
Liza Minelli.

54. If you could fly anywhere in the world right now, where would it be?
Tokyo.

Snappy title not included

2008-03-13T09:20:00.000-07:00

Okay, so here's the deal. The new closing date is Friday, March 21. That's next Friday, a week from tomorrow.

Today marks the arrival of Cousin E and O, two regular posters in the comments section of this blog. They are bringing with them the new not-boyfriend, who has agreed to tape it to his leg while staying in a lesbo household. Good. I will need their support while I attempt to put my life into cardboard boxes. This little gang will be around for the weekend, leaving Monday. I'm hoping we can schedule the final walk-through of our loft while they are here so they can have sneak previews of our new home.

Then we get the keys.

Then we have one week to crowd in all the painting and appliance-getting. We have to be out of our current apartment by the end of the month. Thank the stars for Cesar Chavez, a city that acknowledges the celebration of his life, and the very concept of the three-day weekend.

And also, during that week, we have another arrival, more helpful (truly) guests to witness the madness that is two earth-sign lesbians pulling up their roots. Our dear friends Andy and JO will arrive the day after we close, be around for the weekend, then take off to Napa for the week before coming back to see us again on the three-day weekend. These boys have moved me before, so they know the drill.

So that's it. My month in a nutshell, a messy, unplanned, chaotic nutshell.

Nada. Zip. Zilch.

2008-03-11T11:48:00.000-07:00

Today was supposed to be a big day, so I feel I need to say something. But I have nothing to say. Nothing is happening. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Nobody has contacted me to say, "Hey, come get your keys to your new downtown life."

Surely, we'll know something soon . . .

Okay, you can breathe again.

2008-03-06T16:28:00.000-08:00

Everything's fine. We're still behind schedule, but who cares about that? The loft purchase lurches forward.

Feeling jerked around? Join the club.

Everyone, hold your breath.

2008-03-06T11:17:00.000-08:00

There's a snafu, a snag, a brand new ring of fire, a goddamn problem. It seems there are some pretty evil bureaucrats out there who exist solely to prove that nice folks like us don't deserve big breaks like this. It's not about what I deserve, I keep yelling at the sky. It's about what I WANT!

It's too ridiculous and complex to explain, but our celebration and our beautiful loft hang in the balance. What I can bet on at this point is that we will not make that magic 3/11 deadline. Bureaucracy moves slowly. So the schedule is off-kilter now. Keep tuning in--you'll know when I know.

Pack, Paint, Move, Clean

2008-03-04T09:22:00.000-08:00

Eat, Pray, Love, my ass! I have a plan, and it involves none of that squishy stuff. In March, it will be pack, paint, move, clean, in that order.

This weekend, we have to get going on the whole process of getting rid of things and putting things we're keeping into boxes.

ONE FREAKING WEEK FROM TODAY we will receive keys to our new downtown life!

Next weekend, we will paint our new precious little box in the sky. Some of you will be here that weekend. Bring your painting shoes!

The weekend after that, big strong people from Delancey Street Movers will take all those boxes we packed this weekend along with all our furniture, put it in a truck, drive it twenty-four blocks, and unload it into our freshly painted home.

And the weekend after that, in an effort to retain our security deposit, we will scrub our little hearts out to make our current home as sparkly clean as it was when we got here seven years ago.

Okay, maybe I'll eat and love, but I'm NOT prayin'!!

We're in!

2008-02-28T14:17:00.001-08:00

This is just a quick update because I don't know much. What I do know is that we have the ever-conservative Roddy's permission to give 30-days notice on our apartment. That must mean that the appraisal came back under $x-hundred thousand, that the mayor's office will not need to recalculate just how poor we are, and that all systems are go.

I'd like to celebrate, but I have to go edit a dissertation on diabetic female sexual dysfunction.

More to come . . .

Loft Update

2008-02-24T00:07:00.000-08:00

On Friday, we hurdled through another ring of fire, number three, to be exact. So that's good.

But Roddy still seems worried about that other thing. I really don't think we need to worry about it. Our place really should come in well below $x-hundred-thousand.

So now we just wait for the official appraisal report on 2/28. In the meantime, we have an inspection on Monday. We've scheduled a well-qualified inspection escort, our pal Harv. And today we went out in the rain looking for a notary public. Tomorrow, we absolutely must finish reading the HOA manual and the disclosure statement, an undertaking of about 10 inches of paper, stacked.

Today we photographed our living room--because we really like the way we've got it set up right now, and maybe because we are anticipating leaving this cozy little home of ours, maybe feeling sentimental. We've lived here seven years, which is a long time by city apartment-dwelling standards.

happy anniversary to my beautiful wife

2008-02-22T10:08:00.000-08:00

On this day nine years ago, H first deigned to invite me to her bed. I've been coming back for more ever since.

I love you, my dear!

Cultivating Sour Grapes

2008-02-21T08:45:00.000-08:00

A fox was walking through a meadow when he came upon a tree whose branches were tangled with grape vines. The grapes above his head looked juicy and sweet, good enough to eat. But the fox couldn't reach the grapes, try as he might. He stood on his hind legs; he hopped up in the air; he even tried scooting up the tree's trunk, to no avail.

"I don't care," said the fox while he trotted off. "Those grapes were sour anyway."

This fable, originally penned by Aesop and retold here by little ol' me, has been on my mind a lot lately. "I am cultivating sour grapes!" I have been telling my friends when they ask how I'm doing about this whole not-getting-pregnant thing. Sometimes people don't get my humor, and I realize that not everybody knows this famous tale.

According to the Wikipedia article, many people misuse the phrase "sour grapes," assuming it refers simply to bitterness, resentment, and sore losers. It is all that, but it is more specific. Cultivating sour grapes is about building a great big wall of denial, about forgetting what you wanted in the first place and convincing yourself that you never meant to get those grapes at all.

And for me, it's more positive than that, too. It's about appreciating the things I had decided I was ready to give up four years ago when we embarked upon this project to conceive a child. It's about realizing my potential as an auntie, embracing my identity as a childless lesbian, and getting to smoke cigarettes again.

When H first started talking to me about children, I was dead-set against the idea. "But I'm your baby," I whined.

I'm a sucker, though, for whatever my lady desires, and once she convinced me that motherhood was something she'd dreamed about for years, how could I deny her? And then my biological clock started ticking, and I started noticing cute babies. And then my career turned in the direction of female reproductive health, and I began to appreciate the fantasy of conceiving, carrying, and raising offspring.

I think now that I was deceived by lust, by hormones, and by intellectual masturbation. I was more clear-headed in my twenties, when I knew without a doubt that I would never be mature enough to be a mom and that I never wanted to develop another sort of anguished mother-daughter relationship like the one I've got with my own mom.

Seriously, those grapes were sour, and I never wanted to be a breeder anyway.

On our most recent trip to the casino in the desert, H. and I spent two glorious days poolside, nursing wounds of disappointment and realizing that our journey to motherhood had come to an end. But our sadness did not outweigh our delight when we passed by the laboring mothers of rambunctious splashing children and bee-lined to the adults-only area of this desert oasis: eight semi-private jacuzzis, flawless landscaping, better tanning angles, fine-linen cushions, and one very clear placard, all just for us:

We ordered pina coladas and soaked up the serenity. "If I was pregnant right now, I wouldn't be drinking this," said H.

"If we were mothers right now, we would be over there with those hardworking ladies," I pointed out.

We both sighed.
"Is it time to turn over?" H asked me.
"Let's do it when the waiter comes back around," I suggested.
"Mmmmm . . ." she agreed.
When he did, he informed us that the bar had run out of pina colada mix.
"That's all right," I assured him. "I'd rather have a margarita this time anyway."

Dude, that's wacked.

2008-02-16T15:50:00.000-08:00

Roddy, my loan guy, was all stressed out last night. Roddy, I wanted to say, breathe! Loosen your tie, dude. Have a cigarette or something.

He's worried about a crazy inside-out problem with our condo purchase. Get this: if our appraisal comes in over a certain very high number we'll call $x-hundred thousand, then we no longer qualify for a special closing costs loan that figures into our whole condo buying scheme. No big drama there, since we have a little fundraising source that could cover closing costs in a pinch. But wait. If we tap our little fundraising source to cover closing costs, it's like we're actually a little richer than we said we were. And that triggers the mayor's office to look at us all over again. And we were close, as everybody keeps nervously pointing out.

So Roddy's all stressed out. And he's in a big rush because of the hyper-fast closing date of March 11. I don't understand what the big rush is with these people. We've been doing this for four years. A couple more days are not killing anybody.

"So Roddy," I said. "You seem really stressed out. Should we be stressed out?"

He just looked at H. and shook his head and made a sort of nervous laugh sound. Neither of us has any idea what that means.

These money people, I tell you.

Rings of Fire

2008-02-12T13:16:00.000-08:00

I do appreciate the enthusiasm and congratulations. But beware. We are not a shoe-in for this place just yet. There are three major rings of fire to hop through if you want a below market rate condo in San Francisco:

1. win a lottery: DONE, in our own kooky way last week
2. officially qualify for the below market rate program by proving that your household makes less than 120% of our city's median income: DONE, but only as of about 10am this morning
3. qualify for a loan big enough to actually buy the thing

To pass through ring number one, you have to be lucky. For number two, you have to be poor. And for number three, you have to be rich. It may be a few days before we find out if we are rich enough.

At the casino in the desert where we celebrated the new lunar year with H's parents, we acted out many symbolic transitions. More stories of these will come. We played our new address numbers on the roulette wheel and made some money. That felt like a powerful symbolic act of luck.

Everybody keep crossing your fingers, toes, and eyes.

Win some. Lose some.

2008-02-07T15:28:00.001-08:00

Exciting night last night in the whole condo-buying arena. We have signed a contract. We saw the loft again and fell deeply in love with it. We have a move date, 3/11. We are moving forward.

And H. just got her period. So it's over. We are not going to make a baby, neither of us. Not this way, anyway, and not now.

So.

Let the new year begin. Goong heh fat choy, everybody. May the year of the rat be prosperous and lucky for us all.

We're number one.

2008-02-06T09:15:00.000-08:00

Our completed application is the first to reach the mayor's office of housing. Now they will spend a week qualifying us for the below market rate program. So it's like we've won a lottery--a lottery of one.

H's period is due tomorrow or the next day.

I am just trying to breathe and be very very gentle and sweet with my dear darling wife. These are stressful days.

Freaking Hope

2008-02-04T08:33:00.000-08:00

If Jealousy is a green-eyed monster, then Hope is her evil, blue-eyed sister-monster. Hope, with all her promise, her visions of blue skies, of success, of dreams come true, is the worst kind of monster of all. She is a cocktease.

There we were, all free of Hope and clear on our next moves. We were going to go to Italy this year, spend all our condo-buying and sperm-buying savings on plane tickets and hotel rooms. We were going to become international bathers, soaking in the warm, healing waters of foreign lands. We were going to forget about babies and home ownership.

But now we've got Hope. Now we are back in that state of mind where every burp, every turn of the tummy portends the pitter patter of tiny feet.

And just to raise the stakes, to hypnotize us further, to suck us deeper into her thrall, Hope has offered us another chance at buying a condo--a good chance.

If you've been reading this blog awhile, you will remember that we have experienced just as much disappointment and effort in trying to buy a little box in the skies of San Francisco as we have trying to make a wee one. The two projects have intertwined in these past four frustrating years.

