Jacki Jaguar....this is your life

I need to preface this post by saying that I am not the type of person who has to go on Jerry Springer to air my dirty laundry, figure out who my baby daddy is or tell my mother that I am sleeping with her new boyfriend. I'm just not. But apparently....some days it feels like I am.

I have since recovered nicely from the news that Tom and Kathy are pregnant. My bitterness and rage has mostly subsided and they are now yet another couple that I am in awe of because they are growing a baby. Tom is leaving Friday for a year in Iraq (I can't even process this it makes me so sad, I'm sure I'll blog about it later). Last night, they had a bunch of people over for a last get together.

So Kathy has a sister, Marilyn. Marilyn's a freak. There's no better way for me to sum that up. Marilyn and I were in Kathy's wedding party together and Marilyn was not only mostly useless, but a huge hindrance. Picture "I'm jealous my sister's getting married before me" plus "I'm outrageously irresponsible" plus "I only think of myself and alcohol" and you'll have: Marilyn, maid of honor extraordinaire. Now add me, blunt-responsible-planner-Jacki, into the mix of Marilyn's antics and you have outraged-disgusted-tantrum throwing-Marilyn because how dare I say that we need her help with something (which I said very respectfully, I swear). So, yeah, we're not exactly close.

Can you guess who was at the get together? Ding ding ding ding!!! Marilyn! Let the mayhem ensue!

Marilyn brought two of her three children with her. Her two girls, three and six years old, are beautiful, amazing kids. I've hung out with them a handful of times and am happy that they remember me. I am thrilled when the three year old, Liza, draws a picture for me. I think it was me back in my Mr. Potatohead phase. Boy, I'm glad I grew out of that.

Side note: You should know that this small get together included five children, two pregnant people and three moms. There was a lot of pregnancy and baby talk. But I was a trooper. Sure, I was a drinking trooper, but I was a trooper nonetheless.

I'm hanging out in the living room and Liza sits down next to me. A few minutes after that, without thinking, I'm scratching her back. (My niece loves when people scratch her back and now I often scratch kids' backs without even noticing I'm doing it.) Liza's little voice pipes up, "Can you scratch my back harder?" With a pang of sadness, I scratch harder and wonder when am I going to get to scratch my own kid's back. Then I giggle as I watch her wiggle the back of her shirt up a bit so that I'm directly scratching her skin.

Later, after the party has winded down some (meaning the kids have left except for, of course, Marilyn's because she keeps them at grownup, alcohol filled parties), I head out to sit on the front porch for a little. I was in some kind of drunk, philosophical mood and wanted a few minutes to myself. Marilyn comes out, sits down and we start chatting. Here's the thing, it was a good conversation. It was a conversation about how she's disappointed in herself because she keeps trying to quit smoking and failing. I was encouraging, telling her that most smokers make several attempts at quitting before succeeding and to just keep plugging away at it. Each failure is getting you one step closer to the time you'll be able to quit permanently. We talked a little about our families. It really was a good, normal talk.

Marilyn heads in and I reflect on the conversation and myself for a bit. Maybe I've been judging Marilyn too harshly. Maybe it's just that we're different. Maybe we're just two people trying to make our way through this crazy world. Maybe I need to be more understanding and accepting. My friend, Andy, comes out and I share these thoughts with him. He's drunk. I think he was kind of indifferent to my thoughts, but I can't remember because I was kind of drunk, too. Liza joins me on the porch and asks me to blow bubbles with her. My heart fills with bittersweet emotions again as I wonder when I'm going to blow bubbles with my own kids. She invites me to scratch her back. I oblige.

Eventually, everybody heads in except for me. I'm still philosophizing (copyright: 2008). Infertility does this to me I have found. It keeps me in my head a lot, trying to make sense of my new infertile self in this very fertile world.

Finally, I'm too cold to stay out any longer and head in. I join everybody else to watch a movie. I stretch out on the floor under a blanket to try to get warm again. Liza, who's sitting in front of me, turns around and says, "Jacki, I'm cold." She crawls under the blanket, puts her little head on the front of my pillow and nestles into me. I can't really describe it. It's not a lump in my throat. It's more like a heaviness in my heart.

