Category Archives: iconography

It’s not over ’til the fat lady sings

I’ve picked myself up and dusted myself off after last month’s disappointments and distractions. ‘They’ say that the answer to life’s problems can’t be found at the bottom of a bottle… but I figured it was at least worth a bit of a look, just in case. A few weeks of drinking away my sorrows (after Devilboy was safely tucked into sleep) and I discovered that ‘they’ were right, there were no answers, but damned if it didn’t make me feel better anyway!

Now it’s time for another ride on the IVF merry-go-round. And time to start treating my unco-operative body as a temple (a fairly shambolic and slightly ruined temple I grant you, but a temple none the less) in readiness for one of the embsicles to be dipped in anti-freeze in preparation for it to have a viewing of my uterine real estate.

I’m daring to feel hopeful again, not in small part due to the lovely gesture of a dear friend and her hubby who gifted me a delightful new icon to join my collection of fertile misfits.

The Fat Lady of Malta is a prehistoric headless splodge of a girl with an alarming set of cankles and I simply adore her. Now, she and the other girls are all facing each other so they can catch up on some girly goddess gossip. Though T-FLOM is usually insanely busy with her cult-like following of Maltese women, she kindly flew all the way from Malta just to help me in my mission to procreate… and her very presence is making me feel more hopeful.

I mean seriously, if a chick with no head can get preggers… there must be at least a little hope for me!

1 Comment

Filed under iconography, IVF, Uncategorized

It’s not you, it’s me.

Things are weirding out in the house of Devilboy. 

I am moody and still feeling withdrawn. It’s almost like I’m not properly participating in my own life at the minute, which is most peculiar.  I expect to get a warning letter from myself to me any second saying that I am not being a team player!

The reality of the situation we once more find ourselves in is also making me feel a little detached from Devilboy, which in turn is making me feel more awful. Going through this process again should be making me thankful to have him, because making babies is clearly not our strong suit. But I think it’s causing me to put up a subconscious wall, which I am fighting, because of some irrational fear of loving him and needing him too much if he is to be our one and only. I know that I should just be leaping on him and squeezing him and loving him to bits like I normally can’t control myself from doing but instead am watching him with suspicion, knowing that he alone holds the power to truly break my heart.

I feel almost like I have to force joy right now, something that has been so very present since he was born, but that wonderful feeling seems to have vanished under a haze of medication. So dreary am I that I wonder if I shouldn’t remove myself from all social circumstances until this is over – lest I bore my friends to death with my blahness!

I guess the detached feeling must be diminishing a little as I appear to have arrived at that point of the process where the ususal  empathy I have for people has well and truly buggered off and I start sulkily resenting random pregnant women in the street. In fact, even some men boasting larger scale beer guts are starting to be on the receiving end of my covetous gaze, such is the sorry state of my infertile imagination. 

While I am not nearly self obsessed enough to expect the pregnant folk of the world to go into hiding just to make little old me feel less reproductively useless, I just wish that the twelve million that I bump into on a daily basis didn’t have to lay the proverbial boot in with such comments as “Hey guess what? I’m preggers… you know it happened on like practically our first try!” to quote this days object of my envious derision (not only for her fecundity but for her abuse of the English language and inane use of the word ‘like’).

Before pregnant folk begin collecting sticks and small rocks to fling at the silly barren chick, I have to add that I also resent myself for being such an uncharitable bitch! I confess to being a total cow, though in my meagre defence it is apparantly a very natural and common reaction to this situation.

To all my lovely friends who are currently with child, please allow me to elucidate. It’s most definitely not that I lack happiness about your pregnancies but more that I lack the ability to control my own feelings of disappointment in my lack of one. And whilst I confess that there is a tinge of green in my vision, it is nicely offset with the pinkish glow of genuine delight at your news and I continue to love your fabulously fruitful selves lots and lots. Mwah!