So the New Hope--it's very exciting. Here's the link [removed for my privacy] to the building, a downtown beauty designed by a prominent architect and right across from the Metreon/Yerba Buena Gardens complex.

It's only about as big as where we are living now, but we qualify for it, and it's cheap--well, you know, cheap by SF standards. Maybe affordable for us. And best yet--we need no luck whatsoever to buy this one. It's not a luck thing at all. They had a lottery, but none of the winners qualified, as it turns out. So now they are just accepting applications, and the first sharp, organized, qualifying couple to show up gets to buy the thing. I'm headed out to drop off my application just as soon as I publish this post.

So here I am with Hope, that bitch. She is poisoning my mind like a Succubus. She is showing me how we might live across the street from that beautiful park, raising our kid on carousel rides and butterfly gardens, painting our walls any color we like, and making every mortgage payment count.

We'll know if H is pregnant in about a week. We'll probably know if we're moving forward on the condo in as much time. This weekend, we'll be back out in the desert at the same casino where we staged my first insemination not long ago, celebrating the Lunar New Year, celebrating the Rat, with H's parents.

So maybe I'll try my Luck at the roulette table while I hang out with Hope.

Obsessed, for the very last time . . .

2008-01-30T13:05:00.000-08:00

There's nothing like a perfectly timed and executed insemination to bring back the TTC obsession. I mean, just look at that chart! Have you ever seen anything quite so beautiful and full of hope?

And we were just getting used to the idea of letting go of this whole crazy thing too. I have packed up all the fertility books and two fat notebooks of sperm bank paperwork. I have put away the thermometer. I am ready to sell the CBE Monitor to the next contestant (anyone? anyone? going once . . .) I have even been practicing my childless lesbian sneer.

I still believe that in two weeks, this will all be over and I can begin cultivating some sour grapes. Until then, I can't help indulging in a few motherhood fantasies.

If this is our lucky try and H. is pregnant, the baby will be a Libra, or perhaps a Scorpio, and a Rat. It will be Italian and Taiwanese, almost just like us (I'm Sicilian/Dutch/WhiteTrash and H. is Taiwanese). It will be about 3 months younger than its cousin, my brother's child, due in July. H. will begin her 2nd trimester around the end of April, and that's when we'll have the pleasure of telling our families.

I wonder . . . could it be?

Here I am!

2008-01-24T19:04:00.000-08:00

I've been e-absent, I guess. I haven't logged on to Rainbow Conceptions or Spark People in weeks. I've been brooding, trying to figure out what comes next.

I have been to Las Vegas and back, where I taught something like 2o future osteopaths how to give pelvic exams. Here's me in Vegas, lying on a couch after treating myself to $100 worth of sushi and a long, relaxing spa experience.
This journey was a vision quest of sorts. I was traveling without my beloved, something I haven't done in more than seven years. And I was traveling on the heels of learning that I would not be a bio mama in this lifetime. And I was staying alone in a hotel room, sleeping alone, beholden to nobody, really. I had all the cigarettes and wine I wanted, and I had a casino right downstairs. The lessons I learned about myself on this trip are too many and too depressing to list here. Luckily, I've blacked most of them out.

I've turned 36 since my last post too. Here I am, partying down. Pretty, huh?
H and I have rearranged our living room to create a more spacious shared office space. We've done some goal setting and dreaming too. And yep, we have been charting H's fertility signals. Insemination #last is here. Here I am, this very morning, checking H's cervix.

It was high, soft, and gaping open, so I headed to the sperm bank right away. Our last three vials of overpriced spunk are here under the new desk, and I plan to use them tonight and tomorrow morning.

And just so you can't say I didn't show you the good times, here's me in Mexico, Christmas week, riding a bus and sunning my tatas.

And now, off I go to catch up on what's going on with all my e-friends.

I'm not pregnant.

2008-01-02T11:45:00.000-08:00

And I'm never going to be pregnant. There. I said it.

It sounds dramatic doesn't it? It feels dramatic too, but it's the reality. I may still someday find a way to be a parent, but it's not going to happen this way.

After H's last try, we still had some paid-for sperm on ice, which we will toss up in her next month. We don't have much faith in that working, so we are moving ahead with plans. And the plan is this:

Dream on. Focus on travel and our other long term goals like retirement. Indulge our other creative endeavors: H's film-making and my writing.

Forget. We have some wonderful not-mommy mentors, women in their forties who assure us that this mid thirties scramble to pro-create will subside, that we may even lose interest. We are going to see if they are right. And if they are not, we will revisit the possibility of adoption when H turns 40, in 4 years.

Grow. We have started some wonderful things over the past 3 years. We are both happier and healthier than we were when we started. Our relationship has blossomed. Besides not getting these two big things--a baby and a condo--we have had a quite wonderful life together. I am actually excited about what may come next, what we can do unencumbered by this fruitless struggle.

This blog is going to change again, too, obviously. I wonder what it will become . . . .

Inside my mind . . .

2007-12-18T15:14:00.000-08:00

I'm going to get a lot done today to show myself how productive I can be in 2008 . . . I wonder if I'm pregnant . . . I totally feel it this time . . . okay, focus on the style guide . . . I am so hungry . . . . I wonder why I'm so hungry? I've never been this hungry before in my life. I know it means I'm pregnant . . . . okay, seriously, I'm not getting anything done . . . I need a nap--why am I so sleepy? All my online friends who've been pregnant say they have never felt so tired as during their first trimester. That must be it. It's a sign. I am so pregnant . . . I better get to work to make some money to feed this baby. If I think the two week wait is distracting, just wait till I'm all ready to burst or when there's a toddler running around . . . yes, get back to the style guide. Open some e-mail. Talk nice to some clients. Look at the to-do list. Wow. My eyes are so sleepy. I wonder if I can eat some of that chicken in the fridge . . . . no, that's for tonight. Are women usually hungry in the first weeks of pregnancy? Google it. No, go look at Rainbow Conceptions. No, stare at my chart. Looks like our timing was great. Oh my gawd, I have gotten NOTHING done today. I need a nap. I wonder if I'm pregnant.

It is done.

2007-12-17T13:35:00.000-08:00

A vaginal insem last night before beddie bye.
An iui this morning, right after the temp rise.
I slept most of the morning. It takes a lot out of you, the whole home medical procedure thing. I feel great about the timing. We just took the tank back to the bank together during H's lunch break. I totally feel pregnant: my uterus is all full, and I'm all spampy.
These are precious hours, just after inseminating. The wait hasn't gotten all long and scary and obsession-creating yet. My cynical it-won't-work attitude dwindles in the face of optimism, hope, and possibility. I feel like there are fairies fluttering about in my pelvis--freaking fairies, I tell you.
I'll know just before New Year's. I'll spend most of the two week wait on a gay beach in Mexico.

Filler

2007-12-12T22:01:00.000-08:00

Haven't had time to post or read anybody's blogs in days. H is in the final days of her film's completion, so we're not sleeping much. I have been teaching my sex class for men. And I turned in my business plan and had my last day of business school today. And the holiday madness is creeping in.

I am about to ovulate, so tales of another home iui loom. But I can't very well write about how much I love cigarettes and then, in the very next post, write about how much I want a baby, can I?

So I bring you filler--a little something to put some blog scroll space between the ugly, dark, smokestack me and the positive, light, earth-mama me.

Who doesn't love Planet Unicorn? Episode five is out!

Okay, I am off to visit all your blogs.

Cigarettes Inspire Cynic to Scrutinize Secret

2007-12-03T18:13:00.000-08:00

I've developed a tiny habit--no, let's call it a ritual. When I find out I'm not pregnant, I buy a pack of cigarettes and smoke them all. This is a sort of punishment/reward. I love cigarettes, always have and always will. I have been mostly quit for almost six years now, but remember, I am a harm reductionist, so I don't go in for all that, "It's been xx days/months/years since my last," crap. I just have a general idea of when it was that I went from die-hard smoker to mostly nonsmoker.

So I have this pack of C@mel Lights, a soft pack, which was riding upside down in an outer pocket of my beloved Betsey handbag when I reached for them this afternoon on my walk home. I usually keep only my bus pass in that pocket, so when I rooted around to make sure there were no cigarettes loose in there, I was surprised to find a twenty dollar bill.

"It's the Secret of the week!" I announced aloud to no one in particular, thinking of the fact that I'd wished I had a little more cash on me before I headed out to Berkeley tonight to teach my class.

And then I thought better of it. This is no magic trick; somebody slipped me a twenty, I realized and then wracked my brain for who the culprit might be.

Could have been Cousin E. She does things like that. But I haven't seen Cousin E in weeks. Could I really have not noticed the twenty in there for so long? Could have been mt pal s ,too, but it's been even longer since I've seen her. Could have been Amy, whose lovely home I'd just visited for a much-deserved hot tub experience. Could have been any of the fabulous video ladies from H's movie making class who visited our home last night for a project feedback session. We'd ordered a pizza, and H and I had insisted on paying for most of it. Could have been Kat, who hung at our place Friday night for a pot pie making extravaganza.

I smiled to myself while the list of suspects grew. I have so many wonderful, generous, sneaky friends. Secret Believers have their Rule of Attraction, and I have my, Rule of What Goes Around Comes Around. I am a believer in the generosity of human beings, especially among those I love. I am generous with my friends, and they, in turn, have always been generous with me.

This is not magic. This is humanity and love. Somebody in my life felt they wanted to show me some generosity, I believe. And they wanted to do it anonymously. My peeps are just like that.

Let's do this one last time.

2007-12-02T18:32:00.000-08:00

My wife asked me to do something this morning that goes against my beliefs. She asked me to take a pregnancy test on 12dpo. She didn't ask because she wanted me to participate in that awful two week wait torture--pee on a stick to find out you're not pregnant and then get your period in a few days to find out you're not pregnant again. She knows that I am totally morally opposed to that kind of tear-jerking TTC behavior.

She asked me because she is making a film. The film is her video baby. It's about the maddening, hilarious, tragic, and cyclical experience of being lesbians trying to conceive. She finished shooting a couple weeks ago--all but one shot. She still needed an image of one of those damn digital pregnancy tests reading NOT PREGNANT.

So her big idea was, I should pee on the stick, a few days earlier than we would normally test. Then we would go out and shoot some footage of the thing.

"But I might be pregnant, sweetie."

"Well, if it's positive, everything changes, so I'll just change the film too!"

So I peed, and it was negative. And we went out and took pictures of it. I thought about posting a shot here, but who wants to look at a negative pregnancy test?

And she doesn't need to change the movie. I just got my period a few hours ago. It's the same old story: excited, hopeful, obsessed, not pregnant, shocked, sad, depressed.

At least it's almost over. I will try this once more.

Ovulation Day

2007-12-01T17:30:00.000-08:00

It seems so long ago now, eleven days to be exact, and a lifetime too. It was before Thanksgiving, before the trip to the dentist, before applying to and not winning the cute condo in North Beach.

At the first alarm, I pulled the syringe out of my snatch and put the thermometer into my mouth, eyes still closed.

97.9 degrees--up, if not the sharp rise I was hoping for, having been inseminated by my heroic wife with same syringe and second vial of sperm at something like eleven the night before.

I snuggled in for a few winks before the second alarm, and my left ovary started pulsing. In the precious, warm, pre-dawn realm of our under-covers, my wife and I slept, entwined.

Finally, we rolled toward the shower together, and I rinsed the light, sticky film of backwashed semen from my labia and thighs. We muttered sweet nothings, packed lunches, discussed our holiday traffic getaway strategy, stumbled out of the building and down the block together, and kissed each other adieu for the day.