As we're watching the movie, I hear sucky sounds behind me. What is that? Are you ready? Sit down if you're not already because this is going to be more than you can handle. Marilyn is sucking face with a guy while her children are in the room. I'll pause while you reread that and let that sink in......................are you good now? Not good, but okay, because there's no way you can be good after reading that. She is making out with someone while her children watch a movie less than ten feet away from her. I'm so digusted and freaked out I can barely stand it. How on Earth are you fertile and I'm not? How do you get to have these beautiful kids when you're making out with someone while I'm filling your role of chief cuddler to your daughter?

Eventually, Liza wanders off and I doze off on the floor. The party, now small, continues but I'm too tired to join in. The noise of the party rouses me at different points but that's about it. Until my husband kicks my pillow. What the hell?

"Jacki, get up! We have to go right now...get up. We have to leave now." What? Why? Is the house on fire? What happened to gently rubbing my back to wake me? What's the urgency? I stand up groggily rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

"What happened? What's going on?"

"Marilyn just touched me. We have to go!" Whoa...what?! I can now vouch for the fact that nothing will wake you quite as quickly as hearing the news that a slut has touched your husband. Mr. Jaguar then explains that he was in the kitchen, Marilyn came in, threw her arms around him and herself up against him and her mouth headed for his mouth. At the time, he had a freezie pop in his hand (Thank God for the freezie pop!), which he jammed in his mouth while turning his head and pushing her back.

Her response: "What? I'm just falling." What the f%ck? He then tells me that he tried to leave the kitchen and she ran to the doorway, fell to her knees blocking the entrance while making more inappropriate remarks and I'm sure sticking her skanky, little chest out. Mr. Jaguar made his escape through the back door with her trailing behind. Oh.My.God.

I stand there processing all of this information. My poor husband actually looks traumatized. You could tell he felt violated. He was so flustered. What's funny is I know my husband has women talk to him at the bar when he goes out with the guys. I completely trust him and don't really care who he talks to because I know he won't cross any lines. So seeing him so upset about Marilyn made me very aware of the fact that she had just taken a flying leap over many, many lines.

What the hell am I supposed to do now? Do I hit her? I'm bigger than her and I guess maybe I could take her. I've never hit someone before. What if I do it wrong and hurt my hand? I do have nice hands. What if she hits me back? That would probably hurt. Also, this girl has clearly proven her white trash status. I'm pretty sure that all trashy people are squirrely fighters, like it's genetic. She may try to rip out my nonexistent weave or hit me with her shoe. It wouldn't be hygienic to be hit with someone's shoe. Decisions, decisions. I envision myself grabbing her from behind by her hair and threatening her through gritted teeth and then just leaving her there (picture Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing when he gets in a fight with that guy after leaving Penny's room after she had to get an abortion but then just says, "You're not worth it. You're not...worth it!" and throws him to the ground, yeah, that would be me). My optional variation of this plan is to push her face-first up against a wall and then threaten her through gritted teeth and then tell her she's not worth it.

I suddenly have a vision of her two children waking up in the middle of the madness. "Why is Jacki hurting Mommy?" or worse for me, "Why is Mommy hurting Jacki?" My decision is quickly made. I pass on my Swayze-crazy moment and just go home. For now, there will be no instance where good surpasses evil, where Super Jacki defeats her nemesis, where wholesomeness overcomes sluttiness.

As I'm falling asleep that night, I think back on the conversation I had with Marilyn earlier in the evening and my subsequent reflections. Maybe I've been judging Marilyn too harshly. Maybe it's just that we're different. Maybe we're just two people trying to make our way through this crazy world. Maybe I need to be more understanding and accepting. Or maybe you're just a whore who's trying to bang my husband. I laugh aloud and fall asleep next to my awesome yet now slightly scarred husband. Hopefully, he won't wake me up in the middle of the night, in a cold sweat, from a nightmare where he relives Marilyn trying to violate him.

