The Seam of Her Jeans

Hey, good people.

It has been three months since my last post here.  We are all doing pretty damn fine.  Will is over two and gabbing up a storm.  She sings and dances like mad.

Her favorite songs: you are my sunshine, do re mi (I love her obsession with this song cause I get my own personal Julie Andrews fix about three times a week when we watch a you tube of the song from Sound of Music), and twinkle twinkle little star.

Since I have no time for this blog, I started a new blog.  No, for serious. I did. I know, totally silly because I already am such a slacker over on this blog.  This new blog is of a very different nature, in some respects, than Injection Reflections.

In the past, I have blogged here about my love of queer fiction and non-fiction and the little bits of queer dust--ever-present but hard to find little floaties--in pop-culture (though getting less hard to find).

Well, I read queer and lesbian fiction like it is going out of style.  During my sleepless nights (yes, I have blogged here over the years about my serious insomnia, too), I suck down pulpy, sometimes a bit trashy, other times a little formulaic, still other times absolutely enthralling and interesting, romantic, fascinating, heart stuttering, sometimes boring, lesbian and/or queer centric novels.

This new blog is called The Seam of Her Jeans

I intend for it to be a sort of quick review blog.  I do not want to get too in-depth.  I want the reviews to mostly turn people on to the fact that a book is out there and maybe folks might want to give the book a whirl on their own.  And, of course, every now and again, I will be sure to ramble on about some kind of critical theory/other BS that makes me feel self-important and smart.

See, in talking with friends, I often refer to a lesbian romance or queer young adult novel or lesbian themed book that I am reading.  And, then we start talking and I go on and on about this book and that book.  My friends show genuine interest and then they say, "write this shit up."  (Or maybe they really just want me to shut up :) ).

All in all, that's what I intend for this blog to be.  A mostly quick, fun, light hearted, but sometimes critical look into les and queer fiction.  And, at times, I hope to have guest bloggers write up their findings.

For those of you who know me, you might know that I like to talk about sexuality, gender identity, gender expression, sexual orientation, lovemaking, and so on.  The cool thing about much of the lesbian and queer themed fiction out there is that it unabashedly exclaims and claims the reality that we (queers and lesbians) have sex.  I know, I know sometimes that is what the problem is in the minds of our heterosexual "foes" or ignorant neighbors and family members. People's imaginations that go right into our bedrooms (or kitchens, or dining rooms, or stairways).  But, really, what makes me different from my sisters, besides my politics and interests and hair and clothes and other parts of my life choices, is the fact that I do not have sex with male anatomy.  I do not want it in my bedroom or on the stairs or in the kitchen.  I see these novels as a reclamation of the thing that we are sometimes forced to not talk about because that is the very thing that may make us into the other.  The fact that I look and dress like what many perceive to be a dude and have sex with women are the very two things that make me--to some--perverted, deplorable, disgusting, and otherized to the point of marginalizing me and my family in both the larger governmental sphere and in more common social and religious settings.

There is something profoundly liberating that queer people are out there creating stories about the pleasure they seek and gain with (and within) one another.  Queer people get turned on and do something about it, and much of this fiction unfolds with plots wrapped around some beautiful sex and other very dramatic stuff.

My new blog has a whole page on Why? The Seam of Her Jeans.  But, really briefly about the title itself, I gave the blog this title because in reading through many of these books, women get hot over and over again and over and over again this line--the seam of her jeans or the seam of her pants-- (or one very similar to it) keeps coming up in various novels by various authors.  So, a woman will be all hot and bothered and practically explode from the touch of the hard fabric of her pants. This storytelling tool just tickles the shit out of me.  Hence, the name of the blog.

I do plan to stop on by Injection Reflections every now and again and post on the perils and triumphs of participating in the growing up of my kid and other things that make me think all deep and thoughtful.  I have yet to totally abandon this nearly 6 year old blog...So, read my new rambles if you feel so inclined.

