Fear and Self-loathing.

I weary of the myriad, quotidian concerns of the day and look forward to a new, improved year. Some of my resolutions are to get fit and to only listen to 60s music.

Besides the novels I will be required to teach, I also resolve to read one extra book a month. I say book rather than novel, as I find my addiction to historical biography will not yet wane. In fact, Stella Tillyard's "A Royal Affair" about my favorite Georgian dynasty will be accompanying me on the plane tomorrow to the fair isles of New Zealand, where we have 2 weeks of R, R and R ahead. In addition, I must read Robert Drewe's "Shark Net" and "Twelfth Night", to prepare for my classes next year. As an avid Shakespeare enthusiast, "Miss, how do you understand all this stuff?", I look forward to the melancholy, comic verse of the Bard in a play as yet untaught by myself.

I resolve to only listen to 60s music. Or 60's inspired music, which now broadens the parameters exponentially. Life's too short.

I will be running the 10km Run Melbourne and the 10km run at the Gold Coast marathon the following week. Optimism is not always a bad thing.

Happy New Year.

Youse are all biatches.

Yes, this will be an angry, uncomprehending post, full of sound and fury and I guess, like life, signifying nothing. Christmas does this to the fertility-challenged.

1. Must go to husband's family's Xmas day nightmare where there will be 5 babies. Lord, take me now.

2. Must shop for said 5 babies. Yes, joy of the season, I get to shop for toys and clothes for FIVE OTHER BABIES, YAY!

3. Bosses' Xmas party tonight at which a fucking 40 year old was passing around her phone with her fucking 13 week scan on it. Again I ask, where, when, how, why??? There is no god.

4. I'm still fucking fat from almost 6 years of failed pregnancies and IVF, while all the breeders I know seem to drop their fucking baby weight within months of giving birth. Babies AND thinness, fuck dat!

Merry X-mas.

Infertility Porn, just say no.

I hereby pledge to remove myself from situations in which I may be tempted to continue my association with the nefarious infertility industry, AKA, Infertility Porn. This stuff is not good for my mental health.

I hereby promise not to frequent parenting fora, in particular, the AC sections of said parenting fora. I will not read about people who spent 2 years TTC, then needed IVF to conceive, then popped out a natural bebe 5 minutes after this one, on the grounds that my head might explode. Seems not all infertilities are equal on this planet.

I will not read about celebrity fertiles who manage to pop out 5 spawn within 6 years in their early 40s. (that would be you, Jane Kennedy) How? When? Why? And in fact, what the fucking fuck????

I will no longer make faux-happy social mention of my childlessness, as if it were some wholly planned choice all along. "Yes, we cunningly planned our barrenness in order to travel, drink and otherwise enjoy our lives." Puke.

I will think about converting my blog to the movie-review blog I've always wanted to write.

Giddy-up!