Archive for the ‘romance’ Category
When you first go to a fertility clinic, which we did on the advice of an OBGYN after six months of trying naturally netted us zero babies, they don’t really diagnose you like you expect they will. Instead they do tests and they try to fix the things they can fix and then when that doesn’t work they make comments in passing about what they think could be causing the infertility while also, when pressed, saying, “It’s probably a combination of things.”
The things it’s a combination of?
1) I have endometriosis.
2) I had surgery for endometriosis 4 years ago which removed some eggs and may have left scar tissue on my ovaries preventing the fallopian tubes from picking up the eggs. (NOTE: I didn’t realize the surgery might complicate matters to this degree. At the time it seemed my hand was forced because there were masses on my ovaries and they had to rule out cancer which no one really thought it was but surgery was the prudent thing or so I’ve been told. Even my dad who’s the most overprotective father/conservative doctor in the world agreed it was the right call and at the time I was just happy I woke up with a womb still inside me NEVERMIND THAT IT WASN’T FUNCTIONAL AND WAS ONLY ONE OF THOSE TRENDY DECORATIVE WOMBS.)
3) I have a short luteal phase which means from the time I ovulate to the time my next period starts is shorter than it should be meaning it’s possible I’ve been getting pregnant every month and miscarrying every month although I really don’t think this is likely as I feel like I would know if I were pregnant and it’s my belief that I’ve never once been pregnant.
4) I traded my fertility for a beautiful singing voice and human legs ages ago.
5) I’m one hundred and eleven years old.
6) I had polyps but those were removed and while no one knew if removing them would allow me to get pregnant, they did know that leaving them in would prevent me from getting pregnant except I just talked to two women who had babies while they also had fibroids/polyps so go figure.
But back to this age thing.
For the longest time, I saw myself as something between a whippersnapper and a prodigy. I was an extremely verbal child. I was holding conversations, interviews really, with adults at the age of 3. I wrote for the Los Angeles Times while I was still in high school. I was a professionally published writer all throughout college and I was published in People and Rolling Stone immediately after I graduated. I was in advanced classes and my friends were older and I always fell for older guys. I put an immense amount of stock in being and seeming older than I really was, which in retrospect is a sign of immaturity.
The thing with being so precocious in a professional sense is when something pulls ahead like that, something else probably always lags behind. For me what lagged behind was truly, in earnest, going through all the rites of passage and the stages necessary to become a mature, centered, fully integrated adult. My dating life and social life in general was nascent. Hold while I look up nascent.
Hm. Not sure that’s what I mean. Latent? Hold please.
Yes, that’s more what I mean. Dormant.
“Have you had much experience?” the first guy I ever kissed asked me on the phone a few days later. I was sitting in my childhood bedroom, which is where I lived, chatting on my duck phone which quacked instead of rang. Also, its eyes lit up red. Satan-style. The truth is I never liked that phone (sorry mom/dad!). It smelled like shellac and looked like it belonged in a hunter’s man cave. Before receiving the duck phone as a gift, because I liked all duck-related things, I had a pretty white trimline phone with keys that lit up. That was an attractive phone. But then I received the satanic duck with its brown keys and brown cord and I felt like I had to both use and like it because I’d made a big show of liking ducks. When you’re young what you like is who you are and I was the girl who liked ducks, and so I kept it while my pretty white phone sat unused in the garage.
The phone that got away
Back to the making out. For the record, it did not come naturally. It was very awkward and forced and I feel uncomfortable just thinking about it.
“Oh, I mean, sure I’ve slobbered on guys at parties,” I said as if this were neither a ridiculous nor disgusting thing to say. To me this seemed a perfectly reasonable, entirely fabricated answer suggesting my makeouts with men had happened at such a fast clip I barely could remember one sesh from the next. It was just a blur of lips and, apparently, saliva.
I wish I had access to my parents’ collections of family photos right now so you could take a gander at what I likely looked like as I was having this conversation. A few keywords? Big, frizzy hair, clear braces (clear on top, metal on bottom, natch), black leggings, an oversized shirt or sweatshirt, possibly a felt fedora and in general, fat.
“Huh,” he said. He would later break up with me because I was too “sarcastic” but what I think he meant by that was that I was too “unwilling to have sex.”