In my morning business class, the left ovary started pulsing again. While I walked home, I noticed my reflection in a storefront window. I'm lookin' pretty sexy today, I realized.

Back home, I picked up the empty sperm tank in its box and headed to the bus stop. There I sat, feet propped up on the empty shell of my would-be babydaddy. A truck drove by, and two young men hung out the passenger side, tongues waving, eyebrows hopping. And then another, this time a middle-aged suit slowed to smile at me. A third, a sexy tall drink of water walked by, looked me over, and winked.

It was Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving Day. I felt thankful for the good days in the wacked-out merry-go-round of trying to conceive. I felt thankful, rather than bitter about, the months and years we've been doing this. For they have been years of experience and skill-building. I felt thankful for the confidence, the signals from my body that we'd gotten our timing just right, spot on.

We purchased two vials this month, both regular vaginal vials because we didn't want to fuss with an IUI over Thanksgiving weekend. As it turned out, we used both vials on Tuesday, when five out of six or seven signals we track lined up to say now. We used vial one during H's lunch hour, a hot, rushed, hilarious affair. We used the other about eleven hours later, just before going to sleep. H kissed and cuddled me while I snuggled into conception dreamland afterwards.

And it seemes as though I ovulated sometime before I woke and got that tiny temperature rise. So, great timing. We'll find out just how great in a day or two.

Even My Teeth are Gay or Blessed by a Catholic

2007-11-29T10:08:00.000-08:00

I live in San Francisco's Mission District, the warmest neighborhood in the city and home to a motley mix of hipsters, queers, and immigrants from Mexico and Central and South America. I love it here.
So naturally, when my pal, Amy, another enthusiastic Mission-ite, said, "I love my new dentist! He's in the neighborhood, and I think he's gay!" I had to make him my dentist too.

And yeah, he's gay all right. He and his receptionist are both delightful Latino fags who sound like they are singing when they talk. There is always a copy of Out Magazine and International Male in the lobby. They cry over opera. And when I saw him last June, Dr. R could not stop wishing me a Happy Pride. But it's not all gay gay gay in there. Dr. R also employs a small army of Latina hygienists, and these ladies all seem to be Catholic. Whenever I sit in the dental chair at Dr. R's, I have no idea what is going on around me, because everybody is speaking Spanish.

But I don't care. I've lived in the Mission for almost a decade, but I have never had the pleasure of patronizing a small business quite so Mission-tastic as Dr. R's dental office.

Today, while I walked to Mission Street for my semi-annual teeth cleaning, obsessing about my two week wait (9 DPO, thanks for asking!), I thought to myself, Isn't there some dental stuff you're not supposed to do if you're pregnant?

I couldn't remember what. X-rays maybe? Drilling? And I cringed at the idea of asking Dr. R, who would surely not understand the delicate state of a lesbian-in-waiting. Gay boys rarely do.

But when I arrived, Dr. R was nowhere to be found. Instead, one of the hygienists ushered me into the dental chair. "Hello, my name is Sonya and I will be cleaning your teeth," she said, accent thick. Do you have any medical conditions I should know about?"

"Only that I might be pregnant. I mean, I hope I am." She lit up and clasped her hands at her heart, and I noticed a tiny gold crucifix at her throat.

"Oh I HOPE you are too!" she cried. "And don't worry. No x-rays today!" She tilted me back in the chair, tied a bib over my chest, and got to work. While I reclined and held my mouth open, I watched the tiny gold crucifix sparkling in my periphery and pondered the totally alien and pleasant experience of sharing my two week wait anxiety with a Latina Catholic woman. She hadn't missed a beat. I didn't have to explain what I might be pregnant meant. She understood it all. And she had said just the right thing.

"Eh, Vicki!" I heard her shout to the hygienist in the treatment room next door. But I didn't understand the rest of the sentence--not until Vicki came rushing over to me.

"Congratulations!" she beamed.

"Oh don't say that yet. I might be pregnant."

"Oh, I HOPE you are!" she gushed.

After Sonya finished my cleaning, she gave me a wonderful report: "Your gums are very healthy and so are your teeth. That's good because it's very important to take good care of your teeth while pregnant. I'll see you back here in six months. By then, you will be big as a house! Now what color toothbrush do you want?"

I chose red.

"Ah-ha! That means you are hoping for a girl."

***

To learn more about the murals pictured here and all the wonderful murals of San Francisco's Mission District, visit Precita Eyes Muralists.

Send me your men!

2007-11-28T17:26:00.000-08:00

Hello friends! It's that time of year again--time to wrack your brain for whether you know any men who have sex with women!
You do? Wonderful, then, you'll want to send them to my class this coming Monday and the next.

If you have been reading my blog awhile, you already know about my wildly popular sex class, "Dyke Trix for Straight Dicks" AKA "Girl-Girl Tricks for Men," but here's the skinny, so you can pass it on to all your friends who don't already know.

Dyke Trix is a fun and sexy class for men who have sex with women. Combining my skills as a sexual health teacher and my experience in the sex industry, I have developed a pair of classes that empower men to get to know the pleasure anatomy of the women they love to love. I aim to make the world safe for female orgasm, one man at a time. There's no better holiday gift for your wife, lover, or girlfriend than to attend my classes and learn more about how to make her come Chock full of delicious tidbits about women's naughty bits, these classes are fun, informative, and inspiring.

The nitty-gritty:
Who: all men are welcome (sorry, women, this class is not for you)
When: Monday 12/ 3 8-10pm & Monday 12/10 8-10pm
Where: Good Vibrations, Berkeley
How: I'm BIG in Berkeley, so you better call Good Vibes to reserve your spot (510) 841-8987; or go to the web page and scroll down to the December workshops.

Thanks for sending this out and for sending me your men!

not today

2007-11-26T10:30:00.000-08:00

Well, it's always a pleasure to go down to the mayor's office of housing and lose a lottery. Really. The escalators boast a view of Twin Peaks, and the bathrooms are some of the cleanest in the city. Everyone who works there is friendly.

I actually missed all the pomp and circumstance of the actual drawing while lingering in the very clean ladies' room, but we were #24. That means that 23 lucky bastards have to change their minds, disqualify, or drop dead for us to have a chance to buy 1300 square feet on the corner of Chestnut and Columbus.

On my way down the sunny escalators, I spied my banker waiting for an elevator. Like a cuddly vulture, this guy is sweeping in to start the purchase process with the big winner.

Sigh. The drama of buying a condo would have made such nice two week wait distraction, don't you think?

Our lucky day?

2007-11-26T08:09:00.000-08:00

Can you believe I haven't posted about the insemination yet? All in good time, my friends. This is the two week wait, and the two week wait is all about distraction. So I bring you the next exciting chapter in the saga that is our struggle for an affordable condo in this fair city of ours.

We have earned out of the below market rate program for all units limited to people who make less than 100% of the city's median income. I guess that means we're officially middle class. But we still qualify for units that are limited to people who earn less than 120% of the city's median income. These units are fewer and further between than the others, but unit 102 in Villa North Beach is just such a property.

We had to apply for a loan just to enter the lottery on this one, but the good news is that we qualified. The lottery is at 10AM this morning. I'm gonna go down there and report live from my Blingberry.

Yesterday, we took a nice, long walk through North Beach, San Francisco's Little Italy and neighbor to Chinatown. We have always liked this neighborhood, but neither of us has ever lived on this side of the city. H. had never even seen Coit Tower up close. But we can see ourselves living there. It's a big 2 bedroom in an outdoor complex. The deck faces Columbus Street, the neighborhood's main drag, so the ding-ding of the trolley will become a familiar sound. [shrugs]

Anyway, I'm feeling pretty lucky this morning. I don't know why I shouldn't have both a zygote in my uterus and a condo in my city today. Secret be damned. This is about entitlement. So I'm going down to the Mayor's Office of Housing to hear the winners announced. Stay tuned.

Sperm Pickup

2007-11-20T11:38:00.001-08:00

I waited at the bus stop, reading Lesbian Dad on my handheld and listening to Boy George on my mp3 player. I hopped onto the bus, and Boy George switched to Prince. While I de-bussed, Prince moved over for Jimmy Somerville. I am trying to listen to men I trust and read about lesbian parenthood. I am trying to fill my heart and mind with positive, intentional notions.

I climbed the stairs inside the mini office park building where they keep the sperm. I read Julia Roberts's most intimate interview ever while I waited in the tiny sperm bank waiting room. I switched to perusing baby pictures of donors. I thought of men jacking off into plastic lab cups. I paid my $880 and double checked everything--correct donor, decent sperm count, 2 syringes. I behaved like a polite lady who's lucky to be doing business with everyone at the establishment. I laughed. I told a joke. I smiled at their lame advice and cheerful, "Good lucks." I left.

My box and I waited on the corner, foot tapping along with Vince Clark and Andy Bell. The bus pulled up, and I hoisted the tank aboard, bus pass clenched in teeth. The driver eyed my box and me with mild suspicion.

I am home with the goods. My wife will be home in 20 minutes or so for lunch. I think I will ask her to inseminate me then. I guess I better start defrosting the boys . . .

Cycle Day 11

2007-11-19T10:07:00.000-08:00

Until this morning, it was looking like another road trip insemination for this cycle. I ordered my sperm for a Thanksgiving eve pick up. We planned to seatbelt one turkey and one sperm tank into the back seat of H's car and head north to my baby brother's place (bratty little thing just bought a house to spite his sister who's been trying to do so for way too long--at least he doesn't have any kids!) No, there would be no turkey baster. That is a myth.

But then I peed on a stick for the monitor this morning, and it said, "Hey! You're ovulating!"

Excuse me? It is cycle day 11. My cervix is a tightly closed, creamy, low thing. But my temp spiked. I have been a little randy the past few days, but there were other factors. Plus, anyone can tell you that this dyke can get it up for just about anybody, anytime--I'm just slutty. I have received almost no communication at all from my ovaries. I had some left side ovulation-like pains in the last days of my period, but I am expecting a right side ovulation this month.

And there's no denying basic chemistry rules, right? I mean if the monitor says "peak" that means there is LH in my system, right? And if there's LH in my system then I'm probably about to ovulate or already have, right?

Chart gazers, I entreat you--take a peek at my chart and tell me what you think. I am dumbfounded. And I can go up the hill to the sperm bank and pick up anytime, I think. But dumping sperm onto a cervix that looks like mine right now seems just plain stupid.

The Secret of the Week

2007-11-10T10:58:00.000-08:00

I secret-cursed myself Friday by mentioning it on my blog. After muttering my hate for the makers of The Secret* in the morning, I found myself in front of a TV watching the word-of-mouth phenomenon before lunchtime. It's just another example of the zany power of the law of attraction, come to show me the light. Think about the movie, attract it to yourself magically, and your women-in-business class instructor just might wake up and say, "I'm gonna play The Secret for my class today." Try it. According to these folks, it works every time.

My pal, Dr. S and I co-invented the idea of The Secret of the Week, a retelling of some spooky event that makes us think wryly, whimsically, and idly of the principles put forth by that video that's been pissing me off since I first heard about it a year ago.

