On Tuesday I had a one-night stand. I popped a Valium on my way out of the office, then slid into a flimsy backless gown, and spread my legs on an operating table. They put me in a crinkly yellow mask (a gag!) then bolted my feet into stirrups. Dean held my hand as the director wedged a speculum between my legs, followed by a spindly thin catheter.

Up until entering that dark closet of a room, I was walking through a garden, ready to rave. My arms dangling as I stepped over a mushy soil cement floor. Those crinkly yellow boots of mine–divine! Drop the bass and set the strobe.

But once inside, it was cold and impersonal, in complete opposition to the warmth I felt when Milo was transferred into my body. Back then it was another time, another clinic. They let me look under a trillion-dollar microscope, marvel at the cells’ symmetry, lay back and dream of our journey.

And now because a grading system wasn’t found with our stored embryos, they’ve thawed them at random (not by highest quality). One of them lyced (meaning it burst) and the back-up wasn’t as good of quality. I am enraged at the lack of attention to detail, and yet I am high. But lucent enough to know I had at least 3 B grade embryos (at 6 cells each).

We are another number to this clinic, an escalating percentage, just another man and woman under masks with worried eyes.

And mine were shedding tears.

In this pic, the embryo on the bottom has started to split and morph. You’ll see it isn’t fully contained with a perfect circle like the one on top. So perhaps instead of transferring 2 embryos in, it’s more like 1.5

Last time, they showed me the two dots like tiny dewdrops. My doctor a NASA pilot guiding astronauts into my soft secret crater. They touched down side by side, under my fallopian tubes, within swimming distance to my lining.

This time–I barely saw the slim catheter worming its way in.

When the procedure was over, the director yanked me up by the hand, and led me to the staff locker room. While I changed, the staff impatiently knocked to come in and access their things.

Finally. Finally, when it was over– I stepped out under the pulsing sun in my giant Tom Ford knockoffs. Ready to rave. Ready for anything.

I don’t believe in the Zodiac and horoscopes. Don’t believe everyone born in my moon in my birth month, has a personality and problems just like mine. That would practically mean 1 out of every 12 people are easygoing, creative and flighty.

And yet in uncertain times far beyond my control, I reach for the absurd. Because in the mess of needles, estrogen patches and pills, my stomach has ballooned out with other disgusting side effects I won’t get into. And with my magic Google powers, I’ve found evidence of psychic wisdom from The Onion:

Your Horoscopes – Week Of March 4, 2014

Gemini

The clown car may be an overworked reference, but the doctors can think of no better way to describe the constant stream of clowns issuing from your abdominal cavity.

Holy smokes! What prophetic shit. Just 3 hours before I saw this we had an ultrasound. Yes, my lining is thick, and plump for the embryo taking and there are weird little men doing gymnastics in my uterus.

In another stupid, expanded search, I also learned this about myself:

Everyone loves a Gemini because everyone loves a schizophrenic. You like to think that you are a half-and half mixture of Socrates and Michelangelo, but in reality it’s more like Prince and Bea Arthur. Geminis are pushy and overbearing. They pick fights with small children and moon people at weddings. Geminis use far-fetched analogies to describe philosophical concepts. Geminis are always on some sort of medication. This medication is not always legal. Geminis are frequently abidextrous, which means that they can pick both sides of their noses at the same time. The Gemini is essentially nothing more than a paranoid Aquarius.

I really in all honesty just can’t deny all of this.

I’ll leave you guessing which parts.

If you’d like to see what’s in the stars for you, try this link here.

Good luck, and avidazen good night.

My husband Dean is a voracious reader of political thrillers. Names like Vince Flynn and Brad Thor line our living room shelves. When I got in to watching Homeland obsessively, chewing on my fingertips, he said “you know, this shit really happens.” CIA black-ops, D.C. cover-ups, assassinations and assets in the Middle East. Before he died, Vince Flynn described it all in detail. His D.C. sources left confidential.

But now at home, we have our own little mission underway: Operation FCT. In less than two weeks, we’ll have undergone a frozen embryo transfer, which doesn’t involve just transferring embryos into my body, but transferring them from an entirely separate clinic in San Jose to our new clinic in San Francisco. The Stork Service (yes, their real name!) was booked, and despite the suggestion of our dingbat coordinator, I chose NOT to ship my precious harvested DNA via Fed Ex.

Here’s where Vince Flynn comes into play. I realize that Dean (a criminology major at U. of Minnesota) in a parallel universe could be a CIA field officer. So I assigned him the task or transporting our six unborn children up the Peninsula in a 7-hour timeframe.