It’s not that I was a prude, it’s that I knew my limitations and I was barely able to kiss a guy without seeming like a spastic uncontrollable and unrelatable dork. The idea of ratcheting up the level of intensity up and down the amount of clothing terrified me.
What was I saying?
Oh yes, my friends were dating and beginning to have sex and getting to know themselves and other people and growing and maturing and I was wearing a silly hat a la Blossom and coming up with ways to lie to guys I met at coffeehouses while searching for even bigger and boxier blazers to pair with leggings and chatting on a duck phone.
Speaking of phones, which I just want to do for a few moments longer before returning to all the other stuff, at one point we had a beige cordless phone the size of a baguette. Not the size of a french roll which would be an appropriate size for a phone but I’m talking full on baguette that could serve 7-9 people. If you were talking on this phone and wanted to walk through a doorway you had to turn sideways. It’s possible I’m exaggerating a tiny bit although it’s also possible doorways were narrower. I mean, this was the 1840s when people were 17 pounds and you were lucky to see your 30th birthday and phones were the size of giant baguettes and no one had one in their covered wagon.
Being that this was the 80s, and I was in love with squiggles which you’d know based on my earrings and brooch, I grabbed our family collection of paint pens and metallic markers and besquiggled the fuck out of this phone. By the time I was done it looked like the opening credits of Saved By The Bell. And my parents were totally ok with that. I think they take a lot of heat in my stories for things like yelling a lot when I was young and not telling me I was Jewish until I was in my early 20s but when it came to encouraging expression on phones, they were tops.
So anyway, I guess what I was saying is I seemed mature for my age from a certain vantage point but I was also very behind for my age if you looked at it another way. But I think I still identify with the former so it’s weird to find myself on the ass end of this fertility curve.
I also have a zillion million more things to say and explain regarding my decision not to freeze my eggs, the way I never chose to have kids late in life but maybe refused to make having kids a priority in the way I should have, thoughts about 5 year goals and how my answer was always just “to be happy,” reasons why I didn’t prioritize having kids as I feared that would introduce a whole bunch of desperation into my dating life which I think we’ve established wasn’t going gangbusters and other stuff including but not limited to bangers and fizzies. Actually neither bangers nor anything fizzy (other than my personality and my urine if I’ve been holding it for a loooong time and am letting it out with maximum velocity) will be mentioned but I just felt I needed to rope you in.
Ok, this all will be continued. DON’T GO ANYWHERE.*
*unless you need to. I’m not unreasonable.
Because we’re doing the Tournament of Rosen on the show, there’s a renewed interest in why it is I’m single. Instead of explaining over and over again I refer you to this.
Ok don’t cry you guys, but it’s looking like I won’t be doing an ARIYNBF show tonight because I have to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow. Did you know I grew up with a father who always pronounced it “crap of dawn?” Not because he didn’t know the correct idiom but because he thought it was funny to say crap? I did. This is the same man who would bait his children into saying the word “tank” (as in fish tank) so he could quickly say “you’re welcome.”
But anyway, back to how I’m breaking your hearts tonight: I’m sorry my dears! It’s quite possible I’ll go live at some point but it will just be me and my overwhelming charisma, not me and my overwhelmingly charismatic friends. All this, of course, is also because I’m changing the show time to Sunday. Could you be more excited? I really don’t think so.
In other news, yesterday was a busy day and in the audition I was actually asked to discuss something I’m passionate about which, if you’ve been watching my show or listening to me ramble on lately you’ll know is something on my mind. I’m pretty sure the guy operating the camera appreciated the chance to listen to me pontificate about not only my passion but about the very question and what it means and blah blah blah. You might think I’m using “blah blah blah” as a space holder to indicate that I was longwinded but I actually said “blah blah blah.” Not really, but wouldn’t that be funny/horrible if I did?
Which all brings me to some dating advice Dustin gave me recently. He told me I needed to stop externalizing my interior monologue because guys hear me discuss all the stuff going through my head and attempt to parse it or find some meaning in it related to them when really it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just me thinking out loud and grappling with my colossal intellect. (I added that last part.) The deep irony for someone who over-analyzes like me is the idea that someone could talk and talk and talk and it would mean nothing which means all those attempts at over-analysis are futile. Perhaps I’m the exception that proves the rule. Or I’m a hypocrit. Oh no, I’m doing it again. And by the way, if you feel lost and like you weren’t able to follow the last few twists and turns don’t worry, I pretty much have no idea what I’m talking about either.
