Wednesday, April 19, 2017
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
A quick check outside confirms the Fed Ex truck is outside my house. YES! A work package I requested has finally arrived! I open my door and step onto the porch, planning to kiss the delivery man. Instead I see this.
Whoa, dude. What did I do to deserve this from Fed Ex? I mean, I haven't seen the poop on a stoop prank since 1992.
"Your package is actually out here by the garage," the man points behind him as he half-jogs back to his truck. "I decided to stay off the porch." he warns. "That raccoon must've gotten sick on your porch."
Um, what? I nod my head like I totally get what he's talking about (I do that a lot) and start to head back inside.
"Just so you know, it's also all over your the stairs," Fed Ex man says. He gives a little wave, puts the truck in drive and is gone.
I walk over to our front stoop, and see this...
WHAT IN THE NAME OF CHRIST ON A BICYCLE.
I hear a small noise that sounds like gragle-gurdlakc and it all suddenly becomes clear. Because right there, just to the right of the steps - is a raccoon. A totally scared (I'm assuming shitless) raccoon.
I decide he is a boy.
His eyes are wide and terrified. He's shaking like a blizzard is ripping his little body to shreds. I react lik a rational adult and instantly begin to sob. What do I do? Any raccoon that has made this much of a mess and isn't running scared from a human is either:
b) really sick
I run back into the house and grab my phone to call my husband. He must've forgiven me for falling asleep at 8:15 last night because he answers right away. I inform him of what's happening and that I'm thinking of picking the raccoon up, wrapping it in swaddling clothes and feeding it some orange juice.
He tells me not to touch it and call Animal Control ASAP.
I hang up, stand there on my porch, continue to cry, and coo at the racoon, "it's going to be okay, little baby! Kimmy is going to get you taken care of. I won't let anybody hurt you, no I won't!"
(I will admit I also added, "it's okay that you took a poo poo on the steps. I know your tummy hurts, baby. Don't be embarrassed." Because, look, shitting yourself is humiliating, human or no.)
You would think there would be a general number to dial in the unlikely event a wild animal appears on your front steps with an explosive case of diarrhea. Well there's not.
When it's all said and done, I call five different numbers and all five inform me that yes, they will remove wild animals for $150-$220 depending on the size of animal and amount of force required for it to be removed. Let's just back the hell on up, a minute. Why do we need force to remove a raccoon that just needs a roll of Charmin Ultra Soft and some Pepto? Who are these sick people?
I am thisclose to calling 911 which will result in a leaked recording of my hysteria going viral on YouTube, when I look across the street and see my neighbor. He is also a cop. I ignore the fact that I'm in pajama pants and call him over.
Neighbor Cop is not one to be trifled with. He's bald and washes his car three times a week and therefore I assume he is also a badass. He wastes no time, hops on his cell and is all, "Dispatch, this is Officer Blah Blah and we have a potential rabid raccoon in Sector 9.654 of the suburbs."
But get this - even Neighbor Cop has to go through five different numbers to find the appropriate people to come get this poor animal. Shouldn't the correct animal control number be easy? Like 444 or something?
(Yes, I named the raccoon. Shut up.)
The Neighborhood & Community Services Department for Animal Health & Public Safety (there's the problem right there. With a name like that, how can I expect them to have an easy phone number?) tells Neighbor Cop they will be by within the hour. In the meantime, don't bother Rork and don't touch him.
Neighbor Cop goes back into his house and I stay out on the porch to talk to Rork and keep him calm. I also completely forget his tummy problem and lovingly toss him some dry cat food in case he's hungry.
I won't lie to you. I sing to him. The only song I can think of is Michael Jackson's "You Are Not Alone." Rork's big brown eyes tell me he appreciates the gesture. Either that or they're telling me to leave him alone because he has some more crapping to do. It's a toss up, really.
Twenty minutes later the cavalry arrives. Rork is put into a safety cage in the Animal Control officer's truck. I'm told Rork probably just ate something that made him feel sick and very disoriented. They will monitor his behavior over the next few hours and if he is deemed safe, they will re-release him back into the woods.
(I'm also told to clean up the dry cat food in my yard unless I want more wild animals showing up on my front porch.)
In the end, I wave good-bye to Rork and am glad that he's going to be okay.
I don't know why Rork decided to poo poo and vomit all over my front porch and find solace there. Maybe he knew what a lover of animals I am and that I'd find a way to make him safe, even if it meant calling every number in the tri-state area. Maybe he wanted to inspire me to write a catchy phrase that will help people remember the Animal Control phone number. I'll never really know the whole story.
Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it happened to me because I'm a blogger and I reach (a few) people through this medium. And maybe just telling my story will help one or two other people to know what to do if this happens to them.
