tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4508497570798980982024-03-13T19:49:07.392-04:00Ashley. Unscripted...Because I said so. That's why.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.comBlogger197125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-39198274593312639942012-01-28T23:02:00.001-05:002012-01-28T23:02:40.841-05:00What do you mean you don't love shoving things up your nose?I am presently almost 2 weeks out from having my poor, sad nasal membranes brutally violated. And by brutally violated? I mean scraped, shrunken, and then packed with "resorbable" stuff. And by packed? I mean shit is shoved up my nose making it hard to breathe and then move my face.<br />
<br />
Prior to this incident, the only surgery I had ever had (other than the birth of my child, but that one doesn't count since I was awake) was wisdom teeth surgery. But that was fun. They started the midazolam (pharmacist speak for REALLY fun go to sleepies drug) and I got all goofy. They finished and woke me up and I was WAAAAAY goofy. I vaguely remember trying to walk, and then falling, and then giggling hysterically "I'm drunk off my ass!" This? Not as much fun. I remember the midazolam, but I also remember them waking me up as they are ripping the stupid breathing tube from my poor, assailed windpipe. My nose hurt. Like. A. M. Effer. Nurse tells me "You've already received 300mg of fentanyl." (Pharmacist speak for lots of drug.) But my nose hurts. And it's bleeding. And I look like hell. And there is an extremely attractive anesthesia student running around here somewhere. And I don't have on any makeup.<br />
<br />
I don't remember much after that except for the blood. Oh. God. The. Blood. And the Neti Pot. And the fear of brain eating amoebas from said Neti Pot. (Have you ever used one of those? Holy hell, it's pretty cool.)<br />
<br />
I'm pretty good now. My voice is still all nasally and whiney sounding. (SHUT. UP. I hear you. I do not normally sound whiney. Bite me.) Ashley Unscripted Live In Concert in my car sounds altered. (But does that stop me? Hells to the no.) I went back to the doc on Thursday and he kindly ripped out a tiny piece of adhering tissue for me. Thanks man. I LOVE having cold, pointy metal objects shoved up my nose. Love it.<br />
<br />
This shiz will be worth it if I don't repeat the sinus infection cycle in about a week. If not, I shall just crawl in a hole somewhere and bitch and moan. And bitch and moan some more.<br />
<br />Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-61412434633488482932011-11-22T21:58:00.001-05:002011-11-22T22:11:53.611-05:00The trouble with Teh Google<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-a5gpBhrvmnM/TsxhLIRBWxI/AAAAAAAAAsY/5Y0UJZvbWWo/s1600/sinus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-a5gpBhrvmnM/TsxhLIRBWxI/AAAAAAAAAsY/5Y0UJZvbWWo/s1600/sinus.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<i>Disclaimer: Those are not my sinuses. I don't have those cutesy little curlique things where my nose would be.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
This should totally be my favorite time of the year. It's finally changing from hotter than two rats making love in a wool sock to slightly less hot than the innermost circle of hell. The leaves are changing colors. It's fall. The holidays are right around the corner. To be trite and cutesy, it's the most wonderful time of the year.<br />
<br />
Except it's not.<br />
<br />
I can't breathe. I am presently on my third round of antibiotics. That's right. Two ten day courses have not helped quell the battle that is presently raging in my sinuses. Now we're trying a 17 day course. <br />
<br />
The air pressure changes and my nasal passages close up faster than, well, damn. I'm out of funny analogies. I am on sinus infection #3 of the Fall 2011 season. <br />
<br />
And I don't get the normal fun sinus infections that normal people get. I get the gushy bloody nose, pounding like a migraine sinus headache, ears pounding like a <i>insert really dirty word here</i>, coughing like an 8 pack a day smoker, talking like one of Marge Simpson's sisters infection. And sadly, this is not one of the times where I tend to embellish. It's all true. I answered the phone at work last week and someone thought I was a dude. Dude, I am totally not a dude. (I may be a gay 12 year old boy trapped inside a 30-something year old woman's body, but genetically, I am not a dude.)<br />
<br />
It's time I take matters into my own hands. My poor regular doctor is ready to wash his hands of me. I know he rolls his eyes every time he sees my name on his schedule. <br />
<br />
I remember loving the ENT that did CFKatWO's tubes. I call him. I go see him. He sees me. He says, "Holy crap your nasal passages are inflammed." Well, he didn't say it quite like that, but that's what he's thinking. I KNOW. He sends me for a c/t scan. C/T scans freak me out. This is where he made his first mistake.<br />
<br />
Rock Star ENT asked me to get a disk of the images from my CT. I do this. I bring the disk home. I pop it in my dinosaur desktop. I see scary things. I compare scary things with scary things on Teh Google. I have now diagnosed myself with a variety of things. Nasal polyps being the most benign. Adenocarcinoma or some scary sort of brain tumor being the most crazy. I try to pull the disk out of dinosaur desktop and it won't come out. It. Won't. Come. Out.<br />
<br />
After some wrangling with a paperclip and the face plate of the processor, I get it out. I'm scared I have scarred it for life, and I'm going to have to explain to Rock Star ENT on Monday why the disk was erased.<br />
<br />
I will know more on Monday. <br />
<br />
I'm not good at waiting. So I am going to look at those images a few hundred more times and try to find a conclusive answer on Teh Google. Yes. I should stay away from it. But I can't. It's not in my nature.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-88129844709591800722011-09-25T19:49:00.001-04:002011-09-25T20:04:10.227-04:00Raw.It's been a year.<br />
<br />
If I had known then what I know now, I don't think I would have gone through with it. Actually, I KNOW I wouldn't have gone through with it. I knew that if it went badly, that the fallout would be bad. But I had absolutely no idea just how bad it would be. I had no idea just how deep the depths of despair actually are.<br />
<br />
I'm talking about my round of IVF.
I entered it with such grandiose expectations. I don't think I was misinformed, or improperly pumped up about it. I'm a woman of science. I knew what I was getting into. I knew the odds. That's why I was so excited. I was the ideal, textbook if you may, candidate. I was so desperate to be pregnant, that I wouldn't let myself even speculate on the fact that it might not work. I was too scared to. I was terrified of what it would do to me.<br />
<br />
I was right to be scared.<br />
<br />
About ten days after my embryo transfer I took a pee stick pregnancy test. It was negative. I told myself, no way would it work. You've had so much water to drink today. There's no way it would be positive. In the back of my mind I knew, but I kept shutting that part of my mind off.
After having the blood test done and being told that it would be several hours before I knew anything, I went home and peed on another stick.<br />
<br />
Negative.<br />
<br />
I finally allowed myself to think about what had until this point been unthinkable.<br />
<br />
My worst fears were confirmed hours later with a phone call. Time stood still in that moment. Everything around me stopped.
I had two perfect embryos. Two perfect soon-to-be-babies. I saw them floating around on a screen. Those were supposed to be my twins. I had been calling them Flannery and Faulkner, because again, I wasn't even thinking that there could be a negative.<br />
<br />
Now they were gone.