34

i turned 34 this weekend.

i worked all day on saturday--the day of my birthday.

we went for beer at founders after working all day; it was yummy and we visited with good friends. we were in grand rapids.

k is still bleeding on and off. she is feeling sicker and sicker; i guess this is a good sign.

i have been reading like mad. i have been working so much that i turn off quickly when i come home by ducking my eyes and therefore my brain into a good book. I've read three kate delafield mysteries and one jane lawless mystery in the last week and a half and yesterday i read hood. yes, i am still on my "lesbian" fiction kick. I went through all the young adult lesbian novels at the whitaker branch library and now i have to get the other 4 i intend to read from the other branch. but in the meantime, i've been reading any other lesbianesque novel i can get my hands on. I go through these phases once in a while. these times when i cannot handle anymore straightness since it circulates around us like dandelions and grass and wind, essentially it is everywhere.

anyhow, it s just nice to read about two women finding peace and pleasure in one another. i like that. it helps take me away from the chaos of my working life and the stress of this living that is trying to happen in kk.

now, i am older--one year more notched out of the wooden trim lining the front door. now, i am hoping for longevity and limberness as this embryo unfolds into a child inside kk. i need strength. i need some bigger peace. i'll write about that more some other day.

i am conflicted

again, my kk started her period. i am convinced it is break time. but she does have an appointment with the reproduction doctor again on wednesday. he wants to try some different stuff. me, i do not want to try for the next couple months at all.

there's nothing like false hope.

i tend to be a cynical, stick in the mud, nasty ass bitch who likes to flip people off when they are annoying me.

i'm not always a bitch, but damn i sure can be one.

you should of all heard me yelling--in the quietude of my own house--profanities at heterosexuals the last few days. i cannot believe that this fucking world is even concerned with who consenting adults are fucking and building a life with. and once again i could go on and on, but really fuck you people who think my life is immoral; fuck you people who think you can tell me what i can or cannot put into my body; and fuck you you people who take for granted the fact that you have heterosexual privilege.

yes heterosexual privilege is a beast looming over my shoulder. it has hot breath and it stinks. and guess what i am tired of it not being looked at or dissected or challenged. can you all even believe that some of the robo calls for prop 8 said things about there being an overwhelming amount of gay characters on television. yeah right, sometimes i crave queer representation in pop culture or in my day-to-day life so bad that i have to watch but i'm a cheerleader for the umpteenth time or re-read annie on my mind again and again to get my fix.

a few weeks ago i saw a suburu commercial on logo that told this lovely little story of this twin who dedicated her life to orphans in africa. she spent her free time in the wilderness with her partner--or a woman looking person who appeared to be her partner--and i got all fucking weepy over it. yes, weepy over a goddamn tv commercial for a not very fuel efficient vehicle.

so check it hets. representations of your love are everywhere. everywhere. male cock in lady socket over and over and over. man tongue in woman mouth. man hand in woman hand, a loving embrace between a het couple, over and over and over and over. and over. i am almost choking on it now.

do you know that the only gay person i was aware of growing up was the art teacher at my high school who was followed home from a gay bar and murdered by two men in his shower.

yep. that's it.

i walked around in layers of gender ambiguity trying to understand why i felt so connected to some of my female friends with no examples; no direction; no anything.

and today,in highschool, is it much different?

today, we are experiencing the back lash of our steps forward. we are wallowing in the hatred of the religious and suffocating in the residue of heterosexual privilege and representation. gay folks strive to reproduce a nuclear version of family that mimics the very foundations of the people so hell-bent on denying and destroying gayness. i am guilty of it. i try to replicate heteronormative ways of being just by attempting to grow my family biologically with kk and living in a committed, monogamous relationship.

i want us all to be open to difference; to reliance on created, extended family/ non-nuclear family structures and non-bio family structures, and i do not want to be wrapped in the confines of the dangerous and destructive status quo. and i do not want to rely on pop-culture or other media representation for any kind of assurance that people like me are out there, and at the same time, my heart yearns for the familiar, for that which feels like home--for the beauty of women sharing passion and lust and love.

ultimately , i am conflicted and mad as hell and wanting to just cry real hard and everything be okay...

You’re the meaning in my life; you’re the inspiration

Chicago easy listening...

Was piped at just the right level into the ear of the receptionist and therefore the ears of all waiting in the drab/way too bright clinic waiting room for me to think how annoying it would be to listen to a lite muzak/lite rock mix all day long and still simultaneously smile and sing along.

Yesterday, was our first visit to the reproductive endocrinologist. It was a sullen adventure. One full of sitting on our asses waiting for k’s name to be called and for yours truly to step in an awkward, pretending I do not quite have tits, stride behind her to the “room” for consultation.

We waited patiently as the bad radio station bleated out tune after tune of sentimental, hetero love songs.