In the words of their PR agency:

The Secret, based on the teaching of the Law of Attraction, brings together ancient recordings, metaphysics and spirituality with universality at its core. Intended to be interpreted by and relevant for all people, nations, and languages, it has fast become a word-of-mouth phenomenon that has inspired millions to date. The Secret was initially released in March 2006 as a web-based, video-on-demand, pay-per-view film and DVD purchase. Currently, The Secret is available through the Internet and a host of various retail outlets on DVD, as well as via audio book and book through Atria Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc. To date, the best-selling book has more than 6 million copies in print, and the DVD has been purchased and viewed by millions around the world. The author and executive producer, Rhonda Byrne, was recently recognized in the TIME 100 for her role in helping powerfully transform the world.

Dr. S handed me the video a week or so after her breast cancer diagnosis last year. "I want to know what you and H. think about this." After announcing her news among a wide circle of friends and colleagues, she'd received two copies as gifts.

I think it is in bad taste to give a,"sorry you're afflicted" gift that, in its contents, suggests the recipient is to blame for her misfortune. Yes, the video really does make the point, using breast cancer as its example, in fact, that we bring illnesses and other tragedies upon ourselves by obsessing about our fears. This was my first issue with the new age sensation: blatant rudeness.

It was also rude for The Secret to show up in my life, wagging its million-dollar tongue, on the morning of my second tragic BFN. For the record: I believed it this cycle; I really fucking did.

And there's a lot more about this film that insults me and most of the people I love and a whole lot more people I don't even know. Are entire nations of people in Africa so focused on the misery of their starvation and poverty that they draw more and more of it into their lives every day? Were the first gay men to turn up with HIV in the states secretly fantasizing about an evil virus that would kill them and all their friends? Are H. and I still not pregnant because we are focused on infertility?

Oh please. Not once have I bought into the ridiculous medical model where all lesbians trying to conceive are infertile from the start. I have believed. I have visualized. I have breathed a freaking catheter into my womb!

The thing is, I grew up believing in The Secret. Any one of us who grew up under any religious or mystical belief structure probably got some version of this indoctrination. In my culty christian church, we spoke to God and expected him to grant our wishes like a genie. I literally believed I could have anything I wanted because I had a personal link to the big guy. One of the hardest things about growing up is shaking off these beliefs: Santa's not real; the good guys don't always win; and God is not listening.

So it really pisses me off when folks recycle this stuff and try to serve it to me as an adult. It's just like the computer that rings my land line several times a day, trying to sell me a better home mortgage. I have heard this tripe before. Save it for another sucker.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a positive person. Having a good attitude is the only way to get through life, I say. But I don't believe my winning personality is magical. I don't believe it can make the dice land my way. I know it can't, and I'm insulted by the deceit that it can.

I'm going to start blogging about this stuff a little more, I hope. I'm going to tell some "Secret of the Week" stories. I'm going to tell some tales of secret-curses. I'm going to write about what I believe in and what I don't. I'm going to write about the wacky culty church I grew up in and see if there are any other kids who grew up in that culture, surfing around this world wide web. I'm going to organize all such posts together under a new label I'll call The Secret of the Week.

*I refuse to link to these folks. Spelling their name out is advertisement enough for their schlock. Google 'em if you want to be their friends so bad . . .

Cycle Day One

2007-11-09T07:52:00.000-08:00

It crept up on me like a gay-acting straight man, all seemingly harmless-if-annoying, then deceitful and only interested in one thing.

First, there were minor cramps. Shouldn't have eaten those S*nChips, I mused while I walked to the BART station. But then the cramps turned familiar. These are menstrual cramps, I realized. And while I rode through the bay tunnel, it hit me: I'm not pregnant. By the time I was climbing the long stairway at my home BART station, the cramps were unbearable, and I could feel the warm menstrual blood on my thighs. I walked home all angry and sad, muttering my hate for the makers of The Secret, the owners of sperm banks, the patriarchy, and the very idea of a happy little lesbian family.

This process is like doing a really addictive, bad-for-you drug. You get the goods, expensive and thrilling. You shoot up and ride your high for a while, hallucinating all kinds of promise and wholesome joy. And then the comedown. And then, while the fog of the comedown lifts, you start figuring out how, when, and where to get your next fix.

I guess I'll go call the sperm bank now . . .

12 DPO

2007-11-08T08:42:00.000-08:00

Yes, still nauseous.
Yesterday, when I peeked at my cervix during class, the os was open. Getting ready to let the menstrual blood out, perhaps?
Today, everything is making me cry. PMS?
My tits are giant torpedoes.
I usually have a 12 day luteal phase, so this is it. If I get my period tomorrow, we start anew. If not . . . we can test on Saturday.
Thanks to everybody for your well wishes here on my blog, by e-mail, and in real life. It helps. A lot.

Celebrating Nausea

2007-11-06T08:20:00.000-08:00

I once got a fundraising letter from a women's nonprofit with bad writers. The letter's headline?

CELEBRATING 25 YEARS OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE

Sigh. I try not to be critical, but sometimes it's a real challenge.

But this post is not about the difficulty of being an editor in an illiterate world. This post is about my latest, greatest symptom. Blech. I'm nauseous.

Okay, maybe just a little more editor's nerdliness: do you know when to use each of these words? It's a little troublesome for most people.

Nausea is a noun. It means sickness of the stomach and usually includes loathing food.
My nausea convinces me I'm pregnant.
Nauseate is a transitive verb. It means to make sick or to cause extreme disgust and is often used incorrectly in its past tense form, nauseated. That it is a transitive verb means that it always needs a direct object, so, I am nauseated, doesn't work.
The idea of celebrating domestic violence nauseates me.
Her pregnancy nauseated her.
Nauseous is an adjective. It means affected with nausea or revolting, repellent.
I feel nauseous.
I am nauseous.
Nauseating is also an adjective, and is more often used for the second definition of nauseous, (revolting, repellent, causing nausea,) than nauseous is.
This post is nauseating.
The two week wait is nauseating.

There. See now? You learned something from a crazed woman in her two week wait.

Stop shaking my baby!

2007-11-05T18:01:00.000-08:00

Okay, first, to understand this post you have to understand about my job--not the editing job, and not the sex class for straight men job, the OTHER job--the one where I teach future health care providers how to give comfortable, thorough, and sensitive pelvic exams to women.

When I teach pelvic exams, I am both the educator and the model. I work with 2 or 3 students at a time, literally holding their hands through their very first speculum wielding experiences, their very first time feeling a uterus, and their very first time saying, "do you have any sexual concerns you'd like to discuss?" to a patient. It is a noble cause. It is inspiring work. I have been doing it for eight years, and I'm very good at it.

And this is our busy teaching season. All the medical schools want to cram the female pelvic exam into this first fall quarter, and that means they need our motley crew of stellar educators--and they need us multiple times a week.

So, how many pelvic exams have I had during this two week wait? 8 so far, with three more coming up this Wednesday! Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

I always begin my class with a promise. I tell the quivering students that I will not let them hurt me, that I am quite experienced at stopping nervous students WAAAY before they come close to causing me discomfort, pain, or injury. This is true. I am eagle-eyed about cleanliness, "um, let's change that glove since you just touched your forehead with it," and I am super conscious about their every move, "notice that your right thumb is resting on my clitoris right now--let's see if we can put it somewhere else." So I have not been concerned in the least about working while pregnant. Pregnant ladies get pelvic exams all the time.

But I must admit that one particularly clumsy student last week did make me scream inside my mind, "STOP! You are shaking my baby!" I chalk this up to two week wait hysteria.

So I was a bit shocked and dismayed when one of my colleagues suggested today that I should stop working right away if I turn out to be pregnant. Why exactly? I really feel like my pelvic ed classroom is safer, cleaner, gentler, and more comfortable than most gyn clinic experiences. I am in complete control of what happens to my body while I teach. That's really the point of the program--to teach providers how to give women a sense of control and empowerment when they have their pelvic exams.

But she's just more conservative than I am about these things. She also gasped in horror when I told her about our DIY IUI. So I'm not going to worry about it. I have enough to worry about, right?

Crazy at 5DPO

2007-11-01T15:43:00.000-07:00

Here's what Pregnancy.com says it looks like inside me if I'm pregnant right now. Actually, this is at 3 weeks. At 5 days past ovulation (DPO), I'm two days short of this.
But why wait any more than necessary in the middle of the two week wait?

What? You've never seen pregnant lesbian pirates before?

2007-10-31T14:52:00.000-07:00

All spermed up, as they say.

2007-10-29T08:41:00.001-07:00

It was another whirlwind of an insemination weekend.

"This is your second try?" asked the saccharine sweet sperm bank lady, like she was talking to a hopeful bride or something. I just rolled my eyes and took the tank from her. It's getting to where I can just barely squeeze out the door of that place for under $1,000.

I had a little time to feel the ocean tides Saturday morning while communing with my own body's rhythmic ovarian pulses. This is because my wife and I are currently surrounded by queer women of color making movies. Artistic collaboration is a magical thing.

And the sex was hot all weekend too--a sure sign that we were at least close to the days I was ovulating.

But most exciting was our first ever at-home DIY IUI. For the uninitiated, this means that we've gone outside the controls of the medical establishment and performed a minor procedure in our living room. (Take THAT!)

Intra-uterine-insemination (IUI) places washed sperm up inside the uterus rather than just in the vagina, giving the fellas an elevator lift to get their frozen, sluggish tails a little closer to their goal. We used a long catheter we bought from the midwife who performed H's home IUI last year. H was a real professional, maintaining a rock solid sterile field and feeding the tiny tube into my cervical os. The thing you have to be careful about is putting the catheter in far enough to really get all those spermies into the uterus but not so far as to poke the uterus in pokey, dangerous ways. We were understandably nervous about getting this right.

But I'm a professional too. Once H fed that teensy tube into my ovulating cervical os, I focused my breath into my uterus, told myself I was a big, expanding universe of a pregnant mom, and literally inhaled the catheter 5 centimeters into my uterus. Seriously. H said she didn't have to push at all--she just watched me pull it in. There is great power in knowing your body, ladies!

I had some very very minor spamps (the cramps caused by sperm) and felt pretty tired all day, but today I feel knocked up.

I hope to be a more dedicated blogger to keep myself distracted during the two week wait. So keep tuning in!

2007-10-25T09:03:00.000-07:00

It's a tough balance to strike--staying active in one's cyber life and one's 3-d life all at once, don't you think? I have not been posting here, and I've been quiet over at RC and Spark too. That doesn't mean I'm lazing about, ignoring my desire to bear wee ones or my desperate need to slim down and look sexier. Au contraire! I have just not had much time at the ol' keyboard to document my endeavors. So this is a catch-up post. Let me tell you what's going on:

My belly did not turn out to be stricken with an RWI. I think maybe it was stress. Or rebellion. Or my imagination. Or irritable bowel syndrome, which I refuse to believe exists because it just sounds too gross to be true.

My ovaries have just today started pumping their cycle day 13 estrogen surge, so sayeth the CBE monitor. That means it's almost time to pick up the gentlemen from the evil sperm bank. I betcha I don't ovulate over the weekend but that we pick up the $30-a-day tank tomorrow anyway out of paranoia that I might ovulate over the weekend. Today is the full moon, and my moon birthday is Sunday. I think I will ovulate next Wednesday, Halloween.

My body image is improving, so I guess it was a good idea to take last month off. I really only lost three pounds, but people keep asking if I've lost weight. That's always nice. My basic approach has been to try not to make a total glutton of myself and to try to walk at least a mile every day. The swimming has been on and off, mostly off since the RWI freak out. But I also got a sexy new haircut and my autumn color palette. I'm a red-headed monster now! I have heard that red heads experience 20% more pain. I am researching this claim firsthand now and plan to report on it here in the near future.