Be sure to look for me next week on Jerry Springer's latest episode, "She's a ho, fo' sho". I promise to throw my shoe and hopefully, I'll have an opportunity to bear my breasts to the audience and all of America. Well, the people of America that actually watch Jerry Springer.

Why I'm going to Hell

She is pregnant. She as in the one person who was not supposed to get pregnant before me. She is 7 weeks pregnant.

Many of us have a she, the one person who is just going to send us into a blind rage of devastation if she gets pregnant before us. Mine is a friend, Kathy, who lately feels like more of an acquaintance. In another setting, I'm not sure we'd find each other to become friends since we don't have much in common. But here, we are, having discovered each other because our husbands are best friends. And so we muddle our way through a friendship that is sometimes awkward, but other times quite rewarding. She and I have lately had some issues in our friendship that we have just recently struggled through patching up, but that's a different topic entirely.

Let me start from the beginning.....

Friday was a great day overall. I was finally starting to feel more like myself after some rough infertility days (see my two previous posts). I had a fun day with my students. We had our annual tech meet. It's this day when the kids work in small groups to complete a project and, while it was a hectic day, it was fun. I drive home, feeling the warm sun on my face, grateful that is is finally the weekend. I chat on the phone with my friend, Annie, who is Kathy's sister-in-law. Annie even asks me what I am so happy about. My response: I dunno. I'm just in a good mood. It's so nice out. (Not that I'm usually miserable. I just had extra pep that day.)

My husband arrives homes from work and tells me we're invited to Tom and Kathy's to grill. Sounds great. More time to sit outside and appreciate the weather. Head right over. The husbands run out to grab some stuff at the convenience store. I make myself a drink. Kathy and I are chatting while I mindlessly flip through a gossip magazine, my back to her, as she folds laundry.

"I have something to tell you that I'm scared to tell you..." Oh f*ck me, you have got to be kidding me! F*uckity f*ck f*ck! She doesn't even have to keep talking. I know what's coming next. And it does, "I'm pregnant." She continues on and I think I even answer a few times but I don't know what I said. All I know is that my chest hurts and it's hard to breathe.

I am so grateful my back is to her so she doesn't catch my initial reaction of sheer horror. I muster up the strength to turn around and face her and mangle my way through a few minutes of conversation about her pregnancy. How she found out, how she can't believe it happened because she wasn't even trying (insert f*ck you here), how the baby looked on the ultrasound. I, meanwhile, am doing the world's worst job at faking enthusiasm while trying not to burst into tears. It is just awful. I make myself another, rather large drink. It's work to keep from running out of the house.

My husband walks in the door with Tom. I'm looking at him frantically. He's staring at me quizzically. Tom starts talking to my husband and the three of them get into a conversation. I make a beeline for the front door.

Once outside, I realize I'm not really sure what to do from here. I'm expected to sit and enjoy dinner with them when all I want to do is run away to lick my wounds in solitude, maybe while rocking back and forth. I don't have my keys. I'm not wearing any shoes. All I really have is my drink in my hand. Hey, at least I have this drink in my hand. That's something, right? I crumble on the curb in tears.

My husband follows me out. All I can manage through my sobbing is, "She's pregnant." Tom hadn't told him yet. My husband puts his arm around me and I continue to cry...and drink. I would give a million dollars to leave right now. I would give my right arm. I would give my first born...wait, no, take that part back. My husband stays with me for a while. We talk. Mostly I just cry and keep saying that I don't understand why God is letting this happen. I say some hateful stuff. Really hateful stuff that I'm too ashamed to even share. The whole thing really brings out the worst in me.

My huband eventually heads back in but I just can't. I"m not ready. The tears keep coming. My husband comes back out for a while. He heads back in again. I'm not ready. The tears keep coming. My husband comes back out to tell me it is time for dinner. He heads back in. I muster my strength and head in. I go to the bathroom first to wash up. After splashing water on my face, I am no longer splotchy and only have red, teary eyes. Great, I can't wait for dinner.

If you're ever looking to have a really awkward meal, I highly recommend having dinner with a couple immediately after you broke down sobbing in response to them sharing their joyous news. We spend about 10 minutes talking about pasta salad because it is the only thing that will fill the void.