The receptionist lady and the other clinicy people were sweet as jello based pie and as we waited among the slews of straight folks trying to get their babies on, our friend, another lesbian, walked through the door and set my heart at ease, just cause she was there and that made three girls in the room who like to have lovely sex with other girls rather than the boring old cock devotion that was way over-represented in this repro clinic.

It took an hour and 15 minutes to be called back to the room.
Then it took some more minutes for the resident to come into the room with a boy medical student trailing her. The resident said to k, “we are going to ask some questions and go over some stuff with you and then dr. r will come on in and provide the consult. Is that okay with you?’

Apparently, this was the wrong question to ask kk cause she did not answer and I chimed in with a “that’s fine.”

See k was in an enormously bad mood. She still is. She is tired of heterosexism and heterosexist laws and rules and regulations. The questionnaire she filled out for these people was totally void of questions regarding queer people’s sex lives or practices or anything at all about gayness. I wrote a snarky comment on the back of the sheet and I am sure all the doctors and students and residents got a chuckle.

So, k got extra peeved when the U of M poke and prod and learn crew showed up for the repro consult. I was not too concerned; the resident was really quite kind and the boy medical student was entertaining to watch cause he was squirmy and nervous and probably a bit fascinated with the butch/femme duo before him.

They asked questions and listened to k’s heart together. Yes, she had two stethoscopes on her body at once. Then they left and k was testy with me and mad and drained.

Then the doctor came in and he was very nice and smart and k was impressed with him. He told us again about the fresh sperm dilemma imbedded in our MI health code. But he framed it like this: “If you are sexually intimate with the person providing sperm then we can use fresh (washed) sperm to do an IUI, otherwise it is simply illegal for us to do it.” Then he went on and on about how it would be much simpler for all involved if we used a sperm bank with frozen sperm so we would not have to worry about any of this or otherwise we would have to freeze our donor’s sperm for six months and make sure it was a okay for us to use and then do an IUI at his clinic.

Of course, all of this is premature. We do not know what’s up with k’s insides, so that is the next step. K will have her uterus and tubes looked at—they will shoot some saline up her and do an ultra sound; she will get some more blood tests to make sure she has good hormone production and we will get the sperm tested to make sure it is swimming forward.

The doctor said he really does not think it is low progesterone; he looked at the reading from last month and said it is borderline low but not too low…

We like the fresh sperm do it ourselves method best. And really I refuse to get locked up in the big business of reproduction unless we absolutely have to. Our insurance only covers so much and we are far from wealthy people. We will attempt some messing with hormones and cleaning out of tubes etc. if needed. And then…I really do not know what.

thank you good straight men

I've been meaning to reflect on the following subject a bit for some time now--straight boys who are my friends and who have the patience and interest to listen, at times, to my adventures in this world of sperm in jars, sperm in syringes, sperm in kk.

Throughout the last many months, many of these fellows have shown genuine interest in this escapade of ours. They have listened with wide eyes; given feedback and ideas with gracious eagerness; and asked with hopeful hearts how things are coming along. Of course, we've laughed lots along the way.

One of the things I like best about this time in our lives, is the candidness that I am allowed to dwell in. I'm a pretty forthright gal. I tell it like I see it. I cross the boundaries of properness on a frequent basis. I talk about my private parts and other people's private parts in the adult public. Shit and puke and piss and ejaculate are frequent bodily fluids that find their way into topics of conversation when I am involved in those conversations. I think it is important to be frank about our bodies. Prudish america has contributed to a repressed, societal sexuality that helps young girls get knocked up way too early and way too much by young boys who are being taught to see young girls as objects, while simultaneously the young girls start seeing themselves as objects and begin wearing their bodies as just that an object to be consumed, controlled, confined--and on and on and on...

When in all actuality we are mammals with the ability to think and reason and imagine and love and think and create and on and on. So this mammal part, the part about our ability to gather and hunt food, eat, digest, shit, piss, get horny, have sex (in all kinds of ways for procreation and recreation) and die gets pushed by the wayside too much and from there the repression begins to build up, or dig down, or pile backwards.

Anyhow,that is my quick,non-academic perspective. I could go on about it, but I will not.

Around straight boys who are my friends, I have found that I can tap this frankness about the whole process of girl on girl conception done injector/kk style in ways that bring a smile of surprise and happiness to my face.

How lucky I am to have good men in my life (both gay and straight). Men who listen, reflect, offer advice, joke, and get all "indecent" with me about this new adventure for everyone involved.

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?