My wife is producing a short, experimental docu-drama about her experience as a lesbian trying to conceive. She calls it her video baby. I am so proud of this endeavor. I just love it when she lets her creative juices flow. The project is HUGE, though, and sometimes stressful. I am her secretary, production manager, caterer, and co-star, so I am rather busy with the video baby too. Just like a real baby, the video baby has been demanding all our attention and acquainting us with new levels of sleep deprivation.

My business is rockin'! I have more clients than I know what to do with. I am finally writing a business plan--market research, competition analysis, break even inquiry--after five years of back-burnering it. I have just purchased a fast, sexy, gigantic new M*c and entered a contract to redesign my website. I am getting ready for the bigtime. Send me your writers.

My blog has snagged the attention of two people I know in real life, and their recent comments on some recent posts have me spinning. So, welcome, April (Carson) Baker and Cousin E. It's nice to know you're reading. I will try to keep it entertaining.

Sexperts on Parade

2007-10-11T09:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of attending a graduation at the Institute for the Advanced Study of Human Sexuality because one of my clients received her Doctorate in Sexology. This was an inspiring evening, witnessing six academics dedicated to studying sex take their giant leaps from student to expert.

My client wrote an amazing dissertation, which I edited. It is sure to pop up as a groundbreaking study in an academic journal any day now. Her question? What happens in a woman's sex life if she's never used a vibrator before and you suddenly hand her a Hitachi Magic Wand and ask her to use it at least once a week for a month? The results are fascinating and heartwarming--almost as heartwarming as being thanked in a graduation speech. "I couldn't have done it without Kristy," she said. Sheesh.

And I learned a new vocabulary word: merkin. Hot.

And I met the famous and fabulous Aunt Peg, who also received a degree yesterday. Congratulations, Aunt Peg! Yes, she is a dreamboat and a real lady. She's smart and a charming public speaker.

I've seen a lot of pomp and circumstance in my life. My family of origin is big on commencement ceremoines. My mom would have hated this one, but I loved it. There were hugs, graduate roasts, and many inappropriate sexual comments.

Sometimes I really just can't believe how great my life is.

I just knew exercise was bad for me!

2007-10-09T08:33:00.000-07:00

Since I began my personal campaign to get into better shape before my next conception attempt, I have been having some lingering health issues. Actually, something like this happens every time I make a healthy lifestyle change.

Quitting smoking almost killed me.
One time, I decided to try running and sprained my ankle on the first block.

It's as if my body is even more rebellious than I am about fitness. So I didn't think my ongoing digestive tract issues needed much investigation. This is just how my body thanks me for taking care of it. We have a history of this behavior.

But sometimes it isn't all about me. Sometimes it is about somebody else's sweet little baby and the baby's poopy diaper. My digestive system still isn't really on track, and now I think I know why.

Last week in the pool locker room, while I was curling my eyelashes, H read this flyer on the bulletin board. For the linking-lazy, I will summarize:

People get diarrhea AKA Recreational Water Illnesses from each other in public pools, especially pools that are frequented by small children and babies in diapers. Here are six different ways of asking you to help us keep poop germs out of public pools.

Wow. Now this brings up a few questions:

Is it okay for me to keep swimming if I have not fully recovered, as long as I wash my butt really well?
Should I stop swimming at this pool all together?
If I go looking for a private, better maintained swimming pool where children are not allowed, what kind of community member am I?

I believe in public resources. I believe in supporting a community that spends tax dollars on parks and pools and bike lanes and cross walks and schools and transit systems. I believe that people who don't use these resources because their big back yards, cushy cars, private gyms, and private schools are more comfortable are part of the problem in this country. So I'm not going to abandon this wonderful neighborhood resource I've found just because of a little poop.

But I do need to get healthy again. Heck, I'm PMSing. That means my period and a new fertility cycle are right around the corner. That means that my getting fit and healthy break is almost over, and it's time to try to get knocked up again. So poopy diaper diseases are not really helpful. Let's not even talk about the irony of being made sick by the irresponsibility of people who have what I want: adorable little babies with poopy butts.

And I've actually been enjoying the swimming more and more. I can do 4 whole laps without feeling like I'm going to die. Since I almost drowned halfway through my first lap on day one, this is a major improvement. Heck, I was even contemplating investing in a real sporty-type swimsuit since my bikini is obviously SO NOT the thing to wear at this pool.

And anyway, just because there's a flyer about it doesn't mean that I actually have an RWI, does it? It doesn't even mean that there's an outbreak at my pool--just that this public resource has a responsible staff who hang up the flyers the CDC sends them. It's prevention.

But I did get sick as soon as I started swimming.

But my body always breaks down when I exercise.

It's a quandary.

Better

2007-10-04T09:57:00.001-07:00

Dude, you all must think I'm so freaking bi-polar.

I feel better today.

I weighed in at 149#! Woo hoo!

My head cold is subsiding.

The sun is out.

Go ahead, hold your breath!

2007-10-03T13:11:00.000-07:00

Ever gotten off on holding your breath while you orgasm? Ever play "passing out" games as a kid? Ever wanted to strangle your lover--just a little--not out of anger but because it was hot?

Most of us have heard a scandalous story or three about somebody who died from auto-erotic asphyxiation, but there has been precious little serious examination of who is playing breath games in bed, how they do it, why they do it, and what it looks like to do it safely. My good friend, music teacher, and client, Kathryn Ando is researching the subject and seeking respondents for her survey. You don't have to be a dedicated breath play expert--you just have to have some experience or knowledge of the behavior in general. The survey is fun and enlightening. I just filled it out myself.

Here's a letter from the researcher:

Dear volunteer,

As partial fulfillment of my dissertation requirements for a Ph.D. in
Human Sexuality, I am studying attitudes and behaviors concerning
erotic breath control. The purpose of this study is to gather
information about attitudes and behaviors concerning erotic breath
control. You will be asked about your past and present breath control
activities, if any, as well as your sexual history. This
questionnaire is anonymous. You will not be asked for your name or
individually identifying information.

Anyone over the age of 18 can participate. If you have any questions
regarding the survey, please contact me at bcpquestionnaire@....

For questions regarding subject rights, you may contact my school at:
The Institute for Advanced Study of Human Sexuality
1523 Franklin Street
San Francisco, CA 94109
415-928-1133
registrar@...

The survey is available at : http://tinyurl.com/2rjebh
The password is: final survey

Please repost and forward to anyone that might be interested.

This study is not an endorsement of, instruction for, or education
about these behaviors. The author explicitly recommends that you
consult your health care provider about the risks and dangers of these
activities and how they relate to your own medical history. Please do
not take the survey unless you take responsibility for your actions.

Thank you,

Kathryn Akemi Ando Ph.D.(c)
BCPquestionnaire@...

My body and me

2007-10-02T09:10:00.000-07:00

In my twenties, I thought I was all about my body. For a living, I posed nude for art students, lounged scantily-clad on the divans of new-money dotcom millionaires, danced at the Lusty Lady, and screwed anybody with $300 for an hour of my time. For fun, I would get dressed up in vinyl and go down to the sex club for a whoopin' or I would swallow a bunch of ecstasy and get cuddly with my roommates. Totally in my body, right?

I'm thinking maybe no.

Because back then I didn't have to think about my body so much. A burrito twice a week and a disco nap on Saturday--that was all the maintenance it took to keep the engine rolling. I could toss any old scrap of cloth on myself and look fetching. I thought nothing of six inch heels even though I walked everywhere I went in a city famous for its steep hills.

Over the past week, I have felt ill after every other meal or so. What I thought was a stomach flu last week is maybe something else. Like maybe an allergy? Or a digestive problem that's reached its pinnacle? I can't figure out what's making me sick, and it makes me wince at food all together.

Over the past two weeks, I have exercised more than I did for the entirety of the 1990s. And I have gained four pounds. My pathetic 20 minute mile grew to 25 minutes yesterday. I seem to be exercising backwards or something.

So here I am, fully conscious and in my skin. And it's pretty miserable. I have quit so many abusive things I used to do to my body, and I continue to wait impatiently for the payoff. But the payoff seems to be feeling sick and fat and uncomfortable and ugly. Screw endorphins. Can I just feel not gross, please?

And now I'm sneezing. What fresh hell is this, Dorothy Parker?

I can't sleep . . .

2007-09-29T02:07:00.000-07:00

. . . but I don't really feel like being productive, either. So I've redecorated the place. I promise sometime soon I will start writing real posts again.

IRL

2007-09-26T08:29:00.000-07:00

In real life, since my last post, things have been getting crazy, so I've had no time to blog or to post at RC or to make new friends in my new online community at SparkPeople.

I started trying to do something extra active every day in an attempt to lose some weight. Last week, I walked at least half an hour every day, went to two yoga classes, and swam laps in my community pool on two separate occasions. Let me tell you, being active puts a serious dent in my lounging time, which makes me kind of grumpy. Where is that happy rush of endorphins my active friends tell me about?

And I attempted to eat much less and much healthier. No snacking between meals and no eating after 7pm. And no eating anything without a healthy side of raw greens. Frankly, this is not so hard for me. I spent my teens and twenties starving myself, and I actually get a rush from feeling hungry. And before you express concern, know that my darling H is keeping an eagle eye on me. Don't worry, folks, I am not at risk of becoming anorexic, as much as the evil little skinny bitch inside me would like to be.

And my teaching season began, so I'm busy with editing stuff PLUS teaching a couple times a week. So I'm BUSY.

And then, all at once on Monday night, some horrible little pestilent buggy-boo climbed into my system and wreaked havoc. I am sick. I did not sleep Monday night at all because I could not find a position that was comfortable for my poor, aching abdomen. The other symptoms are just too gross to blog about. Yesterday, I couldn't go teach, which bummed me out and lost me $300. Today, I am still a little shakey, but I'm feeling much better and slept well last night. H has been an incredible nurse.

So, it's been very intense IRL, very physical. First, the exercise and dieting, then the illness, which forced lounging and starvation. What's next? I gotta catch up on some editing . . .

Silver Linings

2007-09-20T08:10:00.000-07:00

After something like six attempts to deliver a letter--disguised as a private courier--to the maybe-bio dad of my pal Rhoda, Rhoda got anxious and gave the job to professionals. On the same day that F*dEx delivered her letter, the gentleman in question wrote her a beautiful e-mail confirming his identity, admitting that he had searched for her too, and assuring her that he intended to meet and make her a part of his life.

During my insemination weekend and my two week wait, this saga felt like a foil to my drama. The inverted parallel of my packaged bio donor dad to her long lost bio dad; my waiting to find out if I was pregnant; her waiting for a successful letter delivery and reaction; my impatience; her impatience--it was as if I was gazing into a funhouse mirror. I now realize that I was the foil. My story was small potatoes compared to what Rhoda was going through. And the outcome of my story--failure to conceive--is very possibly temporary while the outcome of Rhoda's drama will forever change her life.

Other silver linings in my life right now include a week full of approval:

The state of California doesn't give a hoot about my controversial mental health history. I have been approved for elective state disability insurance. Woo hoo. Bring on the disabling third trimester!

And I've been approved into the Women's Initiative's 10-week course for self-employed women, despite the fact that I didn't exactly qualify. I guess I looked like I really needed it, and I really do. In this class, I hope to brush up on some business-running skills, write the business plan I've been trying to write for the three years that I've been in business, and kickstart my 2008 fiscal year.

