Approaching the finish line.

Saw Dr. P. this morning. I never thought I'd be so happy to have someone wax eloquent about my uterine lining. (He termed it "perfect." It's probably the only time any part of my anatomy has been called that.) Anyway, yippee. And it seems that I'm growing a baker's dozen of follicles. Yippee squared.

It's come to this.

Remember those days of partying until the wee hours of the morning? When you never met a tequila shot you didn't like? (Well, I do. Stop judging me.) Those days are gone, friends. Here's what I drink out of shot glasses now:

It's not actually dirt, although it looks (and tastes) a lot like it. In fact, it's some Chinese herb concoction prescribed to me by my acupuncturist. I take 3 scoops, twice a day. I have no idea what's in it, but it's supposed to turn my womb into some kind of embryo incubator.

Cleary, at this point, I would drink a bat guano smoothie if it would help me get pregnant.

How to make a working mom feel like crap.

My son knows exactly how to buy me a ticket to a Guilt Trip, First Class.

Until recently, we had no problem with the morning day-care drop-off. (OK, that's not exactly true: the first month was HELL, but that was back in September. ) We based this delusion on the fact that Cami would run to the toys and books, and begin playing. He'd even sometimes point to the door and wave "bye-bye" to us.

Well, the first rule of parenting is "Never get too comfortable." Our Golden Age of daycare drop-offs ended about 3 weeks ago. Now, as soon as we make a move toward the door, Cami begins screaming bloody murder.

My husband, who has been doing the drop-offs, told me about this new phenomenon, but I didn't quite grasp the implications. (I was choosing to forget those days in September, when I would walk to the car in tears, and Nima, off on a business trip, didn't "get it.")

This morning, I took Cami to daycare. All was fine--despite his insistence on having his binky and lovies, and on my reading him the same book three times--until I told him I had to go to work. He began crying and hurled himself across my lap. As I disengaged him and slunk out of the room, telling them that I loved him and would see him at 5, he began shrieking.

All I could think of is the email Nima sent me after his first day care drop off, back in September:

Let me just say, that regardless whether you're a mom or a dad, until you drop your child off in a foreign place and watch his eyes swell up with tears and the piercing shriek of his discontent fill the hallways out to the roadside, you do not know misery.

Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. I suck.

This month's gratuitious self-promotion.

Oh, joy. I got the good news this week that my publisher is reprinting What Men Really Want in Bed, the book I wrote with my husband. For a writer, this is goodness indeed.

The things that happen after you appear in Glamour. (Don't worry. I'm not running out to buy a Mercedes. I'm just hoping to earn back my advance. Such is the business of writing.)

There's also a rumor that Dr. Drew has mentioned the book on Loveline. Still trying to find out if that one's urban legend. We heard it from a friend, who heard it from another friend. It would be super-swell if it were true.

How to fly with your toys.

Wondering how you're going to get through airport security with your lovely (and expensive) ELISE without having it confiscated by the Transportation Security Administration? SFGate.com writer Violet Blue has published a handy guide on flying safely with your sex toys (if you must).

Knit a Viking hat for your baby. Seriously.

If you're sick of all those fey little baby bonnets out there, here's your antidote: a baby Viking hat from Bella Knitting. The only catch is that you have to knit it yourself, but that's a small price to pay from a baby accessory that will set you apart from everyone else in your playgroup.*

What saves this from being sort of weird is the funny commentary by the creator, Sarah Fama:

How, you may ask, is a baby like a Viking? At a glance, the two may appear to have nothing to do with one another.

Vikings are remembered for their elaborate tattoos, skilled metalwork, and possible settling of the New World before Columbus. Babies are known for their inability to walk upright, which generally prevents them from visiting tattoo parlors, working at forges, and discovering continents.

If only--if only--I could actually knit. My mother, grandfather (may he RIP), mother-in-law, and grandmother-in-law: all knitters. Me: The last garment I sewed was a slutty Quiana dress I made back in the '70s for my junior prom. In other words, I am not a knitter.