Either way, I'm going to do my part. If you live in the Kansas City area, and a wild animal is injured or lurking around your house, don't waste your time on a worthless Google search. Call 816.839.2947 to reach the Animal Health & Public Safety office.
Don't try and help Rork the Raccoon or Sophie the Snake or Bingo the Batshit Bear by yourself. Just be there for them in the best way you can. They'll appreciate it.
Now I'm off to clean up Rork's smelly mess. And I really don't mind.
Posted by Kim at 10:17 AM
Monday, February 27, 2017
Is anyone still here? I mean, if you are, God bless you because you are LOYAL AS HELL. It's been a long time since I have posted. Like, longer than Cersei's hair used to be on Game of Thrones.
(Do you guys watch that show? Holy crap, it's good. But I'm getting off subject.)
Anyways, I've been going through a bit of a mid-30's crisis. I have too much stuff to discuss and many stories I want to share, but way too many avenues available to discuss them. There's just no consistency.
Let me back up because that probably made zero sense.
Life ebbs and flows, as do the "stuffs" that make it up. I've always had a desire to share those stuffs. Maybe you aren't aware, but I have a total of three blogs that I've created and contributed to somewhat consistently over the years. The very first was a personal blog that I began nine years ago. I put my last name in the title like a moron and began to share very personal stories and anecdotes from my newly married life, my childhood, and everything in between. It was legit like therapy. Since I needed readers and Twitter was still a fetus, I opted to share the blog with every single living person in my life, including family members. Needless to say it was a decision that I regretted almost instantly. Apparently people do not like it when you tell stories about them - even if they are hilarious.
(For the record, if anyone wants to write stories about me that are hilarious, bring. it. on. No one laughs at me harder than me.)
So after I had had enough "oh my God, why did you make me look so stupid in your blog?!" emails to last me forever, I let that lifestyle blog shrivel up and all but die. (But I'd be lying if I said I don't miss it like crazy. More on that in a minute.)
And then I decided I wanted to be a mother. But fate decided otherwise and made me an infertile. And for a talker like myself, it was difficult, because announcing "hey, did you know my blood results this month indicated I ovulated?" isn't well received at parties.
So I started this blog. Obviously you know that because you're reading it. It is the nearest and closest to my heart. In the same vein as the stepmomming blog, I made the initial decision to keep it real by keeping it real anonymous. But about a year in, I kicked it out of the closet and decided to own these very personal stories. Because what is this life even worth if you aren't owning what you go through? Going "public" with the blog was scary as hell, but never once have I regretted it.
What does this have to do with anything?
Well to put it plainly - I have stories. Stories about infertility, stories about being a stepmom, and stories about my life as a girl who got huge boobs in 8th grade and once made diarrhea in her pants at a National Monument in Wyoming. These stories are all worth telling (in my opinion, anyway), and my readers seem to agree that they are stories worth reading. And so, the other morning while noticing how awful my dental floss smells after I use it, I had a random thought. Why do all of these stories have to be compartmentalized into three separate blogs? Do they really need to be?
Look, sometimes I wake up at 3:00 AM with a deep thought on how to be a better stepmom. Then one day in the middle of ordering a Chai Tea Latte with #skimmilkpleaseorIwillcutyou, I'll recall the most amazing story from when I was 15 and decided to start a wear-your-watch-on-your-ankle trend. Later in the week, I might remember a moment in my infertility journey that made me smile. The overarching theme here is that these are stories and thoughts that I want to share with my people. And that's the problem. All my people are in three separate places.
The long and short of it is, these are all my life experiences. And many of them have probably happened to you, too. Except pooping at a National Monument. I think that one is just me.
I once heard a pod-caster who was giving blog advice say, "find a super small niche and stick with it." I fully get what she was saying. Except I can't do it. I can't just talk about why my ovaries don't want to produce a kid on their own. I can't only discuss my stupid ex-boyfriend who once knocked his teeth out with a broomstick on Valentine's Day (yes, it happened). I can't solely whine and rejoice about being a stepmom.
Life doesn't happen in carefully curated segments.
Just call me Dr. Seuss. I am here and there and everywhere and eating green eggs and ham with feet in my shoes, steering myself in any direction I choose. I am all of these crazy things at all times of the day, and knowing me and reading about me means knowing and reading about all of me.
Do you dig?
Are you still there?
I'm going to do something that sounds like a financial adviser's worse nightmare. I am going to un-diversify. Or de-diversify. I am going to combine, coalesce, conjoin, mingle and blend. All three blogs down into one. Just one.