That phone call was the start of a huge downward spiral for me. I retreated deep into myself. Only a few people were able to reach me there. I would have moments of clarity where I would feel that everything was going to be alright, but then those demons would reach back up and pull me down again.
I was too weak and too sad to fight against them.<br />
<br />
This battle has raged on for the better part of the last year. The good moments are beginning to outweigh the bad again. But the last two weeks have found me chasing those demons again. So many things about this time of the year are reminding me of where I was this time last year.
I want to scream at last year's me, "You can make it through this. You are strong. You are powerful. You are bigger than this whole process." But of course, I can't do that. Last year's me wouldn't hear of it. Last year's me would laugh in my face and tell me I didn't know anything. And when last year's me got that phone call, I would hold her in my arms and tell her that she would be okay. That this too WOULD pass.<br />
<br />
And it will. Eventually.
It still hurts. It still hurts a lot, but I'm a long way away from last year's me. The bitterness has left me. I am fully capable of holding a brand new baby and rejoicing in the joy that it brings. I have a beautiful brand new baby nephew. He is perfection. I'm so glad I have pushed through a lot of the pain and am able to enjoy him. I have celebrated the births of many friend's new babies. And I could not be happier for them. Anytime anyone needs someone to hold their squishy, delicious little bundles of joy? I'm your girl.<br />
<br />
I don't know where I go from here. I do know that I can never do IVF again. Never. Ever.
There are other options that may be explored, at a much later date. For the moment, I have a five year old that keeps me firmly on my toes. He's taking French in kindergarten, and it won't be long until he's cussing the Hubster and I with French dirty words.<br />
<br />
I'm battling my demons. I will not let them drag me down again, at least not without an epic battle.<br />
<br />
I am strong. I am powerful. I AM bigger than this. And I will be okay. Maybe not today, probably not tomorrow. But I will be okay.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-76902336928285476382011-09-14T22:22:00.004-04:002011-09-14T22:38:42.937-04:00Tales from Unscripted High (as in High SCHOOL you sick twisted freaks)...<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rBQgzKw1e-I/TnFh6I51wsI/AAAAAAAAAsU/N-6Au0_2kn0/s1600/cheerleader.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 223px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rBQgzKw1e-I/TnFh6I51wsI/AAAAAAAAAsU/N-6Au0_2kn0/s320/cheerleader.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652406658777072322" /></a>Long, long ago, in a town far, far away, we revisit our beautiful princess. Our princess had a dream. This dream was one that was shared by little girls all over the world. Our princess wanted to be a cheerleader. <div><br /></div><div>(Our princess had repressed those memories, but recently a Facebook cheerleading alumni group ignited some looooong since hidden memories.)</div><div><br /></div><div>It is important to note that our princess lacks any athletic prowess. In fact, our princess sucks at anything involving movement in a coordinated manner. This is not why our princess wanted to be a cheerleader. That's right y'all. Ashley. Unscripted... had but one reason in mind for wanting to wave her pom poms in front of millions of people. The Uniform. </div><div><br /></div><div>Seriously. Who wouldn't want to flaunt their goodies in a short pleated skirt, bloomers (with matching hair ribbons), and socks that matched 14 other girls? </div><div><br /></div><div>Our princess had cheered in middle school. So she had some experience. But this was the big leagues. This was potentially VARSITY. In tenth grade. </div><div><br /></div><div>Try outs came. Our princess was dealing with a heartbreaking break up. She channeled her pain into her "moves." And guess what? SHE MADE IT.</div><div><br /></div><div>She made it. She looked absolutely adorable in the uniforms. She rocked those pom poms. Sadly, there was one majah problem. Our princess? She had no rhythm. She stood out like a sore thumb when it came to doing any sort of moving around in public view. But she did look damn cute with her chemistry book studying in between quarters.</div><div><br /></div><div>And Tim Gunn? Totally would have approved of <s>me</s> our princess in her skirt.</div>Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-28243125145803000022011-07-06T20:36:00.004-04:002011-07-06T21:04:23.824-04:00Story TimeGather round children. It's story time. That's right boys and girls, Ashley. Unscripted... is here with a story from her childhood. It's a scary story, so if you are easily frightened, or are lacking in continence, it's probably a good idea to click away.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h_Bx2AR_JXI/ThUBdVCr1TI/AAAAAAAAAsM/vp6HEmWO2SQ/s1600/possum.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 245px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h_Bx2AR_JXI/ThUBdVCr1TI/AAAAAAAAAsM/vp6HEmWO2SQ/s320/possum.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626404912845542706" border="0" /></a>Once upon a time, in a land far, far, far away, there lived a beautiful princess. This beautiful princess had but one chore that she had to complete every day. It was her royal duty to see that her royal cat received it's royal dinner. The royal cat's name was Prissy, and she was the most beautiful, long-haired, gray kitty in the entire kingdom. <br /><br />One evening, our princess makes her trek to the royal porch where she knew Prissy would be waiting for her royal dinner. Our princess was very shocked and surprised to see Prissy sitting on the rail of the porch. Although shocked, the princess was delighted to see her beloved royal cat and began to pet her.<br /><br />As our princess was happily petting her kitty, she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. To her surprise, here comes Prissy walking up to eat her dinner. The princess was terribly surprised and confused. If Prissy was walking up to her on the porch, then what in God's name was she petting?<br /><br />It was a possum. A creepy, scary possum, that was clearly in need of some attention. <br /><br />You could hear the screams of the princess in all the neighboring kingdoms.<br /><br />The. End.<br /><br />The moral of this story? Possums are scary sons of bitches, but maybe they just need some love. Nah, they are indeed scary sons of bitches.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-4704224003989719372011-06-15T20:42:00.003-04:002011-06-15T20:53:38.388-04:00I can't feel my ass.<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RGTxkwoYPBc/TflSAudWgkI/AAAAAAAAAr8/18xLd0KZMDg/s1600/ptracyanderson2_1431640c.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RGTxkwoYPBc/TflSAudWgkI/AAAAAAAAAr8/18xLd0KZMDg/s320/ptracyanderson2_1431640c.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618612182546022978" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">**Language warning for the pearl clutchers and small children**</span><br /></div><br />Level 3, Day 6 is complete. This is after a brief hiatus due to a large, scary ovarian cyst named Gertrude (I told you all my girl parts suck). Level 2 was tough. Level 3? Level 3 takes no prisoners. If I burned a calorie for every time the word F**K came out of my mouth while doing this level? I would weigh two pounds right now. <br /><br />In level 3 we meet something called the "attitude butt lift." When Tracy says "attitude butt lift", what she really is saying is "this one is going to make you cry, you weak little pussy." For serious. And when she says, "we'll only do thirty of these", you want to breathe a sigh of relief. But that's misleading. You would rather do eleventy hundred of them than just thirty. Because each and every one of that thirty will make you cry. And it's not really thirty. It's usually a two part move, so you're really doing sixty.