In fact, at zero hours, I wrote him an email with subject line, Blackhawk 5 – Do You Copy? – and this note:

Agent DGZ,

In this confidential Wednesday mission, you’ve been assigned the task of transporting your family jewels (GENOMES) between three high-tech medical facilities in the San Francisco Bay Area. 

A list of sourcing, times and locations are attached. Your first point of contact is Nitro-Derm where a cryogenic dewar charged with liquid nitrogen awaits. 

Please know that your wife Lieutenant McTwisty loves you immensely despite some of your undercover bathroom grenades.

And in the middle of Operation FCT: Agent DGZ sent me confirmation via iPhone photo:

Who knew that when we purchased our Infiniti in 2009, it would seat six so comfortably in the backseat? I’m glad he buckled them in for safety.

So – the operation was successful. We hope. We’ll know more when our children are unthawed in under two weeks.

Till then ~

Mother of 7

It’s all happening. It started with one little email from a talent agent in LA–and in less than two weeks, I was offered my dream job. It’s the job I always wanted but wasn’t sure really existed. It’s the stuff I do in my head all day for fun, and now I’m actually getting paid [pretty well I might add] for it. Holy shitballs, I’m with a vibrant, irreverent, fun beauty brand who is at the top of their game and no one can touch them. They’re in a luxury league of their own.

And since I got the news that the job was mine and I was selected over other writers, I have secretly been doing this:

Despite a couple of stupid little panic attacks, I decided to let loose my internal ant eater on those insecure thoughts, and now I’m back to feeling like a creative cannon ready to fire.

I’m loving this buzz. There are no stop signs on my proverbial street of dreams.

Yeah, I’m a bit pumped. But you know what they say, if it happened to me, it could happen to you too…

xoxo

I once was working in a photo studio, six months pregnant, when a gorgeous male model told me to get off my cell phone. I was talking to my doctor and when I hung up, model guy spouted off about radiation, fetal brain development and hyperactivity. I thought to myself, how could a twenty-something shirtless man in flat-front pants know this? Three years later, as my son winds up like a Chucky doll on crack, I’m starting to wonder.

But this beefed up, Rock Hudson looking model also went around the studio telling our merchandise coordinator to put down her lucky 10-year-old pink plastic water can, something about DIOXIN danger, and had she heard about juice made from deer antler velvet? “You mean, like Bambi?” she said, fanning her hands out over her head, giving him a shut-the-fu*k up look.

Model boy then was on a plight to convince all of us that in the future Earth as we knew it would be swallowed up and taken over by vicious rodents (and certain amphibians). Screw aliens and the Book of Revelation. We were going to be devoured by killer frogs. And he really believed this emphatically, to the point it made him perspire, causing his eyes to dilate.

Needless to say, the next day (Busy Billy we’ll call him) leveled down, slept through his set times and then got fired for the remainder of his booking.

But from time to time, I still think about Busy Billy when I see people around the city wearing these…

These finger toe shoes creep me out to no end. Just like fuggly bare feet on airplanes. You airport people are probably the ones wriggling your rubber toes under dress pants on BART and walking across Market St. Please cut it out! I hope you are devoured by overgrown city rats the size of sheep, and according to a recent article in the Independent, this really could happen.

Mind you, on a lighter note, I am not at all threatened by animal-esque trends. And I actually find this one quite endearing…

Especially looks designed by Anna Sui.

Soon let’s discuss weird 80s trends because I just saw some delicious ones on Buzzfeed.

Until then, stay away from wide-eyed male models and rubber-toed civilians.

– From your sanguine Conspiracy Trendist

5 is my lucky number. I was born in month 5 on a day divisible by 5. My birth year also ends in 5. I met my husband on Cinco de Mayo. And we chose day 5 of a cold chilly month to say “I do” in the Mexican heat.

Now it’s our 5-year wedding anniversary. I remember that day so vividly – when Dean and I stood at the edge of the Caribbean Sea. The wind blasting the train of my gown under a gauzy gazebo.

There we were a couple of gringos, squinty, yet starry eyed, full of wonder.

I married my tall German drink of water for many reasons, like: A) He always told the truth. B) I knew he loved me deeply, and C) I knew he’d make a fantastic father. These things were a given. I was also attracted to his wit and intellectualism. Plus, he makes a ridiculous omelet.

But along with virtue comes fault, and when it comes to dishing compliments, this goes against the grain of his sarcastic nature.