Qualifying for this was one of those funky-to-be-gay situations. They want their clients to be low-income women who are trying to be entrepreneurs, naturally. I definitely fit that description, and my piddly-ass income qualifies me. But I've got this wife, see, and she makes a decent living as a social worker. Our combined household incomes put me just over the qualifying line. Then again, because we are not legally married and do not show up as a household on our taxes, I would qualify if this agency used the same rules as say, the US government. But they don't. They are cooler than that. They are a women-empowering agency in San Francisco, after all, and they see my wife as my wife--just like I do. And for once, that turned out to be a problem for me. It's dizzying, isn't it? But they saw the irony. Or they saw how desperately messy my business situation is. Or they saw it all. And I'm in. Classes start in a couple weeks.

So yeah, I did a lot of complaining last week about things not going my way, about the gray clouds of disappointment in my life. But there are some silver linings this week. There always are.

Happy Anniversary, Kat & Dawn!

2007-09-17T08:04:00.000-07:00

Stars twinkled from every corner of that gorgeous building. You were both radiant. The ceremony was unique and uplifting, and it brought tears to every eye. The reception dance floor was like a hot lesbian porno wonderland. Queer weddings are changing the world, and yours did its part. Thanks for being such an inspiring couple to know.

We have the silliest little gifties ever for you, which I will deliver when I see you later this week. In the meantime, please kiss each other for H and me. We love you both an awful lot!

Cliffhangers Follow-up

2007-09-16T10:19:00.000-07:00

I am not pregnant. My period came late Friday night, right on time. My body, she said, "Excuse me. What have you done for me lately? When have you ever done something I asked for the first time I asked? How many times did I beg you to quit smoking? How many times did I ask for sensible shoes? How many times did I ask you to stop with the coke? The liquor? How many times have I asked you to lose a little weight? How many years did I beg for yoga? Hm? You expect me to give you a pregnancy on the first request? Get real."

I will try three more times. No more. I will not do this for years. And before my next try, I will take six weeks to drop some weight. And I will only temp long enough into the wait to confirm ovulation. No temping late into the two week wait, ever again.

We did not win a chance to purchase a BMR unit at Buchanan Lane. At least we must assume that we did not win since no one has called to invite us to buy one. My pal, J, will be relieved to hear this. She disapproved heavily of this move for us. She didn't think it was worth it for us to move into that flavor of ghetto just to achieve homeownership. Maybe she was right.

We have not yet successfully delivered the all-important letter to my pal Rhoda's maybe-bio-dad. He continues to allude us.

Sigh. Sometimes life is so unsatisfying.

Prepare for disappointment.

2007-09-13T08:30:00.000-07:00

My temp dropped this morning, like it always does 11 days past ovulation. I am still committed to not testing until Sunday, but it's looking like I won't have to wait that long to get bad news.

Then again, it was only a teensy drop, really. It could spike again tomorrow.

Is temping in the last days of a two week wait really any healthier than peeing on sticks in the last days of a two week wait? I wonder.

Pregnant or Hungover?

2007-09-12T14:14:00.000-07:00

I have always loved to play the Gay or Eurotrash? game on the streets. It's challenging and snarky. Today, I have my own special version of it--just as trashy and just as un-p.c. It's called Pregnant or Hungover?, and I play it like this: notice a symptom; wonder if I'm pregnant; remember that I drank a little too much wine last night; sigh. Wanna play?

I am nauseaous. Pregnant or Hungover?
I am horny. Pregnant or Hungover?
I slept till noon today. Pregnant or Hungover?
Food repulses and horrifies me. Pregnant or Hungover?
Food excites and thrills me. Pregnant or Hungover?
My morning temperature was rather high. Pregnant or Hungover?
My tits hurt. Pregnant or Hungover?

Before you judge me for allowing wine to cross my lips while I might be pregnant, please consider reading Accident of Hope's brave and charming point of view on the subject. I agree with her.

The Crack Team of Insemination Artists

2007-09-10T13:07:00.000-07:00

It is a very special privelege to be have the benefit of the combined knowledge of two lesbians who've been trying to conceive attending your first insemination. There is no deflating surprise at the size of your sperm vial. There is no expectation for candles and earth-mothery enlightenment. There are, instead, very clear priorities: comfort, relaxation, clear thinking, laughter. I had a magical insemination, whether the magic of conception sprang from it or not. Here are a few images.

1:20PM: Poolside reclining view.

2:30PM: H, poolside, after massage and sauna.

3:40PM: K., poolside, after massage and sauna.

4:20PM: The insemination suite, ready.

4:35PM: K., ready.

4:45PM: Rio, ready.

4:46PM: H., ready.

6:09PM: K., inverted.

Casino Sluts

2007-09-09T10:40:00.000-07:00

Just some shots of our hot resort days and hotter casino nights.

The view from our patio. The toes of my right foot are kind of aimed at our room.

Those are H's legs. Her beauty astounds me.
Oh yeah, we're by the pool in the evening here. We had the whole thing to ourselves. Bliss.All these silly sexy ones were taken in one fast series in the wacky-fancy ladies room at the casino where we ate dinner Thursday night. We shot the poolside series over the course of three or four lounging sessions at the casino where we stayed. Luxury. Pure luxury.
And yes, I did play a little. I played our donor's numbers on the roulette wheel and lost about sixty bucks. C'est la vie.

La la la la

2007-09-08T08:56:00.000-07:00

I burst into tears at school yesterday when one of my students performed especially well.
My tits are two great engorged torpedoes.
I am nauseous in the face of many foods.

La la la la! I am not thinking about it. I am watching Planet Unicorn.

Collect all six at YouTube.

locating bio-dad

2007-09-07T08:22:00.000-07:00

The three of us (H, Rio-the-vial, and I) traveled about 1100 miles last week, through central and southern California. Temperatures ranged from the mid 80s to well over 100 degrees. It was a vision quest, indeed, an odyssey. My beloved turned 36. I inseminated for the very first time. We worked on our relationships with various family members. I practiced the ukulele a lot.

I like this photo because of the landscape in the background. Very California. Around about the time that I shot this photo, an e-mail came through on my Blingberry. It was from an old college chum. Since she uses an initial for her name, we'll call her Rhoda. At first, I thought the e-mail was spam. The to line just had one letter in it. The subject line said, "hey beautiful . . ." The body of the e-mail spoke of a mysterious and potentially challenging mission I may or may not choose to accept. It sounded a lot like the penis enlargement ads I get in my inbox dozens of times a day.

But it wasn't spam. It was an outreach from the heart of my old pal, Rhoda. I inquired back about the nature of the mission. Rhoda was adopted. She thinks she's found her bio dad. He lives somewhat near me in one of the cities on the other side of The Bay. She has a name and an address. She has written a letter, which she would like to send to me and have me, posing as a courier, deliver it to her maybe-bio-dad. She has copied this request to another friend who lives in SF as well, my very dear pal, J. Rhoda is hoping we will take this on as a team.

Heavy. H and I glanced back at Rio.

You have to do it.
I know.

I had been called from one bio-dad-involved journey to another.

So last night, J and I headed east over the Bay Bridge. H advised me not to carry a purse. "Couriers don't carry purses," she explained. "They carry messenger bags."

I put the special letter from Rhoda to her bio-dad in H's messenger bag along with directions to the guy's place and the hundred dollars Rhoda had insisted on sending us. "Don't argue," she'd warned. "Buy dinner on me. Buy gas." J and I practiced our lines all the way there.

K: Knock knock.
J: Who is it?
K: I'm a courier looking for _______ _________. Are you he?
J: Yes.
K: I have this envelope for you, but I'm supposed to verify your identity. May I see your I.D.?

Rhoda wanted us to deliver her letter only the person who's name she'd acquired, to be so sure as to have seen identification. J and I practiced dozens of scenarios: variations where he refused to show I.D., variations where he refused the letter all together.

Still, I was awfully nervous when we arrived at the reported address. I am not exactly cool. I am no spy. I am no bicycle messenger. I'm a lousy liar.

He wasn't there. J and I went and enjoyed a lovely sushi dinner on Rhoda (yes, sushi! I defy you, 2 week wait!) And then we tried again. This time I knocked and hollered, "Courier!" But it didn't help. Nobody home.

We'll keep trying.

His Name is Rio . . .

2007-09-05T14:40:00.000-07:00

His name is Rio, and he dances on the sand. We named him that because we took him out to the desert, because Rio is a nice gender-free name, because Duran Duran is forever, and because we tried to hang some wacky beads on him--the beads were hanging in H's parents' home and were from Rio, the casino in Las Vegas.

When I told the nicer-than-usual sperm bank desk gal about our plans, she assured us that the vital contents of this box would survive a car ride through blistering heat and that the outside temperature of the tank mattered not, as long as the tank stayed closed and wrapped in its foam in its box. She also told us that the tank would last six days and that on the sixth day we should find a welding supply company and ask them to recharge the nitrogen tank. Wow. Got it.

Judging by the energy of the swimmers we saw under the mini 'scope on insem day, that lady spoke the truth. Phew.

While we drove south we discussed disclosure plans. We would be seeing H's parents first. Would Dad, the only person of his generation in H's family to know of our TTC trials, see the box and ask about it? What would we tell him? We practiced our lines.

I could tell you, but I'd have to kill you.
It's Cousin S's birthday present.
It's sperm, Dad. Kristy might ovulate this weekend.

We agreed that he could know what was going on, but not until after we'd left his home. I just could not deal with sleeping under his roof with him knowing what we might be doing down the hall.

As if on schedule, Friday morning, while we all scrambled to leave for our casino vacation, we were forced to share our secret. Dad was trying to convince us that we should all go in one car. Since we had packed our car full and wanted to have our freedom to leave the casino whenever we pleased, and since we had a big box of sperm in it, we really wanted to take our own car. Good thing we'd practiced our lines:

Dad: Ladies, who is the Commander in Chief in this family?
K: H is! It's her birthday!
D: No. I am. And I say we are all taking one car.
H: We have a lot of stuff. We need our car.
D: Just pack one small bag for the casino.
H: We need our car.
D: Why? I don't understand.
H: (exasperated sigh and heavy eye contact with me) Dad, come to the garage. I have to show you something. (they move to garage) See this box? It has a specimen in it. Kristy might ovulate this weekend.
D: I surrender. Take your car.

You know that feeling of shame and embarrassment you had when you were twelve and just getting used to menstruation and somebody knew you were on your period or you were worried that somebody knew? I spent the rest of the weekend with that feeling in my gut. My father-in-(not)law knows I'm menstruating. And I gotta tell you, I had not had that feeling since I was a teen. It's a weird feeling, weird and funny.

But we did take our car, of course. And we moved into a fine fine luxurious suite at the casino a few hours later. And we did not make Rio sleep in the car. We mustered all the bravery we had and carried that ghetto-ass, totally not-subtle box into the casino and up to our room. We practiced our lines for that too:

K: (with deepened voice to simulate casino security guard) Excuse me, ma'am, but I need to know what's in that box.
H: Yo mama.
K: Seriously, we need to know what we're going to say.
H: It's private.
K: (in security guard voice again) Sorry, you'll have to open it for me.
H: Fuck. How about something medical?
K: Like medical equipment. Yes.
H: It's medical equipment, sir. My wife here has terrible asthma.
K: Perfect. Let's go.

Nobody stopped us. And Rio enjoyed two glorious days in a luxury suite with us.