<br /><br />As I sit here typing this, filling the room with my post workout smelliness, I can't feel my ass. Seriously. Can't feel it. I'm thinking it took a vacay. And my thighs are pretty pissed off at me as well. But they'll just have to get over it. Because I? Am well on my way to bringing sexy back. Bitches.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-40606001051855866652011-06-10T14:48:00.002-04:002011-06-10T15:06:54.831-04:00Sum, sum, summertime...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x8x4Oop-zZk/TfJnQLevQxI/AAAAAAAAAr0/SgovWJtV9M8/s1600/safari.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 245px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x8x4Oop-zZk/TfJnQLevQxI/AAAAAAAAAr0/SgovWJtV9M8/s320/safari.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616665212941714194" border="0" /></a><br />It's that time of the year again folks. The weather turns warm, and people automatically think that no matter what size or shape they are, it's perfectly fine to wear as little as possible when going out in public. <br /><br />It's a beautiful, super hot, Friday afternoon. I am working tomorrow morning, so I am off this afternoon. CFKatWO is at school on a pool trip of his own, so I'm thinking this is the perfect opportunity to take my Tina Fey book (hysterical by the way, you must read it if you haven't already) to the pool for a little sun.<br /><br />There I sit. It's early on a Friday, there aren't many people hanging out at the pool. It's perfect. Until my bliss is disturbed in the worst possible way. Well, that's not entirely true, I'm sure my bliss being interrupted by the sounds of someone drowning would be much, much, much worse than this, but still. I've always been one for hyperbole. And digressing...<br /><br />I'm not paying much attention to the man approaching my side of the pool deck. That is until I am blinded. Blinded by pink zebra stripes. That's right boys and girls. This guy? Is decked out in only a pink zebra striped speedo. He proceeds to do some stretching before jumping in the pool. Come on, everyone knows you need to stretch before a tough workout. And stretching in a zebra print banana hammock is ALWAYS a good idea.<br /><br />So what do I do? I grab my phone of course. No, I don't start snapping pics. I fear that I would have been blatantly obvious. And the last thing I want is a pink zebra budgie smuggler in my face demanding that I delete said pics. Plus, I fear what someone would think of me upon finding my lost phone and perusing through my pics. No, I begin texting everyone I know to tell them of my plight. One dear friend offered me bleach to erase the terrible vision from being permanently imprinted on my cranium. Another asked how big the package was. (Dirty, dirty, dirty girl. I am NOT looking that closely. Plus, the pattern is a little distracting. And dizzying. Especially in the sun.) The rest? Just laughed at my ordeal.<br /><br />I am impressed with Pink Zebra's stamina. I guess that nad sling really does make you more aerodynamic (aquadynamic?). He did laps for a long time. And he did change it up, throwing in some back stroke, and using one of those board things. But then I remembered he was wearing a pink zebra print nut sack and I ceased to be impressed.<br /><br />But this fashion icon's story didn't end when he got out of the pool. No. Our hero dried himself off, and jumped into a pair of knee length jorts. <br /><br />I suppose I should be greatful that they weren't booty jorts...Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-17391188161086351732011-05-16T20:30:00.003-04:002011-05-16T20:36:36.699-04:00Status ReportI have just completed day 3 of Tracy's Omnicentric Metamorphosis Level 2. Level 2 is scary. Level 2 will make you cry. Level 2 makes me feel STRONG.<br /><br />My legs? Feel awesome. Granted, my ham strings are hella tight, but still. My ass? Is tightening up. And lifting. My arms? Are getting defined. My shoulders? Sculpted. My hips and abs? Getting, skinny.<br /><br />I have lost four pounds. I have lost 2 inches from my hips, 1 from my waist, 1 from each thigh.<br /><br />I feel strong. I feel powerful. I feel hot. Granted, it hurts to move when I've been seated or lying down for awhile, but it's a good hurt.<br /><br />And I have a wicked girl crush on Tracy.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-10431711685205907212011-05-04T21:00:00.004-04:002011-05-04T21:26:01.235-04:00Dear Tracy, (A Luf Letter)Guess what bitches! I'm back. Yep. It's been entirely too long since I've paid attention to my poor, lonely little blog.<br /><br />But here I am. And I'm on a mission.<br /><br />I've tried workout plans and diets in the past, only to wind up failing miserably. And by miserably, I mean gaining back anything I lose and then some. Well, no more. I have met my match.<br /><br />This? Is my new BFF. My new idol. My new girl crush.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I6A2BwFdpKY/TcH30F8i95I/AAAAAAAAArY/pKhOK3oWtos/s1600/tracy-anderson.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I6A2BwFdpKY/TcH30F8i95I/AAAAAAAAArY/pKhOK3oWtos/s320/tracy-anderson.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603031885746993042" border="0" /></a>This? Is Tracy Anderson. Celebrity trainer extraordinaire. She also makes her miracle work available to the public. I bought her Metamorphosis series. I'm on day 4 of a 90 day (ass kicking) work out plan. Normally, I am ho hum about working out. Now? I am excited about it.<br /><br />But it's not without it's drawbacks. The cardio portion? Is dance cardio. If anyone has ever seen me dance, they would remember the striking resemblance between my dancing and that of Elaine on Seinfeld. Oh yeah. That's me. One big dry heave.<br /><br />But guess what? No-one's watching. Of course no-one is. I've double locked the doors and shut all the windows. Navy Seals would have a hard time breaking into my dancey dance lair.<br /><br />And muscle soreness? Oh hell yes. Two days ago, breathing hurt. A lot. But now? Pain is good.<br /><br />So guess what peeps? You get to go on this journey with me. This means yelling at me when I say I'm going to quit. This means screaming at me to put down the milkshake.<br /><br />I'm excited.<br /><br />Especially if it means I can look like this:<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7cx80OEarvY/TcH8jifBFSI/AAAAAAAAArg/y56AWjqgGOU/s1600/tracy_anderson2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7cx80OEarvY/TcH8jifBFSI/AAAAAAAAArg/y56AWjqgGOU/s320/tracy_anderson2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603037098908128546" border="0" /></a>Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-89139406224073791552011-01-05T20:41:00.003-05:002011-01-05T21:04:23.200-05:00Making every day pretty<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TSUfGFmDIvI/AAAAAAAAArM/nok_HwvJylM/s1600/kate-beckinsale-sexiest-woman-alive.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TSUfGFmDIvI/AAAAAAAAArM/nok_HwvJylM/s320/kate-beckinsale-sexiest-woman-alive.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558883504500187890" border="0" /></a>I'm typically not one for New Year's resolutions. I'm more likely to say, "This year I'm going to drink more!! Eat more!! Partake in more debauchery!!" But 2010 kicked the shit out of me. So many crappy, crappy things happened last year that I feel like it's time for a renewal of sorts.<br /><br />The whole IVF failure was only a part of the bigger picture of suck that was 2010, but that was where I realized that I had lost who I was. My identity was gone. The girl I had been before was gone. I was left with an emptiness so focused on one goal that everything else fell to the wayside. I truly lost myself.