So when we checked into the Clift Hotel in SF on Saturday night to celebrate the big ‘5’, and we found they left this on our pillow instead of chocolate…

I had to laugh my ass off.

Good ol’ Mark Twain. Wordcandy from the epistolary heavens. All to commemorate year 5.

Ironically, I used to date men that showered me in compliments. Growing up, sarcasm was not tolerated – my mother endured verbal abuse as a kid. So this carved my way in the dating world. I clung to meaningless, misguided words that sparkled like counterfeit gems.

I once heard from a wise, respected sage that every relationship is constantly changing. It’s on a continuum to “better”, or more “bitter”. It’s one or the other, and there is no in between.

I think back to where Dean and I were five years ago. We had all the time in the world for one another. We had 18 holes of golf, quiet hikes in the Evergreens, lulling concerts at the vineyard.

And today, with a toddler, we fight to finish our sentences. If Dean calls me from downstairs, our 2-year old calls back in rapid, high octane jibberish. There is always a diaper to be changed, a crash to be avoided, a food spill to be cleaned. So we make assumptions about each other’s actions with little to no information.

We have our seasons just like anyone else. And I’ve come to realize it’s about managing expectations, and then managing the tangible, domestic everyday things.

We are working on getting out more together, just the two of us. We are leaning on friends to watch our little guy without family nearby.

I am grateful for love in my life, for the commitment to stand by each other, to share the joy of togetherness, and raise a beautiful little soul.

Each and every day, there are so many things to be grateful for. I just have to remember, it’s always a choice to alter your perspective.

So if I may ask, without sounding too much like a pundit in a cheesy self-help book – what are you grateful for today??

“Look at. Look at. Look at. LOOK AT, Mommy.”

Over and over. Like a broken record. A needle caught in a groove. 1200 bpm wpm (words per minute)

Some days it’s certainly warranted. With these cool, exotic things.

Other times, it’s a drop of toothpaste on the sink. A fleck of lint on my collar.

“What’s that? What’s that? WHAT’S THAT, Mommy?” It goes on until every thought in my head is erased, and I’ve put my keys away in the fridge.

These are our days with Milo.

But he’s not the only one. Someone else has been watching me. He’s looking at how many pounds I weigh. He considers my age and counts my follicles. He’s the doctor who prods the flesh between my legs. Magnifies the dark empty space of my uterus over a TV screen. He’s suggested additional ultrasounds. More injectable drugs. We are not home free.

But I’ll do it. Not because I’m desperate for another life. Not because 2 + 2 equals the quintessential family of four. This is a feeling I can’t shake. Like pre-destination. Like Calvinism. And this little he/or she is choosing me.

But I realize that’s a little heavy for a Tuesday.

So I’ve got to tell you, there’s someone else watching me too.

It’s the eyes of a hacker.

Apparently, according to Karen Katz, the CEO of Neiman Marcus – my account with them may have been compromised. And yet, I DON’T HAVE A NEIMAN MARCUS ACCOUNT. [Are you nuts? That’s the gateway card to financial catastrophe.] But the letter from Karen Katz was addressed to me, and sent to my home address.

Not to mention, it came on Thursday, the same day a girl slammed into my bumper at a red light. The impact was so sudden, it knocked my car out of gear. Made my head snap over the wheel. [And strangely we are both okay with only minor knicks.}

Dear universe, if you’re listening today – quit watching me. Quit running into me.

Let me fly under the radar for a bit, and make a splash when I’m ready.

Like Richard Sherman. Like orchid paisley pants.

Got it???

I have a new obsession. Her name is Lissie. Her voice is like diamonds and razors. Like shiny chrome on a classic car. I can’t get enough of her. She’s got the look of Jewel. The voice of Stevie Nicks. The hair of Janis Joplin.

And these raw, unapologetic lyrics:

I stole your magazine
The one with the beauty queen on the front
I see her look at me,
I swear that it is mockingly
What the fu*k?
And you decide what I should like
But I don’t buy no hype
Like in the magazine
The one with the beauty queen on the front

Yeah I pumped her ‘Back to Forever’ album superloud on my commute this AM. Hair flips, the fake finger guitar on my steering wheel and all. I didn’t even care.

Maybe you’ll feel the urge too once you see this video:

Now that’s gritty girl power at its purest decibel.

Also, have you ever noticed when days run into each other, especially in winter, and they all start to feel the same – it’s funny how an album is like a book. It opens new pages on your perspective. Making everything seem different. And the stagnant less permanent.

Happy Monday.