Home, Sweet Home

2007-09-03T23:57:00.000-07:00

It was like this:
Wednesday: pick up sperm; hit the road; soak & sleep in Paso Robles
Thursday: special birthday brunch for for my lady; drive to Beaumont, CA; dine on lobster
Friday: drive to the Rincon Harrah's Casino, move into spectacular suite
Saturday: massage, sauna, poolside laziness, insemination, gambling
Sunday: drive to LA suburbs; seafood family dinner for H's birthday; cousins slumber party
Monday: drive home

So I'm in my first two week wait. I don't even have my crosshairs yet. It has been a whirlwind of luxury and family drama. I plan to keep myself busy during these coming two weeks by recounting the tales of our Insemination Odyssey in the Desert here on my blog in pictures and words. Stay tuned.

Confession

2007-08-28T16:52:00.001-07:00

I did it again. I took another stone from another BMR unit. This one is not as handsome as the last, do you think? I know that confessing this to all of cyberspace is a good way to get locked up for stone stealing or for just being plain crazy, but I could not help myself. The lovely wife liked the place, so I had to do something.

I took this one from a basket on a coffee table in the well-staged three-bedroom condo at Buchanan Lane. I had seen it before, but H. had not. We were in the 'hood, so I insisted on showing her.
Pretty it is not, especially not on the outside. But its ugliness helps it fit in to the sea of projects that surrounds it. Still, what San Francisco hopeful homeowner can deny the allure of three bedrooms, a garage, and a yard on the #22 bus line?

Touring the three floors of spacious wonder made my wife swoon, so I have to at least try.

Let me be clear that I do not believe that stone stealing will make us lucky any more than I believe in Santa Claus, the virgin birth, or the psychic hotline. But anybody who's been trying to do anything for more than a year will tell you that repeated dashed hopes can make you act crazy. It can make you act like a superstitious fool, I tell you.

Oh, yeah. I left a tiny plastic bead there too.

Insem #1

2007-08-27T14:11:00.000-07:00

Okay, enough with all this fine misery and lousy luck. Insem #1 is upon us, and it is going to be big fun. This weekend is Labor Day, of course, but it is so much more than that! It is the 36th anniversary of the birth of my beloved wife. It is our mini-vacation to see our LA-based girl cousins. It is the time during which I am most likely to ovulate.

So, it's going to go like this:
Wednesday, cd11: pick up sperm tank, seatbelt it into car backseat, skip town, stay overnight in Paso Robles
Thursday (H's Bday), cd12: breakfast in San Luis Obispo, drive to Beaumont to visit the 'rents
Friday, cd13: SoCal casino with the 'rents
Saturday, cd14: ??
Sunday, cd15: H-clan family dinner, slumber party with girl cousins
Monday, cd16: drive home

Last month's ovulation was not until cd 19, so it's very possible that we will drive our little babydaddies down to SoCal and back and never use them. But more likely, we will be insemming sometime on the road. Perhaps on that mysterious up-in-the-air Saturday/cd14.

My question of the week: how long does the sperm tank last?

An Open Letter to My Ex-Therapist

2007-08-23T10:25:00.000-07:00

Dear Kasey,

This has been swirling in my head for years now. By writing these words down, I hope to release them. I have joked and joked about my experience with you in therapy. Here's the joke, ready?

I went into therapy anorexic and anxious. I came out fat and depressed.

Ha ha. Pretty funny, huh? I think the reason nobody laughs is that I tell it to people who knew me skinny and self-confident. And I tell it to people who know me now and see that I struggle with my weight.

But joining the ranks of people who can't eat whatever they want, who have to exercise to stay healthy--that wasn't really bad for me. And I can't blame you entirely. I did age. I did quit smoking cigarettes. I was one skinny bitch before, and I judged fat people. I have learned some empathy. I have learned to take better care of myself.

But the chemistry with which you turned my anxiety to depression, for that I blame you heavily. Anxiety was a presenting issue for me, something I wanted to work on. I saw it as an extension of my issues with my mom, my family of origin. I wanted to wrestle with those issues, but you wanted me to take antidepressants.

"I don't trust those drugs, and I don't think I'm depressed," I told you. And my anxiety increased. "I want to talk about my relationship with my mom."

But you had another talk-therapy agenda for me. You were a student therapist then, amassing your licensing hours and therefore giving me an affordable therapy rate. I think your lack of experience directed your focus to more interesting things than my mundane mommy issues.

Get her out of sex work. Get her to remember the ritual abuse in her cult upbringing. Who can blame you? I must have been an interesting case: a hooker-stripper raised in a weird religious group.

So we didn't talk much about my mom, and we continued to argue about taking antidepressants. My anxiety increased. I began to struggle with quitting smoking. I began to gain weight.

I quit stripping because I felt fat at work. You saw this as progress.

You did not want to talk about how hard it was to quit smoking. Was that because you were a smoker yourself? You didn't want to talk about my steady weight gain. Was that because of your own weight issues?

You seemed so pleased with my emotional growth, and I just felt like a therapy failure. I finally gave in and agreed to talk to my doctor about taking psych-meds. My doctor, noting my weight gain, suggested looking first at my nutrition. I was pleased as punch, but you insisted I go back and demand Wellbutrin.

And then a months-long experiment in drugs that only hurt me began. I tried something like eight before I finally walked away from you. My anxiety gave way to depression around the third prescription. I experienced more and more failure. I lost my job. I watched TV for hours every day. I became anorgasmic. I isolated myself from my friends. Finally, I was fantasizing about suicide.

Thank goodness my doctor drew the line there. "These drugs don't work for you. Depression is not your problem. Get rid of that therapist," she said.

"Suicide is serious business. We need to increase your prescription. We are finally getting to what's really wrong with you," you said.

I paid you what I owed you and walked away. You dissapproved of my quitting therapy, and you told me so. I ever looked back.

I picked up a copy of Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way and began to dig for my creative self. I put myself on a daily masturbation regimen, to get my orgasms back and increase joy in my life.

And slowly, with you and the drugs gone, with creativity and orgasm back in my life, things got better. I started my own small business. I started writing. I started going to yoga.

I think about you all the time. I wonder if you think about me. I wonder if you've learned a lot and feel you owe me an apology.

I continue to struggle with my weight, but I'm getting healthier. I continue to struggle with cigarettes, but it's getting easier. I continue to struggle with both anxiety and depression. At least with anxiety, I am productive. Depression just knocks me flat. But overall, I have healed a lot from the damage you did.

And then last month, I applied for disability insurance. I wanted to protect my self-employed self in case I'm successful with this pregnancy thing. And they turned me down. Guess why? that's right--depression. They said that I might want to talk to my doctor and my therapist about what it says in my medical chart. So all the anger came rushing back. You put me through one of the toughest times of my life. And now, at what is surely one of the happiest times in my life, your faulty opinions on what was wrong with me have come back to haunt.

It's all okay now. I got insured through the state. But it got me to thinking about how you wronged me--how I paid you to wrong me and to steer me down dead-end paths for years.

I believe you were not malicious--just ignorant. I believe you are probably a better therapist today. I also believe that therapy, the practice itself, was just not a good fit for me. I think I cured the depression you gave me with self-help, with masturbation, and with yoga. And I think those things may have been a better prescription for my presenting issues in the first place. So, it really was not all your fault. But I still had all this stuff I needed to tell you.

So thanks for reading.

Very sincerely,
Kristy

Back from hell . . .

2007-08-20T13:31:00.000-07:00

We didn't actually go to hell. But it was hot as hell, and wrangling my brother, fighting with my mother, and living on fast food for three days--that was hell. More soon.

Congratulations to my beautiful wife!

2007-08-15T15:23:00.000-07:00

H got into film school, The Queer Women of Color Media Arts Project's 16-week video workshop. Woohoo! I am so proud of her, and I'm so excited about this opportunity for her to explore her creativity.

Dedicated Pussy Scratch readers may remember from this year's Pride post that we attended the QWOCMAP festival for free and just down the street from our house. How wonderful next year's Pride season will be with my beloved's debut at the center of our festivities . . .

And another thing: creativity is fertility, isn't it? I feel like this is a positive step for H's fertility. We may be focused on getting me knocked up right now, but her turn will come again.

And then there's my agenda--I mean dream, that H learns the ins and outs of video and film so that we can abandon our careers and become famous lesbian pornographers together. H has always had an eye for great porn, and I'm an excellent support person to creative genius. I see us running every aspect of our own production company, making great images that help women claim our fair share of the pornography market.

And yeah, getting rich doing it . . .

Close only counts . . .

2007-08-14T08:45:00.000-07:00

. . . in horseshoes and hand-grenades, as my biological father always says.

Mr. #1, who turned out to be Ms. #1, chose the one bedroom, of course, leaving us to waive our right to the studio.

The nicest real estate agent in the whole world was quite sweet and sympathetic when he called to break the news. He assured me that if anything goes wrong with Ms. #1's process--say she doesn't qualify for the program, or the loan, or she gets run over by Muni--he will call me straightaway. But really, I can't spend my life waiting around for some lucky stiff to get hit by a bus, can I?

So, 1234 Howard, in all its minimalist glory, joins the ranks of all the other condos I chronicled in A History of Rotten Luck parts 1-3. Yeah, we could get our opportunity, but probably, we won't.

And we were #97 in The Garfield Lottery, so that one's a bust too.

Stolen stones and abandoned plastic beads never got me anywhere.

This just in!

2007-08-13T17:10:00.000-07:00

. . . a little bit of luck: we are the number two lottery selection for 1234 Howard. I can hardly believe it. First, the background, in case you're just tuning in, then, the meaning of our number two-ness.

1234 Howard, you will remember, is the stunning one bedroom, open floor plan condo in SOMA, the one we fell in love with when we visited. I even spun a teensy bit of witchcraft in my desperation. I left a tiny green bead in the bathroom, intending to retrieve it when I move in. And I took a stone from the planter, intending to return it when I move in. That's the magic stone up above. Below are some photos to remind you of the beauty and elegance of that condo.
Being number two means that we get second choice of the two available BMR units. Mr #1 gets to pick first. There is a studio, and there is the one-bedroom that we love. The studio is just too small for us.

So, the nicest real estate agent in the world, the guy who called me today to tell me we won, is waiting to hear from Mr. #1.

If he chooses the studio, we're in.
If he decides he doesn't want to live in the bulding, we're in.
If he doesn't qualify for some reason or other, we're in.
If anything at all happens, anything that leaves the one bedroom open to Mrs and Mrs #2, we're in.

So, please take a moment, right now, to hope, to dream, to pray if you're into that sort of thing, that something happens, one tiny little miracle that lets this tiny little bit of luck that's befallen us take hold.

This is like that first light line on a home pregnancy test--success, but you still have to wait three months to really feel safe that you are going to carry to term. Yep, that's what this is.

Blitz End

2007-08-13T13:37:00.000-07:00

Today marks the final day for the Big Bad Luck BMR Blitz Blog-A-Thon. I want to thank the loyal readers who've joined me for this ride, especially you who leave comments. As any blogger can tell you, comments keep us breathing.

Certainly, I will keep you informed of future BMR endeavors, and I still intend to publish a fourth post in the History of Rotten Luck series: A History of Rotten Luck, part 4, the lost chapters.

Isn't it just so maddening how we got through the whole blitz with not one bit of real news about the outcomes of any of the lotteries? I just called the agents for both the most recent lotteries, today's 1234 Howard lottery and last week's lottery for The Garfield, but nobody answered the phone.