<br /><br />For me, 2011 is going to be about gaining that back. That's why I have made the resolution to make EVERYDAY pretty. That means doing something each and everyday that makes me feel pretty. If I look pretty, then I feel pretty, then everyone is happy. First and foremost, this means getting my fat ass in shape. Which is why Kate is sitting all pretty at the top of this post. She's one of my serious girl crushes. If ever I'm in doubt? I think of her. <br /><br />What else makes me feel pretty? Clothes. I love anything and everything to do with fashion. And makeup. I'm the one who anticipates the March and September Vogue and Elle magazines just to see what showed up on the Runways, and if there is anyway possible that I can replicate that. (I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I should have gone to design school.) I spent too many days just throwing crap together to get out of the house last year. No more. <br /><br />Another silly thing that makes me feel pretty? Music. If you happen to pass me driving down the road, I'm likely sitting in my car, iPod plugged in, stereo turned up LOUD. The louder, the prettier. And I'm probably singing at the top of my lungs. And I probably look ri-damn-diculous, but you know what? Some of my favorite moments of the day are spent in my car singing along to the songs that make me feel hot. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">My "Pretty Playlist"?</span> <br />"Mr Brightside" The Killers<br />"Anodyne" MWK or the David Cook version (oh to be that microphone stand when he sings that song, :::swoon:::)<br />Pretty much anything Kings of Leon does<br />"Say Goodbye" Dave Matthews (Holy. Hell.)<br />"She Will Be Loved" Maroon 5<br />Tori Amos makes me feel pretty in a dark and twisty way.<br />"Ohio Bloodbuzz" The National<br />"Boston" Augustana<br />"Girl is on My Mind" The Black Keys<br />"Skinny Love" Bon Iver<br />"Avalanche" David Cook (hold me...for reals)<br />"Black" Pearl Jam<br /><br />Load up your iPods, sing it loud, and go feel pretty!!Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-22988167053007345352010-12-20T22:39:00.004-05:002010-12-20T22:53:04.899-05:00The one in which I focus on the important issues...I consider myself to be not just a woman with a bebeh eating uterus, but a woman with a huge social conscience. Current events? I care about them. Big time.<br /><br />And there is an issue of majah importance that I feel should be discussed.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TRAi2Ili7qI/AAAAAAAAAq4/os3Ptvw8LDI/s1600/tom-brady-underarmour-240ls110810-1289247205-1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TRAi2Ili7qI/AAAAAAAAAq4/os3Ptvw8LDI/s320/tom-brady-underarmour-240ls110810-1289247205-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552976653961064098" border="0" /></a>Tom Brady with long hair, yay or nay.<br /><br />I understand his new look is drawing some serious scrutiny. I'm gonna go ahead and give it the very first <span style="font-weight: bold;">Official Ashley. Unscripted... Two Thumbs and Two Big Toes Up.<br /><br /></span>That's right.<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>I likes it. That whole dirty, unwashed look? Yum. O.<br /><br />(I can see my husband hanging his head in shame right now. Love you dear.)<br /><br />And while we're talking about scruffy, unwashed hot guys, allow me to take this opportunity to wish my boyfriend the happiest of birthdays.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TRAkZlmIMWI/AAAAAAAAArA/opOPMSZjwZ0/s1600/happybirthdaydavidcook.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TRAkZlmIMWI/AAAAAAAAArA/opOPMSZjwZ0/s320/happybirthdaydavidcook.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552978362555183458" border="0" /></a><br />(That look on his face? He just saw my FB profile pic.)Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-82907275719387028232010-12-01T17:16:00.003-05:002010-12-01T17:32:33.143-05:00Answers...sort of.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TPbM85XGxFI/AAAAAAAAAqo/IY_Zzw0RafI/s1600/angry_uterus_flip%255B1%255D.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 187px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TPbM85XGxFI/AAAAAAAAAqo/IY_Zzw0RafI/s320/angry_uterus_flip%255B1%255D.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545845337715295314" border="0" /></a><br />Today was back to the doc for our You Suck at IVF appointment. (Technically, I don't think that was the name of it, but same thing really.) I was terrified going into it that we were going to be told that my eggs suck, and that there's no hope. The Hubs doesn't seem to understand why I jump from point A to point Z in a matter of 5 seconds. I like to plan ahead, be prepared so to speak.<br /><br />We're sitting, waiting, then in comes RSD wearing a sad face. "You were supposed to be pregnant." No shit. (But since I love her, I say that in the nicest possible way.) She then proceeded to tell me that we were what she had considered to be "Gimme" patients. We were supposed to be one of the couples that got pregnant. Everything about our cycle was textbook perfect. Perfect eggs, perfect fertilization, perfect beautiful embryos. But clearly, something was not right. Not by a long shot.<br /><br />When looking at my lab work, there was absolutely no evidence of implantation. Almost as if my uterus was this vast wasteland where embryos go to die. So the problem doesn't lie with the eggs. The problem doesn't lie with the sperm(s). The problem could be more severe.<br /><br />It is possible that we fell in the 40% of women that simply didn't get pregnant because it wasn't their "time." Or, there could be a major impediment to the implantation process. It could be an immunological thing, meaning my body recognized the embryos as foreign bodies and proceeded to attack them (basically, my uterus ate them). Or it could be a clotting issue, meaning that the placenta is not able to perform. The phrase "sub-clinical lupus" was thrown out there, as well as "thrombophilia". (Note to anyone, do NOT google thrombophilia unless you're doing a school project on it and you're a million times positive you will never potentially be affected by it.)<br /><br />There are treatment methods for both of these issues. So, it's not really a bad thing, other than the freak out that there is potentially something wrong with me. Of course, these treatments involve infusions and needles, but bring it. I can deal. It's worth it.<br /><br />She also said that the few times she's seen these issues, they've been in women who have already had a child.<br /><br />The plan now is to have bloodwork drawn on Tuesday. (I have to fast for 16 hours ahead of time. Hubster is planning on having steak and lobster Monday night and laughing at me. I plan to kick him in the junk repeatedly.)<br /><br />Once we get the results back, we'll go from there.<br /><br />So yes, we have some answers. A.)My uterus is a bitch. And B.)My uterus eats bebehs.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-77914670863515101522010-11-25T19:50:00.003-05:002010-11-25T20:11:46.074-05:00I am so thankful...Part deux, I really am thankful<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TO8Go1BVmBI/AAAAAAAAAqg/Te0qOrkWtq4/s1600/happy-help-wedge-stale-thanksgiving-ecard-someecards.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 178px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TO8Go1BVmBI/AAAAAAAAAqg/Te0qOrkWtq4/s320/happy-help-wedge-stale-thanksgiving-ecard-someecards.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543656964813592594" border="0" /></a>As I'm sitting here quickly approaching a turkey coma, it's time to reflect on what blessings I have in my life for which to be thankful.<br /><br />I am thankful for my beautiful, brilliant son, the CFKatWO. I am thankful that everyday he provides me with something hysterical to post as my Facebook status. This morning was no exception. We're sitting all snug and cozy on the couch, watching the Macy's parade. "Mommeh, I wish I could see my butt." There you have it. My kid's Thanksgiving wish. I love that kid.<br /><br />I am thankful for my loving husband. However, I would be more thankful if he would tell me that he's opened the blinds in our closet before I go walking in there with my shirt over my head and flash the neighbors. He says I should be paying attention, and should notice that they're open. Really? You expect me to pay attention? I spend most of my day in AshleyLand. (It's a beautiful place.)<br /><br />I am thankful for a job that does not cause me to sit in my car and cry every morning before going in to work like I did with my previous job. I am also thankful that this job provides me with insurance that includes fertility coverage since my girly parts forgot how to work on their own.