From here on out, please find me here and only here at www.saltinthewomb.blogspot.com. Yes, it's listed as an infertility blog. But you will find that this blog contains stories from all walks of my *super interesting life. My fertility journey. My childhood. My husband. My marriage. My family. My job. My stepkids. My pets. My son.
(That's a lot of "my's". I might have narcissistic personality disorder. Noted.)
Please feel free to follow along with me. You can even tell your friends. And yes, this blog is hardly anonymous. Because really, if I tell a funny story about you, it's because you did something funny. It's a compliment.
(Also. I say curse words. The bad ones. So maybe don't read at work. Or do, I don't know your life.)
The final benefit of this culminating of blogs is that it culminates social media as well. Let's keep it simple. Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org. You can find me on Facebook here. Here I am being unfunny on Twitter. I'm not on the Gram yet with my blog because why, really. This seems like an adequate amount of coverage for now.
Lastly, I adore email and connecting with readers and other bloggers so please shoot me a note. About anything. Let me know if you wish I would discuss something that will help you stay sane. Nothing is off limits. Except cooking tips; my skills don't go further than ruining perfectly good chicken thighs.
We're all in this together!
*super interesting = mildly interesting
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
- Sooooo blessed to find out we are expecting our 4th child in January! Guess that super birth control pill didn't work after all. LOL!
- Ugh, I hate being pregnant. Someone kill me. #notplanned #16andpregnant #MTV #selfie
- Why would anyone ever adopt? I mean, there are so many precious babies out there that need homes! #adoption #IVFisaSin
It's enough to drive anyone batshit, yo. Unfortunately for infertiles, we're already halfway to crazy, so it basically drives us straight to the nut house in our bathrobe and curlers.
Friday, November 11, 2016
Everyone seems to have a story about an A-list celebrity encounter. Your mom saw Oprah buying a hideous scarf at Hermes in Chicago. Your best friend totally stood next to that guy from Mr. Robot at Whole Foods in LA last summer. And your gynecologist went to high school with Paul Rudd's Mom.
The flyer said she was coming to town as the guest speaker for North Kansas City Hospital. They were promoting Club W, an organization that supports women through Wisdom and Wellness. (Go here to join Club W; it's amazing. And free. SCORE!)
And so I knew I had to jump on the chance to see the person that helped me get to this point.
A-list celebrity story? Level: Pro
Friday, October 7, 2016
My son turned 1 last weekend.
There is no more room in my brain for planning a party. Or even buying gifts. Or making a cake. I simply cannot do it.
Thursday, September 15, 2016
A few weeks ago, my husband and I hit a milestone. With the magic of automated checking account withdrawal, we made the final payment on our IVF loan.
Exactly 11 months to the day after our son was born.
Yes, that's right. We finished paying for the conception of our son 21 months after he was actually conceived.
- Unprotected sex for at least a year. That means a year of ovulation kits, pregnancy tests, extra vitamins that you find on Google, and random book purchases explaining why you aren't getting pregnant.
- Visit an infertility specialist once you hit the year mark. A consultation may be covered by insurance, but then you have to actually have the baseline tests done on you and your spouse. Get ready to shell out a few hundred for that.
- Next steps after baseline tests usually involve some sort of medication. Clomid, Letrozole, Femara. These bad boys aren't available at the Cheapo Depot (that store doesn't actually exist -but maybe it should). Many times insurance doesn't want to help pay.
- Take steps to increase your chances for a baby. Maybe it's a special diet (cha-ching), maybe it's weight loss (hello, gym membership). Maybe it's to stop drinking alcohol and caffeine, which doesn't cost money, but might cost you some of your sanity.
- After ovulation drugs and specialty diets don't work, you're onto more tests. Saline Hysterosonograms, HSG, Uterine Biopsy (OMG, pray you don't have this one). These can be hundreds of dollars each. And don't count on your insurance for them. They'll probably laugh at you.
- If it's determined you have endometriosis, or you have cysts, there's a chance you might need surgery in order to move onto the next step. I didn't experience this, so I can't give you cost info or insurance coverage, but just know the possibility is there.
- IUI is likely next. Here's where you're into 4-digit costs, depending on what drugs you're taking. Not to mention the ultrasounds/sonograms to keep an eye on those developing follicles.
- Only one IUI? Not so fast, kiddo. Your doc will probably want you to do a few rounds, explaining that this is a lesser cost than moving straight onto IVF. So there go a few thousand more.
- Ovulation medications, surgeries and IUI's are a no go. Now it's on to IVF. And now you can look at shelling out $10,000-$12,000. But really more like $15,000.
I'm not sharing this to dissuade you from starting fertility treatments. And I'm not trying to scare you. Becoming a mom this way wasn't pleasant, but it was totally worth it. I simply want to help prepare you.
Posted by Kim at 11:38 AM