The frustrating nature of it all--such as the fact that The Blitz is over and I have no idea whether we won any lotteries--is indeed a whole lot like TTC, as a couple people commented Friday. The metaphor extends from here to eternity, but basically, it goes like this:

In TTC, start by paying way too much for sperm and then working really hard to put it in your pussy at just the right moment. In BMRs, start by preparing your application, separate information from both of you because you're gay and seen as two financial entities no matter how long you've been married. Photocopy all your tax returns, bank statements, business documents, and pay stubs, and then deliver to an unfriendly real estate agent before the deadline.

In TTC, wait two weeks. In BMRs, wait an unspecified amount of time. Perhaps go to an open house to exacerbate the frustration of waiting.

In TTC, pee on a stick or get a blood test. In BMRs, go to a lottery event.

Disappinted in the outcome? Start again

And this is how we have been entertaining ourselves over the past 2.5 years.

A History of Rotten Luck part 3

2007-08-10T09:45:00.000-07:00

This is the third in what I now realize will have to be a four part series chronicling our process over the past few years. Click these links to read back:
A History of Rotten Luck part 1
A History of Rotten Luck part 2

A History of Rotten Luck part 3
January 2007 to June 2007

. . . in which we begin to realize this cannot last forever.

170 Off Third
170 Townsend @ Third St., South Beach

Application Date:1/5/07
28 BMRs
1 BRs around 755 sq ft $218,977
2 BRs around 922 sq ft $250,816

It was offensive not to win when they'd practically built a BMR ghetto like this one. And with art too. here's one of the scultures, still in the artist's studio.

1587
1587 15th St.@ Mission, The Mission

2 BR $278,119
2 BR $275,617 867 sq ft
2 BR $278,119
Application Date: 1/19/07

This one was right in the thick of the Mission, with a cool mural being painted when we went to the open house. We really liked this place, though it's not as beloved a corner of the Mission as where we live now.

Alas, we lost again.

Sierra Heights
Texas @ Sierra, Potrero Hill

2 BRs (4 of them) $302,987-$307,206
Application Date: 2/23/07

One morning , after our workout, we sat in H's car on the hill above Sierra Heights, eating a lite breakfast and enjoying our post-workout incentive. We contemplated living on the east side of Potrero Hill, a stone's throw from the projects and from CalTrain. It felt like a nice place to live, however beehive like the complex looked to us. It is a sunny part of the city. It is an expanding part of the city.

At the open house for Sierra Heights, we encountered a new loser trend in BMR open houses. Just invite the middle class to see the sales office, which has a model kitchen where you can admire the high class appliances and fixtures. Regale them with tales of how, if they win, we will put a hard hat on them and let them pick the condo of their dreams! Ha! I'm sure this is a mode of efficiency. Get the pain-in-the-ass bureacracy of selling our million dollar units to the poor OVER WITH before we start the important work of selling to the rich!

We actually heard about somebody winning this one: some friend of a friend, but not us.

The Odeon
181 O'Farrell @ Powell, Union Square

Application Date: 3/11/07
Outcome?

What would it be like to live upstairs from H&M? Across the street from Macy's? Would I buy purses too often? Would we, when faced with a what-to-wear dilemma, scramble downstairs and ruin our credit to save the day? Would our children grow up selling tap dances to tourists? The Odeon forced us to grapple with these deep questions.

And grapple we did, all the way to the open house, where annoyed and annoying real estate agents barely acknowledged our presence. It is a beautiful building inside, with a courtyard and some very nice hallways and meeting rooms. The units themselves were not so memorable, but I did spy, on our way out, a big bowl of cute little tins of mints with The Odeon logo affixed.

We didn't win the lottery, but at least we got some mints.

368 Elm, Franklin & Golden Gate, Hayes Valley-ish

3 units available

Lottery date:
Outcome? #63 3/30/07 Lottery

I don't even remember applying to this one. I think we only drove by the thing once. Another opportunity. Another lottery. Another disappointment.

520 Chestnut Street @ Powell, North Beach

1 BR 671 sq ft $234,009
1 BR 789 sq. ft. $229,652
Lottery Date: application due 4/23/07

This one inspired me. I loved the look of the building. I loved the neighborhood, North Beach AKA Little Italy. It seemed like a refreshing idea, a new side of town.

I remember this application dropoff journey well, way out at 775 Monterey Blvd, a nieghborhood I'd never seen before. The woman at the front desk of Brown & Company had nary a smile for me, and when I asked her where I could catch the bus headed back toward the Mission, she looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. "Bus?" [blink blink] Maybe they don't use Muni on that side of town?

The actual lottery for this place was shrouded in mystery. Desk chick didn't know anything about it. Nobody ever returned my calls about it. It wasn't posted, as usual, on the MOH site. heck, maybe they haven't held the lottery yet, and we still stand a chance to win!

3208 Pierce @ Lombard, The Marina

Application Deadline: 5/8/07

K & H in the Marina is pretty much like the Beverly Hillbillies in Beverly Hills. They have wide, clean sidewalks there and no homeless people or loiterers. This place is hardly in the Marina, really. Living right on that stretch of Lombard would be like living in the middle of Pier 39, I think: a tourist trap hell. And your closest oasis, that would be the Marina.

Still, the floor plans were gorgeous, the sqare footage generous. And hey, I realized while we filled out the application, I know somebody at this realty office. So, on application drop-off day, I made arrangements with my pal S. at Vanguard Properties, a nice person in the real estate business. I wanted to buy her coffee, but she had no time. Still, I was determined to make get some advantage out of my friend in a high place.

"So, who's cock do I have to suck to win this lottery?" I asked.
[giggle giggle] "Well, probably my friend Bla Bla, but he doesn't swing your way."
"Oh. Well I could arrange to have his cock sucked by someone he fancied, maybe?"
"It sounds like this property is kind of a joke to you? I mean, do you really want to win?"

My friend S is such a freakin' sincere and psychic person, I can barely stand to be around her. She was absolutely right. Winning a condo in the Marina did feel like a joke to me. This whole thing had begun to feel like a joke.

I still struggle to find the right attitude about this process--just like TTC. Am I to Pollyanna myself to death, dreaming that good things are yet to come? Am I to believe in god or fate or faeries, that some great spirit will swoop down and help me win the perfect home when the time is right? Am I to kick things and throw tantrums when I lose, having fully believed, each and every time I delivered an application, that I would win? Am I to give up, to finally accept that home ownership in a city like San Francisco is for the rich only? Am I to give up on my fantasies of being rich?

And what happens when I earn just a little more money--not enough to be rich, mind you--just a little more, enough to make us ineligible for the wondrous and mysterious MOH BMR program? We are just a few thousand bucks a year short of the limit right now. This cannot last forever. If we were to shop in the regular real estate market, we would probably need another ten years of saving to actually buy anything.

I can't bear to leave San Francisco as my other homeowning peers have done. I can't live in a suburban car culture. I can't live in a place where gays are an underclass. I just can't.

At the crossroads of Union Square and the Tenderloin (The Garfield)

2007-08-09T08:45:00.000-07:00

The link above used to take you to a delightful website that outlined the physical description of this project as well as the history of the building. But the agents seem to have ripped it out of cyberspace the minute the application deadline hit, last night at 5pm.

Please, try clicking the link. Maybe it was just broken. More likely, though, these agents aren't going to spend one penny more than they have to for the entertainment of those who'd like a BMR.

So, from memory, I can tell you that it looks like an interesting piece of architecture, one of the first buildings to go up after the 1906 earthquake, and originally owned by a woman! It sits, just as I have titled this post, right on a crucial corner of Market Street, the dividing line between rich and poor, tourist and homeless, between the Tenderloin and Union Square. That makes it very central and convenient if a bit bipolar and chaotic.

I have no idea the square footage of anything, but the price is $203,720 for a 2 br. I'm not at all tempted to return to the Coldwell TRI Banking office for the lottery tonight. I'll call tomorrow to ask if I won.

notes from a bus ride

2007-08-08T13:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday's Application Dropping Tour was a success, at least I hope it was since H and I would really really love to win the chance to buy one of these three great units. I wrote a lot of this post from my handheld on the bus yesterday, and I took a lot of photos too.

The first stop was Coldwell TRI Banking on Van Ness to drop off the application for The Garfield.

This drop-off was a BMR program classic, complete with unwelcoming storefront and snobby, skinny front counter bitches. See the unattainable lobby with the "use intercom" message emblazoned on the window there? See the barely working intercom?

One down. Two to go. Luckily, this location was right next to G*itar Center! So I popped in to check the ukes and had a nice private jam session with an expensive one. Wow! I sound good on an expensive instrument!

The skinny bitches and the strumming made me hungry, so I stopped for brunch and editing at my favorite cafe in this hood, Macha.

Two decaf cappucinos, an orange juice, a ham and cheese panini, and a tip for the charming young Japanese teenager at the counter: $10. Not bad.

I hopped on the Muni #47 and rode down Van Ness to Eddy Street.

No matter how long I've lived in the 7-mile square that is San Francisco, I still have that wonderful, "Oh, this neighborhood is closer to that neighborhood than you think!" experience now and then.

It really took me no time to walk from the ultra-urban Van Ness corridor, over to the project-riddled Fillmore neighborhood.

There, accosted (and rightfully so!) by a gaggle of teenagers, "You gotta ASK before you take pictures of ME, sweetheart!" I quickly explained that I was photographing that ugly building and not them. Satisfied, they returned to terrorizing lost tourists.

After handing the application over to the friendly agent, I took a bunch more photos at Buchanan Lane and have placed them in this post, where I discussed that project. Two down, one to go.

Back on Van Ness, I grabbed the #47 again and rode it all the way down to SOMA, where the flashy real estate agents of the Polaris Group hang their hats. The first time I visited this office, back when we were applying for 69 Clementina, I walked by it three or four times, address number in hand, baffled and confused. Is this the wrong street? I don't see anything here! But it's just really hard to see this storefront. See? No signage!

But this time, old-hand BMR-applicant that I am, I marched right up their stairs and handed in applicatiuon #3, for the oh-so-beautiful one-bedroom at 1234 Howard. I'm sad that I won't be able to attend this lottery on Monday. I think I will call them in the afternoon to see if we won.

And that concluded the Application Dropping Tour! Tomorrow, I will tell you all about The Garfield.

Applications, check!

2007-08-07T08:15:00.000-07:00

It's just delightful what a well-worded (if I do say so) e-mail and three, increasingly agitated voicemails can do. Madame P from the MOH called me back yesterday with yet another new set of guidelines for self-employed applicants:

invoices and payments from last three months of business
up-to-date 2007 P&L, notarized

That's it! This I can do. In fact, H is putting the finishing touches on my P&L right now. It's a family business, you know. Plus I learned--and we kinda knew this but sometimes it's hard to believe--that they don't go through the applications and throw folks out before the lottery. Everyone who applies is in the lottery. But if you win, and there's a missing element in your application, they don't give you much time to fix it. So I'm doing my best. My P&L is not quite up-to-date; I've only done the first quarter. And it's not notarized, but that's easy enough to remedy if the time comes.

So, we were up late assembling three applications, and I'm going to deliver them today. It would be really great to win one of these three. The actual drop-off moments can sometimes be entertaining. So, I'm bringing my camera to see if I can document any of the quirks of the BMR process. Keep your eyes peeled for photos tomorrow. Wish me and my three overstuffed envelopes good luck for today!