As punishment for my mean spiritdness I have put together a pile of consumable baby goodies for the Red Cross Refugee Services girls to help some of their new mums. It makes me feel more motherly to help out some other mums.

Meanwhile, my obsession with obscure fertility symbols continues unabated. M despises the new beaded African Ndebele Fertility doll I recently acquired. I think it’s quite quaint in an Afro/bespoke Dalek sort of way, whilst he thinks it’s simply creepy. But you see, I am stabbing myself twice a day whilst he is not… which clearly makes me right!

1 Comment

Filed under Devilboy, drugs, iconography, Infertility, IVF, misery, Uncategorized

See Spot Sob

The waiting really is the hardest part! I would give anything for a needle to inject or a blood test to take just to feel like I am participating in this process still rather than it being in the lap of the Gods (mind you, I’ve been sucking up to them all so I should be covered there)

Speaking of Gods, I got a lovely Aztec ‘thing’ yesterday which is yet another alleged fertility icon, as one can never have quite enough. Ixchel, as she is named, is a quite charming lump of deformed clay with large saggy breasts who is hanging on with both hands to her fabulously flabby gut. On her head is coiled a fairly phallic snake. She is wonderfully obscure and has happily moved in next to the other icons that, like me, love her for her grotesque uniqueness.

I have to say that since the truffle shuffle I have been erratic, moody, emotional and my head is on a constant rotating cycle of contradictory thoughts… positive, negative, hope, despair until I’m dizzy from it.

I am mean and moody. I yelled at our local pizza dude so badly that we had to find a new pizza place (he WAS being a twat but I admit to overreacting just a tad) and then I screamed at a random Foxtel guy (mind you they had stuffed us around and we were Foxless for nearly a month and this during the time when I actually craved inane television.) Thus far I haven’t actually physically attacked anyone and M has escaped unscathed from my abuse… but he is sensibly wary and knows it’s probably in the post.

I keep getting period like pains and twinges (that I am told to read nothing into by the staff at Casa Conception as it is probably just my drug addicted uterus having withdrawal symptoms from all the drugs I’ve been pumping into it)

Of course, being a human female, I am reading whole epic novels into the pains. The two most popular themes being “it’s the truffle happily implanting… joy!” and “It’s my period coming… it’s all over… Misery!”

I have been unsuccessfully trying to distract myself with anything at all… walks, chats with friends, movies, old favourite books, tidying, pretty shiny objects and even our newly restored foxtel in all it’s utter crapulousness and the cathode ray brain degenerator has proven to be my downfall.

Yesterday, somehow, I ended up engrossed in the tail end of the Channel 9 Midday Movie, the truly awful ‘See Spot Run’, starring a random Arquette. I have never desired to watch this movie and ordinarily such a movie would inspire me to shoot my television Elvis style… but ordinarily I am not a hyper hormonal, vague and moody idiot.

Only coming in, as I mentioned, at the tail end of the film, I was immediately engrossed in the exciting story of a clichéd bratty kid, a clichéd dickhead adult, a clichéd and clutzy Mafioso crime lord and a clichéd large unspotted dog called spot who is also an undercover FBI agent. Clearly this was essential viewing for a woman who has watched… and enjoyed… over the last few weeks the movies Syriana, Little Miss Sunshine, Eat Drink Man Woman and Babel.

I would like to share with you some real reviews of this tour de force of a film.

“It is possible, in fact highly probable, that the writers of this movie are as idiotic as the fat-headed lead character on screen.” Michael Thomsen, BBC

“What’s amazing about See Spot Run is that, granting how wretched it looks from the trailers and TV ads, it’s actually so very much worse even than that.” M.V Morrehard, New Times

“See Spot Run is one of those movies that make you put your head in your hands and mourn the death of popular culture.” Gene Seymour, Newsday

Sadly in this tale, the spoilt brat child has to give the dog he has had for all of 24 hours back to the FBI when it’s real identity has been revealed. My reaction to this was to sob… and sob… and sob… and sob.