<br /><br />I am thankful that I discovered my creative side. I am thankful I bought my first pair of knitting needles, and am thankful for the sewing machine I got from Santa last year. I'm now able to channel my frustration into something creative and beautiful as opposed to cigarettes, booze, and loose men. (Although the latter of the two do sound like fun...)<br /><br />I am thankful that 2010 is almost over. Because seriously? This year has sucked a fat one. However, I am thankful that a lot of my issues this year have taught me that I am a hell of a lot stronger than I ever would have thought I was.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-18994912133338839222010-11-24T22:03:00.008-05:002010-11-24T22:44:53.763-05:00I am so thankful...Part 1, a.k.a The Ashley. Unscripted... Man HaremIt's that time of year again. Preschoolers and kindergartners all over the country are drawing turkeys out of their handprints and wearing construction paper feathers on their heads. I don't know about your kids, but CFKatWO is thankful for his family. And outer space. I mean, really, who isn't, right?<br /><br />I realize that I have give my female readers a bit of the shaft lately. (Heh, heh, heh. I said shaft.) Well, not really. I know this female can appreciate the hotness of the ladies I posted. So, in this 3-part "What A. U... is Thankful For" series, may I present Part 1.<br /><br />A. U... is Thankful For...her man harem.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. El presidente<br /></span>(Well, at least of the Man Harem)<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TO3Ug3Xi0JI/AAAAAAAAAp4/6QzcyoH2UIw/s1600/david-cook-album.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TO3Ug3Xi0JI/AAAAAAAAAp4/6QzcyoH2UIw/s320/david-cook-album.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543320377446551698" border="0" /></a>Yep, that <s>obsession</s>, um, love hasn't waned. Still love this guy.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. The "I Didn't Think They Were Hot, But CLEARLY I Was W.R.O.N.G" entry<br /></span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TO3WcVUKvoI/AAAAAAAAAqA/67ShlZ-N65Q/s1600/kol.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TO3WcVUKvoI/AAAAAAAAAqA/67ShlZ-N65Q/s320/kol.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543322498609364610" border="0" /></a>Pictures do not do these boys justice. I used to comment, "Kings of Leon, I wish they were hot." Well, I got my wish here because these guys? Are. Hot.<br />Welcome to the Man Harem boys.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. The New Boys<br /></span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TO3ZMqcFEaI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/m7t47_SF6Xw/s1600/mumford-sons-3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 258px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TO3ZMqcFEaI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/m7t47_SF6Xw/s320/mumford-sons-3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543325527936668066" border="0" /></a>I was headed back to work after being violated by the Vag Cam when I heard this catchy tune on the radio. (This is significant because very rarely do I listen to the radio. Usually The iPod of Shame is playing in my car.) After googling the name of the band, I began to swoon. Mumford & Sons? Welcome to the Harem. And no boys, you did not f*** it up this time.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4. Reason #876 Why I Love Guy-Liner</span><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TO3aWYMXPDI/AAAAAAAAAqY/mPlLujHmBfM/s1600/flowers3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TO3aWYMXPDI/AAAAAAAAAqY/mPlLujHmBfM/s320/flowers3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543326794349231154" border="0" /></a>Dear Brandon Flowers, you had me at Mr. Brightside. (For the life of me, I could not remember the name of that song just now. I had to google it.) Clearly, you wrote the book on the Do's of Guy-Liner.<br /><br />I could go on, probably for days, but I'll leave you all with these guys. <br /><br />Yum. O.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-84554144062344180472010-11-17T23:25:00.002-05:002010-11-17T23:39:13.899-05:00I'll take Things That Suck A LOT for $1000, Alex.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TOStucjtV5I/AAAAAAAAApw/leVk3h8-Qn4/s1600/kate-beckinsale-sexiest-woman-alive.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TOStucjtV5I/AAAAAAAAApw/leVk3h8-Qn4/s320/kate-beckinsale-sexiest-woman-alive.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540744455024105362" border="0" /></a>It's a normal Wednesday night. Hubster and I are hanging out, just having enjoyed what might have been the greatest episode of Modern Family ever. He's watching some college football highlight show, I'm knitting and perusing teh interwebs. A commercial comes on the tv. It's ultrasound images of beautiful, perfect fetuses (fetii?) in beautiful, perfect, pregnant women.<br /><br />"Hi! This is <span style="font-style: italic;">Insert Name of YOUR IVF nurse here</span> from <span style="font-style: italic;">Insert Name of RSD here.</span> Congratulations! You ARE pregnant."<br /><br />Hubster looks at me, "what was that?"<br /><br />Um, I believe that's the phone call we didn't get.<br /><br />Dear RSD, why don't you just stab me in the heart next time? It would hurt a whole hell of a lot less than seeing that commercial did.<br /><br />Confession time, I'm not doing well. I'm so not handling this failed IVF cycle well at all. I'm trying to at least pretend that I am. But I'm not. I try to act like it doesn't kill me everytime I see a pregnant woman. But it does. I can't help but ask, why not me? Why was it so easy with CFKatWO? What went wrong?<br /><br />Every morning I wake up, and one of the first things I think about is how long before we try this again. Physically, I am so not ready to go through that again. Mentally and emotionally, I am SO not ready for that again. But here's the thing, while going through that, I had hope. There was the hope that it would happen. Right now, I don't have that.<br /><br />And please, don't get me wrong. I am loving my time with CFKatWO. He is currently fascinated in watching me sew. He doesn't quite get why I won't let him handle the sewing machine or the rotary cutter, but he's so cute just hanging out and watching. I love that kid more than life itself, but I know how much he wants a brother or sister. Well, let's be honest. He wants a brother. He does NOT want a sister. (But I bet secretly he would adore a little sister.) It broke my heart a few days after we got our results, he put his head on my stomach and said, "Hi brother!" Gah. Really? Is all this pain necessary? Just give me one baby. Or three. I promise, I will never, ever complain one single minute of a pregnancy. Morning sickness? Schworning schwickness. Sleepless nights? Bring. Them. On. Hell, I'll grow a third boob just so I can breastfeed triplets.<br /><br />Why does this have to be so hard?Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-65965227487684065892010-10-31T19:36:00.004-04:002010-10-31T20:17:45.751-04:00A ghost of Halloween past...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TM3-he7pqOI/AAAAAAAAApo/_8Rt90LwELA/s1600/funny_halloween_pictures_5.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TM3-he7pqOI/AAAAAAAAApo/_8Rt90LwELA/s320/funny_halloween_pictures_5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534359368300603618" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />A repost, one of my finest (at least in my own mind) pieces of work.<br /><br />Let's revisit Halloween 2007, shall we?<br /><br /><em>Language warning for the faint of heart</em><br /><br /><br />Halloween is one of those days during the year when you realize that there is no faith to be had in the human race. The stupid, clueless people far outnumber those of us with half a brain. Take for example the moron that just rang my doorbell at 9:30pm. Our lights are off. We've been out of candy for the last hour and a half. "Trick or treat." You're kidding me right? You're seriously lucky you didn't wake up my child or your child, WHO SHOULD BE IN BED BY NOW, would have learned a few new vocabulary words.