After dinner, the boys go outside to smoke cigars. Kathy and I sit down to watch TV. Knocked Up is on. We watch it. I can't even comment on the fact that this was the movie we ended up viewing. It's too ridiculous. While watching the movie, I check my phone and see that I have a text. Are you ready for this? You won't even believe me. It's that ridiculous. It's from a coworker and says: Is that you on the curb? Are you ok? Oh.my.God. A teacher I work with drove by and saw me sobbing on the curb. That's f*cking awesome. I stare at the text, pondering the odds of her driving by when I realize that earlier Kathy mentioned that she already told my very good friend (and her sister-in-law), Annie, about her pregnancy and Annie talked to me today. She didn't tell me! Why wouldn't she tell me?! I'm instantly angry with her and fire off the following drunk text: You didnt tell me. She texts me back but I don't answer. She calls me but I don't answer. I'm surprised I sent the hostile text in the first place and am afraid that I will say angry, hateful things to her if I talk to her. I continued to stew over the fact that I'm watching Knocked Up during this whole debacle.

So you may be wondering, whatever happened to the drink that was in Jacki's hand earlier? Oh, don't you worry, my friend. It was guzzled down quite quickly. And refilled. And guzzled down quite quickly. And refilled again....and so on. Until, about halfway through the movie, when I get up to refill again and walk into a doorway. Not through a doorway. Into a doorway. It's time to go home.

I approach Mr. Jaguar to announce this news. Kathy interrupts to let me know that she can drive me home. She doesn't mind and the boys are still working on their cigars. Awesome. Let's get in a car for more awkwardness. I hand my husband my car keys to drive himself home later.

Thankfully, I only live a few miles away. About a mile from home, I realize my house key is attached to my car key which is now attached to my husband instead of me. Hmmm...we get to my house. Front and back doors are locked. There is no way I'm going back to Kathy's house. I'll sleep in my yard first. I find an open window. Kathy is begging me to let her help get in the house being as I am inebriated. Go away, pregnant girl. I got this. I balance myself on the armrests of two plastic chairs and climb in the window with what I'm pretty sure is the agility of a gazelle which, up until this very moment, I never knew I actually possessed. Kathy may be willing to argue this part of my story, but I'm sticking to it.

3 strikes, I'm out!

I let infertility control my life again. I hate when I do that.

Let me preface this by saying that I'm almost done taking my 100 mg of Clomid. This is right around the time that my side effects started last cycle. Sure enough, last night the insomnia kicks in and today, I'm overly emotional and trying not to cry.

I went to a retirement dinner for two of my colleagues. It should've been a nice night for me to relax and enjoy myself with the other teachers.

Strike one: It's just been a long day. I worked, then tutored, then went straight to dinner and just throw the insomnia on top of that. I'm sleepy.

Strike two: I arrive early to ensure a good table with friends. My principal crashed our table...even when we told her it was full (she just took someone's spot!). My principal doesn't even like me! Why does she feel compelled to sit with me? Following the principal's lead, another administrator comes to steal a friend's spot at our table. This meal is going to feel like a day at work! Why don't you just make me come in on Saturday already?

Strike three: At the table in front of me, there is a veeeerrrrrrrry pregnant woman. Like, we may have to deliver her child on the dance floor pregnant. This means I will more than likely be fixated on her all night while contemplating my bitterness and extreme jealousy.

Three strikes, you're out the door. I should have just left. God was giving me clear signs to leave from the get go. Note to self: Next time, ignore peers and proper, social etiquette and instead listen to God. He is all-knowing, after all.

But I stay. I stay to stare at the pregnant woman, smile politely at my bosses and try not to nod off at the table. And then I start feeling like I'm going to cry again. Greeaat. I'm doing my best to suppress the tears and, big surprise, I end up needing to leave the table.

In the bathroom, I quickly compose myself. The verdict is good. My makeup is intact and I'm not splotchy. My game face back on, I head out to the table for round two.

As I sit back down, a woman I haven't seen in a while catches my attention. "Are you pregnant?" she asks. Night over. After saying my very quick goodbyes, I'm out.