Luckily, five minutes later the boy is given the dog back when the FBI trainer, who has loved the dog for years and invested his entire life into training said dog, that Spot loves the boy he has known for 24 hours much more than him and gives the boy the dog back. My reaction to this was to sob… and sob… and sob… and sob.

My reaction is telling me something. Firstly, hormones are very dangerous things. Secondly, IVF turns educated and relatively sane people into blubbering certifiable morons.

2 Comments

Filed under iconography, impatience, IVF, stupidity, waiting

Oh, that’s how you make babies.

I’ve been thinking about the reasons M and I have been unable to achieve a successful pregnancy and realised after a depressed afternoon in front of the ‘W’ channel exactly why.

We’ve been going about this all the wrong way. A healthy diet, herbal fertility treatments, acupuncture, temperature taking, weeing on sticks, avoidance of alcohol, drugs and caffeine plus anything else mildly amusing, a household full of fertility icons, IVF treatments and even sex just aren’t going to cut it. Pillows under the butt, a hundred books on conception and the sweet advice from friends to just relax (yeah right!) and being asked constantly ‘are you pregnant yet?’ also isn’t going to help.

I have realised now that I need to change my entire lifestyle if I want to become a virtual baby making machine.

Firstly I need to get completely hammered and shag M in the back seat of my dads car with a broken condom and cross my fingers I don’t fall pregnant ‘cause that would be, like, totally uncool.

Failing this I need to take up crack, preferably in conjunction with prostitution. After M and I move into our new trailer home I will also become an alcoholic with an addiction to anti-depressants and M needs also to become an alcoholic as well as beating me as frequently as possible.

M needs to have an illicit affair with another woman and leave me or I can have an illicit affair with an underage male, preferable a student… which may prove difficult as I am not a teacher. Illicit sex with another man or men, preferably Asian or African American, on the same day I have sex with M producing multiple babies of different colours is also a fabulous option.

If all else fails I just need to have sex with Kevin Federline.

According to my television any of the above will guarantee us an abundance of babies… and the TV would never lie.

2 Comments

Filed under accupuncture, iconography, Infertility, IVF

Don’t let the door hit your resin arse on the way out.

She had to go. It was either her or me.

I am, of course, referring to the previously mentioned Kwan Yin, my recently acquired festeringly ugly icon of fecundity.

Kwanny didn’t survive the month. I had to avert my eyes every time I saw her/him for her/his abject hideousness and vague resemblance to a Hermaphrodite Virgin Mary bothered me greatly.

And it wasn’t just me who felt this way. Our household never accepted her/him . M thought she/he  repellent, Eddie  snubbed her/him and the other icons didn’t play nice either… because she/he was ‘different’. Now before you get the wrong idea, the icons in our household are all very open minded and supportive about Kwannys sexual ambivalence but unfortunately, like their owner, they are intensely shallow and feared her/his grosse ugliness could somehow rub off and tarnish their own statuesque loveliness.

She/he has now been banished but for fear of otherworldy reprisals, has been replaced with her/his prettier self. I found the lovely Kwan Yin 2 today in an Asian Artifacts store and though still of dubious sexual orientation she is a beautiful and ethereal bronze and all the other icons fancy her greatly.

More importantly I find her simply devine and any magical conception charms she can send our way will be happily received without fear of them grotesquely deforming our future offspring by osmosis.

Leave a comment

Filed under iconography

Are you there Gods? It’s me, Stupid.

The list of my accomplishments in the field of abject stupidity is growing daily.

In the office yesterday I walked into a wall. We only have four and it isn’t that hard to navigate a square virtually unfurnished room or so I thought back in the old days when I was still capable of them.

It occurred to me last night that ‘perhaps my brain just needs feeding’ but after an hour I realised I was still on the first page of my book and that many of the words had more than one syllable. I decided instead to send my beloved to fetch me some trash of the type that really has no words… only pictures of thin blonde heiresses. By using the full force of my three functioning brains cell I managed to finish that… though with some difficulty.