But I can certainly appreciate a knit Viking baby hat. And I pray that I have another baby if only so that one of the other knitters in my life can give me one of these. (Knitters: are you listening?)

Thanks, as always, go to the ever-cuddly Great White Snark, whom we would all like to wrap in a warm Log Cabin Blanket. If only we could knit.

* Playgroup, n., an excuse for moms to get together and drink wine while their babies engage in parallel play.

And we're off.

Well, here we go, folks. I started Lupron injections Thursday morning.

Giving myself shots has become a non-issue. I just pinch up a roll of tummy fat and jab in the needle. Like throwing a dart, as one of my doctors described it.

It takes all of 3 minutes. I feel very Grey's Anatomy, but without a hunky doctor to administer the shot.

I occasionally make my hunky husband do the honors. He hates causing me pain. But really, it's not that big of a deal. I hardly feel a thing.

A true story.

We went to a party this afternoon at the home of one of the managing partners at my husband's firm.

These people are so rich their nanny is named Mercedes.

Movie review: Shortbus

"Shortbus" is a funny, painfully honest look at the sexual lives and relationships of a group of New Yorkers, gay and straight, who meet in the infamous underground salon Shortbus. The acting is a little uneven, but the actors are so open and likable (and daring) that you forgive them, and come to care about them. In the end, this isn't a movie so much about sex as it is about isolation, loneliness, and people's attempts to connect.

Note #1: Be warned, this is so NOT a first-date movie. You'll see full-frontal nudity, male and female, and a variety of unsimulated (and often amazingly gymnastic) sexual antics. All within the first 5 minutes.

Note 2: Despite note #1, the nudity and sex aren't necessarily erotic. That's according to my husband, who could barely tear his eyes away from the PowerPoint presentation he was working on.

So much for my attempt to NetFlix a movie that would a) appeal to my interest in art-house movies and sex while b) appealing to my husband at the same time. ("Honey! It's about sex! There are naked people having sex! Look!")

Once again, the question: What's the difference between erotic, and pornographic? I just wish there were more movies like this--that dealt openly with sex, without the soft-focus titillation of most Hollywood efforts. I'm also wondering why a movie like this has to released unrated, while splatter porn like "Hostel 2" gets an R. But that's a topic for another post.

(Photo courtesy of idealterna.)

The happiest robo-tot on the block.

Scientists at Osaka University in Japan have developed a robot that acts like a toddler in order to "better understand child development."

No word on whether the Child-Robot with Biomimetic Body (CB2 for short) will have authentic toddler tantrums, or whether that particular feature will have to wait for Toddler 2.0.

You know, I'm for anything that helps me understand my toddler better. But I dunno...I just find CB2 kind of...well, creepy. And I feel like a big meanie for saying that.

(AP photo by Koji Ueda, courtesy of SiliconValley.com.)

O happy day.

"Ocean's Thirteen" opens today. Here's the glowing review from the New York Times.

Not that I'd let a review, positive or negative, keep me from George.

How nerdy are you?

I can't believe I took this test. But I did. My score:



My nerdiness is "not nerdy, but definitely not hip." Ouch.

So then I had to find out whether I'm a slacker mom. My score said I'm a "Pretty in the City Mom." Oh, as if. Here's the description:

You might have a subscription to both Parenting Magazine and Vogue. While picking up a darling Easter outfit for your tyke at Bloomingdale's you're tempted to grab a pair of Manolo Blahniks for your own tootsies. You are a fabulous mom, and you take care of yourself fabulously, too.

HA HA HA HA HA. Manolo Blahniks. As if, times a hundred. The only time I've been close to a pair of Manolos was once when I wandered into a store in London, and just as quickly wandered back out (before I was asked to leave).

Man sues drink company for erection.

Viagra, step aside. Meet your competition: flavored water. From The Feed:

A man is suing the makers of a drink called Boost Plus, saying that it gave him an extended, painful erection that wouldn't go away and required surgery. The man, who we will call "Lucky," had a case of severe priapism, and required a shunt to make his erection go away.

