Gone is the nipple ring

Last night K did the unthinkable--she removed her last nipple ring.

Many years ago, on a sunny day (or maybe it was gray; i was not there. i'm just the teller of the tale, so there may be inaccuracies and falsehoods due to ignorance and misunderstandings) KK decided it would be fun to go to a strip mall piercing place in Cheboygan, MI and get her boobs needled. She did not go alone; she made her way to this decision with the help of her then-girlfriend, A, and her friend, D. As K tells it, the three ladies lined their six boobies up raw, in a row, and a piercer-man let into their tender flesh.

Then at least 10 years ago, K removed the left nipple ring in some Eastern European Country, due to an infection that had erupted which caused immense pain. Her then-girlfriend, A, had to coerce the metal ring out of her sweet pinky, brown nipple to bring relief to my girl's aching tit.

Now, a good 11 years later, my dear one has decided that the metal must go in her right boobie, also.

Of course, we all know why--it may be incredibly harmful for a
wee infant to wrap his/her mouth around a hoop the size of a dime. K is already suffering from premature nerves regarding the scar holes residing in the left nipple; she is under the impression that her breast milk will shoot in twenty different directions because of the former piercings. She holds this bizarre fear even though D, one of the three who lined up for the needle, has told both of us that she breast fed her boy just fine after removing the results of her youthful risky behavior.

But back to me. I was all for the removal of ring number 2. But then the removal went down all strange. See K just got a notion to tug it out; I was not there when it happened. And she came to me and said, "Baby, you'll never guess what I just did?"

And I was like, "What did you just do?"

And then she said it. And then I looked. And then I was sad.

I've only ever witnessed her beautiful boobies with this piece of metal wrapped around her little pucker of a nipple. I've had my reservations about the damn thing cause sometimes it tended to get cheesy stanky--like a belly button that needs washing out. Of course, this only happened when the thing got irritated from certain fabrics rubbing it wrong. But alas, when you go in for a nice booby suck and are forced to come up for air cause the nipple ring needs a heavy dose of Bactine, the ring becomes a nuisance not a joy. It never provided any titillation for me and it over-sensitized her breast which she was not fond of. All in all, it is good that it is gone.

But now I have to get familiar with a nipple-ringless nipple. I think I'll have conquered my sadness by, oh --maybe--yeah--tonight!

Thankful

Thankful for it all

I think skipping a month was good for us. We are entering this new time of K’s fertile time with renewed hearts and a fresh spirit. I am also becoming more patient and thankful.

Thankful for life—for living, breathing, being alive—Thankful for even having the life breath in us to toy with all of this trying to create new life.

This living that we do is so precarious. It all could end tomorrow; it all could slow tomorrow; it all will be so different in the evening no matter what we do to try and stop change. I am thankful for the uncertainty. I am thankful to be able to encounter the day and hold the slippery edges of the minutes that tick away—each moment sailing silently through my fingers like fine slippery figs sliding down my throat vanishing into the pit of my belly and intestines.

Not that I was not thankful before, but the many lives we are touched by bring such news of newness and challenges; heartache and joy, trials and growth. So all of these events of living are becoming so much brighter in my head and palpable in my mouth. As loved ones struggle through harder days and as laughter in the neighborhood drifts carelessly over our heads into our hearts, I suck it all in like the feeling might be my last. And I give thanks to every thing and being that surrounds me for sharing this living.

Now the patience thing, that’s a harder one to embrace, but I am trying. Since uncertainty is what each day whips or tosses at us, then cultivating the patience to deal with these spheres of not knowing should be easy. Not quite. But then again, I wait with the patience of a good monk for my garden to grow. I tend to the soil with calm persistence and dream of rain when it is too dry. So, if only I could come into that same kind of patience over the creation of this kid, I think all would be a bit better.


Thankful for my love

Surrounded by bodily fluids

We skipped trying this month. We just could not make it to Chicago—not k by herself, not me with k. It just didn’t work. I could not have gone even if we had ended up stumbling into cash and time, cause I got food poisoned on Thursday night, and I was recuperating all weekend.

This food poisoning caused me to puke for the first time since I was 6, save for a drunken spew when I was in the 10th grade. That is how sick I was—my fear of vomiting was enormous until one week ago. I shat almost uncontrollably for 6 hours. And part way through that the puke came. And then the next day my body was like a defeated vessel of lifelessness. I had a fever—all day long—from dehydration (or maybe whatever toxin had waged battled on my intestines and gut). For the rest of the weekend I mostly sat around on our very uncomfortable couch and watched mindless television.

I think some spoiled Russian/thousand island dressing on a veggie Reuben caused the explosion in my body to occur. Ughh…

Anyhow, I’m better now. I sucked on gatorade and vernors, popsicles and jello for a few days and now my belly seems happy.

I hope that overcoming my fear of puking will help when it comes to raising up a kid when ever the sugar patch decides to take. Cause wee ones are like test tubes of germs and stank and viruses. And I need to really be able to clean up a pile of puke or diarrhea, so that k does not get stuck with it all.

When I was 19, I was still living at home with my ma and dad. I got some really nasty virus and passed out in the hall way and shit my pants. My loving mother attended to my mess like it was second nature. I need a gut and heart like the one my mom demonstrated that day. So, I am slowly building it.

As I stroll through this journey with all of these bodily fluids surfacing around me, I am building the kind of stamina that it will take to be there, strong and constant, for another life in all of his/her alien and familiar facets.

A 2 Liter of Semen--and some musings on the injector's inability to properly contribute to the creation of this sugar patch

This month has been a brutal roller coaster of emotion. I guess that is what life is in general, but I've discovered that this whole trying to get with child thing really sends me surfing on a giant wave--a wave that I am trying to ride gracefully, but alas my feet are too shifty and my balance leaves much to be desired.

KK is up in the air about whether or not to go to Chicago this month. We cannot afford for both of us to go--time wise or money wise--, so I will stay home if she does decide to go. All of this means that I will not be the injector if she tries this month. This leaves K terribly sad and it leaves me feeling as powerless as I've been feeling throughout this process.

Plus, our dear friends are moving away and their good-bye party is right when the egg might decide to drop, so K is thinking that maybe the egg should just drop into a sperm-free cavity this time around.

All of this has become too complicated with the don don living so far away. K is exploring freezing techniques--without clinical intervention--and I am wishing hard for a penis and testes so that I can just knock her up all by myself.

When I wake in the morning to the teary eyed gaze of the love of my life leaning over and whispering, "I wish you could just roll on top of me and make me pregnant," I have to wonder about this desire for offspring in conjunction with the inability for our bodies together to create new life. Of course, we have the wonderful muscle push of my hand surrendering someone else's sperm into her special parts, but it is nothing like the jiz really belonging to me.

Not that I am a semen envier; I really could do entirely without the stuff. Which brings me to the most disgusting thing I've pictured in my head in a long time. In the hot August heat of last night, we were shooting the shit about semen, yet again, with some friends. When we stumbled into the scary vision of one of the fellows storing his daily ejaculation in a 2 liter for a week (or maybe more) and giving it to me to inspect. How vile and laughable all at once! I wonder if it rots?