But on to more pressing matters: showering. Since I have to be up at the aforementioned dawn crap tomorrow I’m thinking I’ll shower tonight however I’m sitting here feeling like I also want to shower right now. A morning AND night shower in one day? That’s sheer madness.
Oh, also! I’ve been given clearance to post some portions of essays I’ve been working on. They’re long so I think I’m going to post them in chunks at the same time each day. It will be like a serialized soap opera, only not a soap opera. You know?
Just say yes, it’s easier that way.
Also, it might be 412 degrees in this apartment.
Also, if you’ve ordered a tshirt and you’ve been chewing at your pen caps wondering where it is, good news: the mailers I was waiting on arrived so I’ll be putting the tshirts in the mail ASAP.
Last night on the show I played a video that I thought was hilarious by show guest and Canadian pal (and guy who autographed an orange and gave it to me) Andrew Hunt. Here’s the video. Please make him famous so he can make me famous-er.
Update! Maybe THIS is my problem!
Watch my progress: ustream.tv/alisonrosen
I’m the kind of person who can feel attachment to just about anything, as evidenced by the way I name my plants and can’t bring myself to buy a fish because I know it would crush me to find Fred or Skippy (the name of my fish) belly up and to feel I had failed him. The irony, and now I’m not sure if that’s the correct usage of irony or the casual incorrect usage which eventually will become the correct usage since words are losing their distinct meanings and pretty soon we’ll all walk around “bemused” with “notorious” iPads that “literally” say “MLGHRF” on them and what was I saying? Oh yeah, the odd or unexpected thing here is that I can’t bring myself to buy a fish and yet I dream of having a puppy. You might be thinking, “Don’t you mean a dog? You know that puppies don’t stay puppies forever, right?” however I really just mean a puppy. I definitely don’t have time to deal with anything that’s losing cuteness and gaining size by the day. In fact, I fully intend to make any puppy I purchase sign a contract stating that either party may terminate the arrangement at any time.
I was thinking about attachment though because vronsfan2005 got his wisdom teeth out and tweeted about it and I got mine out some years ago and I was remembering that a few days before the procedure I was sitting in my chair at Time Out New York thinking, “These teeth will never be in this office again.”
I can also recall having trouble throwing away a sock many years ago, and Dustin (who is not my boyfriend! I realize that my blithe references to him may scare off potential suitors and I’m in no position to scare off any potential suitors since my biological clock is ticking hard and I really want to get married and have babies immediately, in fact that’s what I tell guys I go on dates with when I explain that Dustin is not my boyfriend). Where was I? I really need to quit going on these long parenthetical tangents and then thinking I can get myself back on track. I’m a writer, so if anyone can I can, and yet it’s as if I’m driving a car and while trying to get back home I lose interest in retracing my steps and instead decide to just pull over and build a new different home. So my point was that Dustin is not my boyfriend, we’re just friends, but once he busted me about my socks.
Anyway, I think maybe I’m a proto-hoarder. I have hoarding tendencies. Of course, I think probably everyone does which is why that show is so popular.
Oh and RSVP to my Ustream show on Wednesday, won’t you? It may or may not feature Jim Norton. It will definitely feature me talking about this whole online dating thing.
So I was talking with Trevor earlier—Trevor who incidentally is today’s guest on The Daily Alison as soon as YouTube sees fit to get off its ass and finish uploading that piece of digital celluloid magic—and we began talking about dating as we often do. Well, first we talked about potential themes for Trevor’s next appearance such as Under the Sea or Jamaica Me Crazy or Cabaret. Then we talked about what we’re looking for in a significant other. And then Trevor began shooting the following question around to people he knows and I said that I wanted to pose it to my blog readers because I love them and I will not experience anything without including them. Love me, love my blog readers! So here is the question. Please weigh in:
If you could date someone who had only one exceptional quality and all else was average, what would that quality be?
I personally am choosing between smart, witty, funny, kind, and symmetrical. Lord knows I love a symmetrical man.