Now I really have heard everything.

Thanks go, once again, to the ever-perky Great White Snark for the tip. Like I said the other day, my guy friends really seem to have their fingers on the pulse of the Internet. So to speak.

At-home fertility test gives new meaning to the phrase, "Asking for trouble."

Let me tell you why Fertell, the new at-home fertility screening test, is great technology, but a really bad idea.

First off, I'm all for anything that reminds people that fertility is not just the woman's issue. 40% of the time, the problem's the guy's (as this article on Fertell in the New York Times reminds us). So if Fertell gets both partners taking responsibility early on for getting checked out, that's goodness.

As the veteran of more negative home pregnancy tests than I care to count, I'm just worried about what happens when couples get less-than-positive results from this test. There's going to be panic. Crying. Finger-pointing. More crying. All before that first call to the doctor is even made. Believe me, it's much better to get the results verbally from a gentle medical professional who can actually explain your results. (The Internet doesn't have great bedside manner.)

Or, Fertell could give you confusing results. I would have passed the female Fertell test with flying colors (my low FSH level almost puts me in the category of "medical freak"), but I'm over 40, so no way should I wait to consult my friendly medical professional.

I'm not saying don't buy Fertell if you have an extra $100 lying around. Just have lots of tissues on hand. And don't procrastinate if you think there's a problem.

Because believe me, when people call infertility a "journey," they're being kind. "Death march" is more like it.

A shot for your G-spot.

I don't even know what to say about this article in Sunday's San Francisco Chronicle about "G-Spot Amplification." Woman are paying $1,850 to have their doctors shoot collagen into their G-spots in an attempt to achieve "heightened sexual arousal."

Trust me, you can get turned on for a lot less by hopping over to your local bookstore and buying some erotica. Or porn. Or whatever turns you on mentally.

Because 99% of sex happens between the ears.

And all these other desperate efforts to have an incredible sex life are just going to produce the opposite. I'm just saying.

Is it a remote control? Well, in a matter of speaking...

(Note: The image in this post is possibly NSFW. If, that is, you can figure out what it is.)

One of the fun things about being a sex writer is that my male friends feel it's their civic duty to send me links to sites about adult toys.* Their emails say things like, "thought this might be good to know in your line of expertise." Indeed. Take a look at ELISE, which my friend Dr. Tim tells me is "apparently the state-of-the-art":

This lovely little toy comes from the fine folks at the Swedish company LELO (tagline: "lust objectified"), who coyly call it a "pleasure object." No, it's a vibrator--and it's OK to call it one. It would also OK for those fine folks at LELO to send me a "review copy," seeing as how I'm sort of a journalist and all.

After all, someone has to fall on her sword--no pun intended--and evaluate the truth of statements like "The powerful vibrator assembly is engineered to maximize intensity whilst minimizing noise." (Frankly, I'm just willing to try any product that uses the word "whilst" in its marketing copy.)

And then there are the friends (again, male) who send me to sites that, while not strictly about sex, do appeal to our baser instincts. Take MyFreeImplants.com, a site to which the ever-perky Great White Snark directed me. His note said, "Fodder for you...this is hilarious." I can't decide whether to laugh or burn my A-cup.

* They never tell me how they find these sites. But then, I may not want to know.

The search for the female Viagra.

So in my copious spare time, I'm contributing to a collective blog, Blogadilla.com. It's the place where I'm posting all the stuff that doesn't quite fit this blog. Although recently, I made an exception.

You see, one of my fellow 'Dillas (as we're calling ourselves), dubbed me the Blogadilla sex maven. He convinced me to contribute a weekly sex factoid. Being a pushover (and a sucker for free publicity), I said OK.

Today's Blogadilla bit: a recent article in the New York Times about a drug that's being investigated as the female equivalent of Viagra. Hope you'll check it out (the article, not the drug).

And if you want to give me your thoughts as to how women can rev up a flagging libido, please do. Because I really want to know. I mean, I really want to know. If you catch my drift.