<br /><br />I'm sitting outside on my front porch this evening watching the crowds walk by and I find myself wondering, what in the hell is humanity coming to?<br /><br /><strong>Grumpy Halloween Observation #1-<em>The Town Whore Costume</em></strong><br />Apparantly this costume was all the rage this year. I'm thanking God right now that my child is a boy and I will never have to have the argument that "letting your ass and boobies hang out for all to see is not appropriate for an eight year old." (God help me if I do have to have that argument.) And what kills me is I saw parents with some of these kids. Seriously? What self respecting parent lets their child out of the house like that? What also scares me is who seriously think shit like that looks good? Come on. Seriously?<br /><br /><strong>Grumpy Halloween Observation #2-<em>Could you at least appear to make an effort?</em></strong><br />Would it have killed you to put on a mask or even a cutesy little headband with cat ears or something on it before you grabbed your Wal-Mart bag, or in the case of several I saw tonight your large purse, and went out? That's not trick or treating. That's called begging, and it's not becoming of you. Of course I give those people candy because those Wal-Mart bags once held eggs to be thrown at the houses of people who asked them why they couldn't have made more of an effort.<br /><br /><strong>Grumpy Halloween Observation #3-<em>Your newborn can't possible appreciate those Reese's cups. </em></strong><br />Chick shows up with a newborn, "trick or treat." Seriously? At least the newborn had a costme on.<br /><br /><strong>Grumpy Halloween Observation #4-<em>Where is the Shut The Hell Up truck when you need it?</em></strong><br /><em>Idiot woman: </em>"How old is your son?"<br /><em>My husband: </em>"He'll be 15 months old in a few days."<br /><em>Idiot woman: </em>"Oh, my child 11 months and is already taller than your child."<br />Seriously? Why don't you just go ahead and say, "Neener neener neener." I know you want to. Who in their right mind thinks that is socially acceptable?<br /><br /><strong>Grumpy Halloween Observation #5-<em>Fireworks and Halloween are NOT a good combination.</em></strong><br />What moron thought this would be a good idea? Aren't most Halloween costumes highly flammable? I mean, who hasn't seen that segment on the Today show where they light all the costumes on fire and they all go up in a blaze of synthetic material glory? And come on, don't you think the neighborhood dogs are freaked out enough already? I know my neighbor's dogs didn't appreciate my son the shark coming up to their fence and laughing at them. (Ha ha ha bitches, serves you right for those nights you kept me up all night.)<br /><br />Like I said, leave it to a day like Halloween to bring out the idiot in everyone, well not me of course.<br /><br />I would like to say to the adorable little girl who said, "ma'am is it okay if I walk on your lawn?" I puffy heart you and your parents for raising such a wonderfully, well-mannered child. Please take all these Reese's cups just for that.<br /><br />Happy freaking Halloween.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-32648021821280238622010-10-26T19:00:00.004-04:002010-10-26T19:13:07.994-04:00Fiddle-dee-dee. Tomorrow is another day.This day? Is going to go down as one of the worst days in my 32 years. After 4 painful hours of waiting, I get the "we're sorry, you're not pregnant" call. <br /><br />Four weeks of putting my body through serious hell for nothing. Nothing. I would like to take my remaining bottles of progesterone in olive oil and smash them on the ground, taking great joy from the noise they make as they shatter. I would like to build a bonfire and autoclave my own sharps container. I want to scream. I want to sob. I want to lay down and not feel anything at all for a while. But I am not going to do that. <br /><br />Yes, I am completely devastated. But, I'm trying to put a positive spin on this. I haven't shed my last tear, but I've got to keep things upbeat. That's the only way I'm going to make it.<br /><br />We don't have any concrete plan right now, definitely don't want to make any rash decisions. But we are sure that for the next few months we're going to take several months off of any hormonal assisted reproductive attempts. I'll start taking my temperatures again, just to keep up with what my body is doing. Hell, it got pregnant on it's on once before. How do I know there's not another miracle out there waiting on us? Then around the spring, we'll revisit IVF. <br /><br />In the meantime, I'm going to get my fat ass in shape. I'm going to do a lot of knitting. I'm going to master my sewing machine (dammit). And I'm going to enjoy every second with my wonderful family and amazing friends. The outpouring of love and support we have seen has been completely and totally overwhelming. <br /><br />I love you all.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-19645362593314047972010-10-24T12:06:00.004-04:002010-10-24T12:24:06.727-04:00Status Report<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TMRZo22j2II/AAAAAAAAApg/qpnGB8BsQQo/s1600/Shakira+in+black.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 257px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TMRZo22j2II/AAAAAAAAApg/qpnGB8BsQQo/s320/Shakira+in+black.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531644800771807362" border="0" /></a>(A personal favorite of mine)<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">It's now been almost 2 weeks since my retrieval, and I could probably be classified as clinically insane right now. The first thought on my mind when I wake up in the morning is, "am I pregnant?" The last thought on my mind before I fall asleep at night is, "am I pregnant?" It has completely taken over my life. Every minute of every day is controlled by obsessing over every single pinch and cramp. No, this is not healthy.<br /><br />In the interest of full disclosure, I peed on a stick the other night. However, this was a very dumb and stupid move. Not only was it ridiculously early, but it was late in the day and I had had a ton of water to drink throughout the day. No pregnancy test would show a positive, unless I was pregnant with octuplets. So obviously, it was negative. I tried to reason with myself that I was just testing to see if my trigger shot was out of my system (for those of you not down with the IVF lingo, this is the shot of the pregnancy hormone I did before my retrieval to "mature" my eggs. This is the hormone that pregnancy tests are looking for.) And honestly, because I was so extremely hydrated, the trigger might not even have shown a positive.<br /><br />But of course, common sense and book knowledge does not apply when you're in the middle of the IVF madness. This negative test sent me in a horrible depressed spiral that lasted for around 24 hours. It didn't help that CFKatWO's teacher asked me if I was pregnant, and told me that he has been telling everyone how mommeh has been giving herself shots so he can have a brother AND sister. **sob**<br /><br />I am much more rational now, well as rational as possible when you're still hopped up on hormones. We're down to the last 48 hours. By this time Tuesday, I should know one way or another. I. Am. Terrified. Seriously terrified. But not terrified enough to pee on another stick. No way.<br /><br />So stay tuned...<br /></div></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-55143951375604027212010-10-14T21:37:00.003-04:002010-10-14T21:47:05.043-04:00And now, we wait.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TLewcENT-1I/AAAAAAAAApY/jUk0NgRPF7U/s1600/kimkardashian.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TLewcENT-1I/AAAAAAAAApY/jUk0NgRPF7U/s320/kimkardashian.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528081063832976210" border="0" /></a>Today's hot chick is one of Hubster's favorites. Probably because we look sooo much alike. You know, what with the fertility drug bloat that I've got going on right now. I. Am. Hawt.