Phase two of Operation “Entertain the Idiot” was to watch a movie. Nothing too complex… just a generic action blockbuster designed as fodder for the great unwashed. Unfortunately my skills of concentration meant that I was still mentally processing scenes ten minutes after they had finished and couldn’t even keep up with a plot written for and by the sub literate. I gave up on that and went to bed early to enjoy millions of little dreamettes of random ridiculousness. Another alarming side effect of Lucrin is that even my dreams are dumb!

So dumb do I feel that it has crossed my mind that they’ve been injecting George W. Bush with Lucrin for years. That’s right, I feel ‘W’ stupid! Though whilst the IVF fairies are making me a vacuous, vicious arse… I haven’t as yet felt the need to invade another country or become a fundamentalist religious hypocrite… so far.

Although… in saying that my house has turned into a virtual religious shrine. I, who have never been particularly suspicious or indeed secularly inclined for many years and who counts amongst her favorite books this year, Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion, has been picking up every possible piece of mildly symbolic fertility crap and fecund religious iconography that I cross paths with!

I have Buddha’s multiplying rapidly – a Buddha of compassion, the biggest fattest most extraordinarily jolly lucky Buddha I could find, serene Buddha for moments of calm, and a few little generic Buddha’s scattered around the house. I even have the most peculiar Buddha I have ever met… a ghastly kitschy thing surrounded by comical babies that is in fact an ‘official’ fertility Buddha but on closer inspection more resembles a lardy pedophile.

I also have a skinny and malnourished looking Cambodian interpretation of Ganesha… the lord of beginnings and overcoming obstacles (and allegedly the god of intellect so he’s clearly malfunctioning in that area – have a sandwich Ganesha and get back on the job!) and his much sexier dad Shiva, the destroyer of evil and creator of the new – also known in our house as the Toilet God because this is where he lives.

There is our beautiful little ‘Turtle Dragon’ which is bestowing upon us long life and lucky new beginnings as we speak. Then we have ‘Wasll’, named thus by my beloved for reasons completely unknown to myself, he is a rather large 100 year plus old Burmese man with an enormous penis wearing what appears to be rather full nappies. Wasll (pronounced Wassell), who has become a very important member of the family, has a rather unfortunate moustache and is doing an alleged fertility dance…  and looks more than a trifle queer.

Diana, the Roman goddess of nature, fertility and childbirth has been with me a long time, in fact I uncovered her in a little shop in Ireland years ago. She is a beautiful little thing lolling about starkers with her legs in the air whilst shooting something from her bow an arrow. It’s probaly a dart full of Lucrin.  I’ve always found it amusing that she is also known as the ‘huntress’ as shooting things and fertility/childbirth seems a somewhat unlikely combo – though ironically my own battle with fertility has had me so frustrated that there has been more than one occasion that I’ve been ready to shoot things too.

An Egyptian cat, protector of family and good omen of fertility and birth looks upon this confused collection of multicultural and multitheistic idols with typical feline disdain and all these magical fripperies are complimented by the lovely double happiness candles given to me by a dear friend.

The newest addition to my collection is Kwan Yin. Kwan Yin is a girly Buddha of Mercy who moonlights in fecundity – although there is some dispute over whether Kwanny is actually a boy or a girl. Kawn Yin is an essential part of any obsessive catalogue of fertility icons. And so she was purchased in haste. And there lies the problem. Unlike the other members of my collection who, besides the pedophilic fertility Buddha, who does have his own special charm, have all been lovingly collected on our travels and are antique, artistic or simply beautiful, Kwanny is a thing of inspired ugliness and simply isn’t floating my aesthetic boat.

There better be some good vibes coming from you soon Kwanny – until then consider yourself on notice!

6 Comments

Filed under drugs, iconography, IVF, stupidity, Uncategorized