For the last 20 ohmygodI’mnotkidding years, I’ve had painful ovulation followed by puffy, painful, uterus-numbing cramps. I’ve been told to “suck it up”, to take an Asprin and call back in the morning, to eat some chocolate and get over it.

When I turned 25 and had my first “real job” with my first “real insurance” and “real boyfriend”, I decided to stop putting up with it and have someone fix me. Mr. Flinger (pre-Flinger days) urged me to find someone to help because sitting on the floor crying in the bathroom for 5 days during your period just didn’t seem right. Either that or suck-it-up and eat a Hersheys.

The doctors told me, after a short conusltation (three times) that having a baby would help. “Are you ready to be pregnant?” “Um, no?” “Oh, too bad, having a baby would really fix this.” “I was hoping for another solution than bringing a child in to the world because I wanted to skip my period for nine months.” “oh.” * (this conversation actually happened. Kaiser Permanente is a joy to be a part of.)

Finally I did have a baby! And oh! She was right! I had no ovulation pain! And then I had a baby cut out of my body, a uterine infection, post-partum depression, and a revenge from my ovaries they could’ve made a movie out of. Rated R.

After another baby and a few more years, I decided I didn’t want to take Birth Control Pills any longer as I near the age of “WOOPS” where hormones are no longer reliable and pills can have more damange to the body and produce tiny people in the mean time.

And it happened again.

And again.

I sought out my OB here. She confirmed it’s a cyst. “Some people get those,” she said. And sent me home to let it burst and get re-absorbed.

That motherfucking hurt.

Both emotionally and physically.

Finally, oh FINALLY, a week ago I found a doctor who sat and talked to me for an hour. In one hour she figured out the key to look in to.

PCOS. Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome.

PCOS, according to Medline:

Polycystic ovary disease affects hormone cycles. Hormones help regulate the normal development of eggs in the ovaries. It is not completely understood why or how hormone cycles are interrupted, although there are several ideas.

Follicles are sacs within the ovaries that contain eggs. In polycystic ovary disease, there are many poorly developed follicles in the ovaries. The eggs in these follicles do not mature and, therefore, cannot be released from the ovaries. Instead, they form cysts in the ovary.

So when I ovulate, which doesn’t happen on Birth Control pills or during pregnancy, the only times I’ve had relief, my body starts the ovulation process as usual putting cysts in the follicles. One grows to maturity and the others get pissed off and jealous and start a war in my ovaries. Then they grow, get angry, and burst and I cry on the bathroom floor.

Illustration:

Yesterday, ass I lay on the floor in Yoga, cussing out my ovaries, I heard a “pop” of the egg getting released. (ok, not really, but aren’t you that in tune to your body, too? no?) I told Mr. Flinger, “THERE WILL BE NO SEXY TIME” as our potential child makes its way down the long hall to the exit. I find myself curling up and squeezing my ovaries like I could just pop the cysts all bubble-wrap style.

For the first time in my life, though, I have something to look up. Some reason. Something to diagnose.

It can lead to stroke, type 2 diabetes, and heart disease.

It’s painful. It prevents losing weight. It causes depression.

I’ve never been to happy to hear those words.

Knowing is not just half the battle, it’s been my whole battle. Knowing means finding a solution.

So here, this week, as I clutch my pissed off ovaries again, I’m hopeful it’s one of the last months I do this. An end of a horrific era. And in that light, I find myself singing ALA Adam Sandler: Piece Of Shit Ovaries.

I ovulate like a Terminator.
Not like other gals
Producing eggs and cysts and such
that never make it down canals

It hurts like a mothah
and you crackers otta know
Being an egg in my ovary
Is one giant free throw

There’s competition among the follicles
and most always lose
‘cause that piece of shit ovary
Stubborn and refuse

Piece of Shit Ovary
I got a piece of shit ovary
Broken mother uckah ovary
I got a piece of shit ovary

If you ever, say, challenge your spouse to a “let’s see if we can have sex before the oven timer goes off,” be sure you tell people it was a pot-roast, not a batch of cookies.

:: cough ::

I have this group of friends that I love hanging out with. I usually see them, what, once? twice? seven times a week? Whatever, it’s a lot. I actually think I start to twitch and get bored when I don’t. They’re awesome. We laugh. We fart. We giggle at our kids and take fun photographs.

We also menstruate together.

It’s the oddest thing; someone will start their period and a few days later we’re all shoving chocolate and wine and Advil in our mouths. It’s been going on for some time now and we can’t figure out why we’ve all synced up.