<br /><br />Well guys, my IVF journey is all done except for the waiting. This morning was our embryo transfer. Today was the day that I never thought would get here. <br /><br />After recovering from my drugged out bliss on Monday, I awoke Tuesday freaking out that none of my eggs were going to fertilize, that they would all fail, and all of this would have been for nothing. Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long for the call that we did indeed have 5 beautifully fertilized embryos. Got another call yesterday saying that we still have 5 beautiful embryos, and I was given my directions for this morning.<br /><br />Hubster and I find ourselves back in the clean room at RSD's office. He's all decked out in scrubs, I'm looking supah hot in a hospital gown complete with shower cap looking hat. They bring us a picture of the bebehs that are being transferred. There are two of them. Each are 8 cell embryos. One is grade A+, the other is grade A. In other words? They are perfection. Yes, I cried. And their picture is now pasted up on my fridge. <br /><br />The transfer process was relatively easy. I had to take 10mg of Valium beforehand, which I have to say was pretty worthless. Although I think I was so hopped up on adrenaline that horse tranquilizers wouldn't have helped this morning. I also had to drink what felt like a swimming pool full of water as well. So I have to pee, and I'm not Valium-mellow. I did get to show Hubster the dildo-cam. Heh heh heh. I don't think he found it as amusing as I continue to do. <br /><br />So now? We wait. We wait until October 26 for my pregnancy test. That's 12 days. 12 long days. Luckily I'm going back to work on Monday, so that should keep my nice and busy. For now, I'm resting and knitting and trying not to obsess or google things that I shouldn't google. Oh, and I'm talking to my embryos. A lot.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-12721617954380760382010-10-11T15:57:00.003-04:002010-10-11T16:14:06.321-04:00My poor, violated ovaries<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TLNsgtMFTpI/AAAAAAAAApQ/E7-nU7OTQg0/s1600/Brooklyn-Decker.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TLNsgtMFTpI/AAAAAAAAApQ/E7-nU7OTQg0/s320/Brooklyn-Decker.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526880476855619218" border="0" /></a>There you go boys, enjoy. (Anyone looking at my hard drive would be seriously confused by the combo of hot chick pictures and random David Cook shots.)<br /><br />For those of you brave enough to read on. Of course, be warned that I am hopped up on pain meds, and the anesthesia is still in my system, so I'm a little loopy. Well, more so than normal.<br /><br />This morning was the egg retrieval. This is where they go in with the vag cam and a needle to remove all these eggs that have been rapidly growing over the last 10 days or so. This comes after a week of having to go in EVERY SINGLE DAY for blood work and ultrasounds. And lots and lots and lots of shots.<br /><br />Hubster and I go in this morning. We're quickly separated. Me to go get an IV and be whisked away to surgery. Him to go treat himself like an amusement park (hopefully) one last time. The whole process happened so, so fast. One minute I'm waiting on them to come start the IV, the next I'm coming out of the OR.<br /><br />I was concerned about the recovery part. The last time I had this particular drug cocktail was my wisdom teeth surgery back in college. Fentanyl/Versed Ashley is Very Very Annoying Ashley. I remember being very upset with my mother because she would not let me go into the pharmacy with her to get my scripts. Then I wanted watermelon sorbet from TCBY. Mom tries to tell me that I can't eat anything because I can't feel my lips. Who needs lips to eat! She complies, probably just to get me to shut up. Or maybe just for the sheer entertainment factor involved in watching someone who can't feel their lips attempt to eat. Oh yeah. Big mess. (I also announced to the entire oral surgeon's office that I was drunk off my ass. Nice.)<br /><br />But I digress...a lot...<br /><br />So now I'm home, they retrieved 7 eggs, which freaks out this over achiever. Of course, all the nurses and RSD told me that 7 was perfect. 7 was a great number. And I realize that it only takes one. Tomorrow I should know how the fertilization process is going. And then on Thursday some of these guys will be transferred back into the ol' uterus. <br /><br />As for right now, I have to pee. But it hurts. And I am afraid to get up. And my pain meds are on the other side of the bed. And pharmacists make the WORST patients ever.<br /><br />I want every last one of you out there in Blogland to keep your fingers crossed for happy fertilization.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-45812455957119850392010-10-05T18:01:00.003-04:002010-10-05T18:06:17.864-04:00Someone slap me.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TKugQc6tpoI/AAAAAAAAApI/87QerpzyVVk/s1600/assholio.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 263px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TKugQc6tpoI/AAAAAAAAApI/87QerpzyVVk/s320/assholio.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524685572400850562" border="0" /></a>Seriously. Someone slap me. I've had a pretty pitiful "Woe is me" day today. After my fourth doctor's appointment in seven days, I kind of had a breakdown this morning. IVF is hard. I knew it wasn't going to be easy. Hell, I knew it would be tough. I just didn't expect it to be so physically and emotionally draining. I have had several moments of just feeling completely out of my skin, not to mention that I just don't feel good. At all.<br /><br />But enough of that. I need to stop being an asshole. There is a huge reason for all of this, and eventually, when this is all said and done, one way or another it will be so worth all of this. I have patients who depend on multiple daily injections just to survive. I'm being an annoying whiney-pants, and I need to stop. <br /><br />So there. I'm calling myself out. Shots, vag-cam, what have you, I'm just going to grin and bear it.<br /><br />PS: Don't EVER Google image search "asshole." EVER.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-51146409520620093582010-10-01T21:45:00.003-04:002010-10-01T21:59:37.095-04:00Let's do some shots!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TKaPHqiJlKI/AAAAAAAAApA/l-FvVIhisNc/s1600/shotglasses.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TKaPHqiJlKI/AAAAAAAAApA/l-FvVIhisNc/s320/shotglasses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523259354855871650" border="0" /></a>No, not that kind of shots. The other kind. The pointy, hurty kind. Our IVF cycle is officially in full swing. And I've got the bruised belly to prove it.<br /><br />After another super fun appointment with bloodwork and dildo-cam, I got the go ahead to begin stabbing myself three times a day. (I should mention that I nearly knocked the dildo-cam off of it's little ultrasound machine when I banged it with my elbow. But don't tell my doctor, please.)<br /><br />Injecting yourself is a bit freaky. These are subcutaneous injections, so the needle itself is small. But one of the meds? Follistim? Burns like a bitch as it's going in. I did my first injections at work, and I know I shrieked the first time I injected that one. Now that I'm a seasoned pro? I still shriek.<br /><br />Being the sadist that I am, I used watching mommeh give herself a shot as a tool to get my kid out of the bed on time. He was excited, but that was short-lived. "I CAN'T LOOK!" Thanks for the support, man.<br /><br />Tomorrow it's back to the doctor for more bloodwork and another fun ultrasound. We may even get to add another drug into the mix in the next few days as well.<br /><br />I'll be honest, this is tough. Seriously tough. But if this is what it takes to give my child a sibling (or eight-I kid, I kid), then this I'll suck it up. But that doesn't mean that I won't whine. That's not in my nature.