I always said it was some sort of pheromone but nobody believes me. Sitting in a cubical back during my technical support days, every one of us gals in my group got whacked out to my crazy cycle. That’s right, I was blamed for making six women late each month.

I pee on sticks for a reason, people.

So consider my shock this morning when I start 8 days early. (Why YES, I am sharing this information with THE INTERNET. Is that weird or something?) Having never, in my life, been early for anything, much less a menstrual cycle, I can only think one thing: That BBQ at Laura’s house.

That betch threw me off my cycle.

This is a thing, right? Haven’t you ever read The Red Tent? Everyone gets in a tent and sheds their inner lining? I mean, come on, this goes way back before cubicals and playdates and BBQ’s.

I wonder if we’ll sync up online? If the mommy bloggers will all start PMS-ing at the same time?

Just get yer grubs off my chocolate. And pass a tampon.

The following is a true story.

There may be one or two things The Internet doesn’t know about me. You know that I fart when I laugh, I’m hopelessly clutzy and I tend to stop conversations at awkward times. You also know I don’t have enough sex and I pooped with my child in a sling.

But lo, I continue to amaze the internet with true, albeit half interesting fact about my life.

About six years ago I was in a job I hated. One of those jobs that you take thinking it will be one thing and it turns out to be another. One of Those Jobs that you come home from with permanent wrinkles in your brows and cussing.

Now, you know Mr. Flinger is the, shall we say, analytical type. This engineering mind sometimes bleeds in to home life. Like, say, when I ask what he wants for dinner he’ll sometimes let his eyes drift upward while he charts out the contents of the fridge in a mind-excel sheet. Or when I complain too much about work…

After a lengthy time of hearing me bitch about said job, he decided to have me sit down and write out, nay, write AND RATE exactly how each activity in the day made me feel.

On a scale of 1-10 in no particular order:

Eating: 8
Working out: 9
Having Sex: 9
Working at Shitty Job: 2
Sleeping : 10
Watching TV: 7, maybe an 8 if I don’t have to watch UFC or WWE
Hanging with friends: 9
Having Coffee: 9

He then took my scoring and multiplied each activity with the hours per day I did said activity. Sleeping and Working were obviously the two highest time suckers. (Sex was still in the chart because this was pre-children. We all know right now, while it rates a 9, it’s multiplied by NEVER which, as we learned in third grade Sex * Never = Zero.)

After all was said and done, multiplied and calculated and graphed, he decided I should quit my job.

Seriously.

We learned several things in this process. One, he was meant to be an engineer. Two, I was not. and Three, I like sleeping more than any thing else I do in a day including having sex.

That last one is still true. Which begs the question, why don’t I ever go to bed on time?

Because blogging might be a nine and a quarter.

And my new job: A nine and a half. Most days.

The kids? Well, they don’t get on the scale. Everything else would pale in comparison.

Maybe, even sometimes, sleep.

Maybe.

*p.s. I’m on my way to the Damn Motor Vehicle today. Wish me luck.
*pps Thank you so so much for your caring thoughts to my Brother In Law. We love him, too, and are so very proud. So. Very Proud. Thank you. I’m sending money with a gift from you!
*pps I promise to put a link-yourself mr.linky on Brutally Honest next week. I just found an email from Mamikaze that she participated. Darn the spam filters!

Baby O has slept through the night four times in nearly six months. The man is assuring his status as a last child. He’s assuring his status as “sex killer.” He’s coming dangerously close to pissing me off. At some point you have to think to yourself:

“What the fuck did we do?”

Don’t get me wrong here. I love my son. He’s singlehandedly turned me in to an ooey-gooey baby person. He’s made me fall in love with a helpless, tiny being that can do nothing more than eat/poop/sleep/scream. The smiles, laughes and talks now are all bonus to me. I’d love him as a blob.

I’d love him more if he slept.

I’m so fucking tired, Internet. I’m tired, I’m cranky, I’m sick of being sick. Not sleeping combined with germs “out there” make for a sick Flinger Family. I’m tired of it. I’m sick of it.

I just want to fucking sleeeeeeeeeeeppppppppppppp.

Fuck the “IUD/NO IUD” debate. I’m going in. If all it means is five years of no chance of “oooops!” then I’m in.

Well, if we ever have sex again.