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-35468705886923521622010-09-26T21:03:00.002-04:002010-09-26T21:14:25.656-04:00Scared of my own shadow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TJ_t20ty5gI/AAAAAAAAAo4/ucTAq-kGxI0/s1600/bigscaryneedle.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TJ_t20ty5gI/AAAAAAAAAo4/ucTAq-kGxI0/s320/bigscaryneedle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521393194298959362" border="0" /></a><br />This is it people. Two weeks from today, my ovaries will have been brutally violated. And between now and then? Starting Wednesday? I get to shoot myself up with hormones at least twice a day. For the indefinite future.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">***DISCLAIMER: I am not complaining. I repeat, I am not complaining.***</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I came home from work on Friday to find a huge box of drugs on my porch. In this box were also big bags of needles. Lots of needles. Lots and lots of needles. Big needles. Scary needles. <br /><br />Needless to say, I have spent most of this weekend in a bit of an emotional panic. I'm scared. I'm scared of the shots. (I am a weenee with a capital WEE.) I'm scared of the retrieval. I'm scared of the transfer. I'm scared that there won't be any embies to transfer. I'm scared that once they're transferred, I'm going to talk to them so much that they're going to go off in search of a quieter uterus. (My uterus is anything but quiet.) Basically, I'm scared of putting my body through this, and then it not working. I'm not ready for that. Hubster says don't think of that, but I can't think only that it's going to work, because that's not being completely realistic. So many emotions, not quite sure of what to do with them. I think I'll stick with being excited. For now.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div>Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-87607618753327269772010-09-02T21:14:00.003-04:002010-09-02T21:30:06.739-04:00From the deepest depths of the ol' uterus...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TIBMdcGltBI/AAAAAAAAAow/mQY750UkGcY/s1600/katebeckinsalehot.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 208px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/TIBMdcGltBI/AAAAAAAAAow/mQY750UkGcY/s320/katebeckinsalehot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512490012545233938" border="0" /></a>Alright boys, enjoy the completely gratuitous Kate Beckinsale hotness.<br /><br />Everyone else, it's uterus time again! Yesterday was my "trial transfer" in anticipation of the real deal in a few weeks. This was Rock Star Doctor's chance to measure my uterus so she will know where to drop the embies when the time comes.<br /><br />For my 7:30 am appointment<span style="font-weight: bold;">, </span>I was told to come with a full bladder. I chugged the prescribed 25 ounces of water, and went on my merry way. They call me back immediately. <br />"Is your bladder full?"<br />Well, it feels that way.<br />They clearly think I'm lying, so they do an ultrasound. Not. Even. Close. I am given a big ass cup of water and sent back to the waiting room to drink. <br /><br />I get called back again. <br />"Is your bladder full?"<br />If it wasn't before, then it definitely is now,<br />Again, they think I'm lying. Ultrasound time! And again, not even close. Back to the waiting room I go.<br /><br />At this point I realize that I am going to be late for work. And guess what, I still don't have a phone!! Luckily I'm able to email Hubs on my ipod and have him call work for me. (I had totally planned on being early. Little did I know that the Bladder Police would be out to get me.) I continue to wait. And wait. And wait. And the need to pee keeps getting worse and worse and worse.<br /><br />FINALLY, they call me back. Apparently, my knock-knee-ed "I gotta pee" walk has convinced them that I am ready to go. In comes Rock Star Doctor (and the heavens open up and sing hallelujah). As she's explaining the procedure, I am terrified that I am going to pee on her. I wonder if this has ever happened to anyone before. I would really hate to be the first.<br /><br />I don't pee on RSD. And apparently, my wonky uterus actually looks good. Woot. Yay wonky uterus. Ultrasound tech comes in for some more Dildo-cam action. (That would be trans-vaginal ultrasound for all of you proper people out there. Bwahahahahaha, no proper people would be reading this blog. They started clutching their pearls at the word "uterus.")<br /><br />And that was that. But it took two and a half hours. However, we have our retrieval date tentatively set (10/10/10, tell me that's not good luck?), which would make our transfer date the 13th of October. Holy crap, that's soon. I am excited. And giddy. And nervous. And desperately trying to stay away from teh Google. No good ever comes from googling medical procedures.<br /><br />However, I might have to google more Kate Beckinsale pics, because damn. She's hot.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-450849757079898098.post-19701855958301024062010-08-30T18:50:00.002-04:002010-08-30T19:05:57.574-04:00I can't always be perfect.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/THw2DTzOk0I/AAAAAAAAAoo/33JyJjfazuU/s1600/derpderpshark.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 263px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_H8B4_wWjdgM/THw2DTzOk0I/AAAAAAAAAoo/33JyJjfazuU/s320/derpderpshark.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511339474477290306" border="0" /></a>As shocking as it may sound, I am not always a bastion of perfection. Every so often, I do something stupid. And in this case, I really outdid myself.<br /><br />Picture it, a lovely Saturday afternoon. We decide that we should go get ice cream. This is not something that should lead to drama. Well, not for most people.<br /><br />CFKatWO is being a pain in the ass. You would think that someone about to partake of ice creamy goodness would be cooperative. Not my child. I finally manage to get him to sit still long enough to get him buckled in his carseat.<br /><br />And away we go. We're riding down the road, on our merry way, when suddenly **thump, thump** we hear. Hubs and I look at each other. Suddenly, my blood runs cold. "What was that?" he asks. Oh no.<br /><br />"Um, I think it was my phone."<br /><br />"Your phone?"<br /><br />"Um, yeah. My phone."<br /><br />Hubs turns the car around to see if we can find the phone. You see, in my trying to get my kid in the car, I put my phone on top of my car. And forgot about it. I watch him cross the street, he's kicking the grass as he's walking. Oh yeah, he's pissed. We find the back of the phone, but that's about it.<br /><br />Looks like we're making a quick stop at Verizon before the ice cream shop. I love the expression on the chick's face when I tell her why we're there.<br />"Did you have insurance on the phone?"<br />Um, no. Why would I need insurance???<br />"Just wait right here and we'll be right with you," the look on her face clearly reads, "we are so about to screw you over."<br /><br />So yeah, they can help me. They can sell me a phone for the full retail price. Wow, really! That's awesome! I can pay $369 for the phone that you just sold that guy that was here before me for $50. Where do I sign! At this point, I'm not above begging. "There's nothing else you can do?"<br /><br />"Well, we do have this 1987 bag phone if you'd be interested. It's only $10." I kid, I kid. Although I would have reacted better to that than what the guy actually said. "Well, you really did just get that phone."<br /><br />Thanks asshole. I am aware of that. Sorry, I didn't plan on putting my phone on the car and driving away with it, making it a projectile.<br /><br />So now, I'm partying like it's 1994 and waiting on my "certified refurbished" phone to arrive. Great, I get the phone that some jackass returned after he left it on the roof of his car, only he had insurance so he got a brand new phone and I get his sloppy seconds. Or something like that.<br /><br />So yeah, sorry to burst your bubbles folks, but even I do something stupid every once in a while.Ashley. Unscripted...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05235064196733974124noreply@blogger.com0