It’s a good thing he’s so cute.

i

Internet, I love you. If I wore lipstick, I’d write a big heart with our initials in it on a paper napkin while we we’re out to drinks together. “I heart Internet.” I’m not thinking the neosporine chapstick has the same effect. But I’d kiss a napkin and write my phone number on it if I could.

I went to the doctor yesterday for an ultrasound. The vaginal variety. (seriously? The most action I’ve seen in months. MONTHS, I tell you.) The technician was just lovely. I even stayed IN THE STIRUPS while I talked to her after the session. Hi! You just stuck a wand up my vajayjay. Let’s talk about the housing market!

As it turns out, I had a very large cyst on my left overy, which is gone now, and hi! I ovulated. Swell. Can someone sit down with my girl parts and explain that they JUST had a baby and, well, it’d be nice to take some time off of the reproduction and all? Thank you.

So, I’m ok. In fact, I’m fine! I’m “You can have a martini and resume sexual activity” fine. To which I told the nurse, and I quote, “HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! The martini? Great idea.”

Here I am, again, Internet, all volunerable and scared (hold me) asking you for some advice. What is your experience with an IUD? Because if I google the Marina IUD? It’s scary as hell. Tell me it’s swell. Tell me it’s wonderful. Tell me you LOVE your IUD. And then tell me I don’t need to buy stock in condoms. Because only a 97% birth control rate is just not ok to me.

This weekend I was much blessed to go on a Girl’s Weekend with two of my best friends from college. We took a ferry over to a little island just off of Seattle. (Thank you, Grey’s Anatomy, for making me a complete spaz about Ferry rides.) We indulged in copious amounts of chocolate and pastries and shopping. It was exactly what I was needing. It was quite lovely, in fact.

Since we planned on doing a lot of laying around at the hotel, we rented the first season of Sex in The City. Now, mind you, I am not a virgin like my mom was when I was born, but overall, my sex life is fairly… um… normal. In fact, it’s about as exciting as rat pellets. And, really, I like it that way.

So, let’s just say that Sex in the City was educational for me. It was a learning experience. It was, oh my god, so many booby shots. So. Many. Boobs.

My life as a single woman did not come anywhere near the llfe of single, sexy, stylish New York magazine writer who spends 400 dollars on a pair of shoes. My life as a single girl was so very placid and tame. It’s almost too boring to recall. Boring and utterly normal.

Life as a pregnant woman is some-what spicier. I’m able to talk with a sense of knowledge. I’m a married woman who both farts and seduces her husband in the same

hour

ten minutes. I have a sense of freedom now that I’m secure in who I am to share things and laugh about the state of affairs in Flingerville. It’s nice. It’s comfortable. It’s boring as hell.

I ordered some room service per CB’s raging need for meat. The girls and I were on disc two of season one and well in to an episode about blow-jobs. There is a knock on the door and as I open it up, take the food, and sign the receipt, there is a male voice on the TV, “Oh, come on! At least lick my balls!” The gal from the hotel looks at me, I blush profusely, and she heads off.

And that’s when I looked like the pathetic pregnant woman ordering food while watching Porn. Thanks to the beds where the girls sat hid from the doorway, there could be no other explanation. It was porn. And I’m a horny, hungry pregnant lady.

But what else is new?

Haven’t you heard? it’s all the latest rage to freak out about Global Warming.  But I have the answer. I know the cause. Don’t bother spending billions of dollars on research. Stand near my two year old and you’ll be exposed to more methane than you think is humanly possible.

We all have “The Bug.” I made a rash decision not to take LB down to Oregon this weekend (alone. read: ALONE) when I was feeling just so exhausted and she had a runny nose. I thought, “just in case” I’d keep her up here. “Just in case” turned in to puking two hours later. “Just in case” turned in to the most wicked poo ever. “Just in case” brought Mr. Flinger and I to our knees both hugging different toilets and cursing day care.

I will never, ever, again be “too busy” to get a flu shot, or “too pregnant” or “too clueless” of where to go. Welcome to Flu Season. Grab a mask.

The amazing Vanishing HayHay.

Damn, cleaning up down there is starting to be a lot like letting a blind woman in a crowded market with a machete.

Ouch.

Everyone Woman will want this for Christmas. Think of the women going in to labor! Or perhaps for the woman on your list who currently gets to share her hayhay with at least one other person once a month at those OB exams!

It’s better than a pre-labor pedicure!

Everyone run! Supplies won’t last long.

(Hat tip to Seuss for the link.)