Just call me Madame Ovary

 

Every time people find this out about me they are very curious and ask lots of questions…so I might as well write the answers down and save myself the talking points for when the subject comes up from now until ever. I will just direct them to this FAQ-esque blog post.

Here goes…

I sold my eggs.

It pays well.

Technically I “donated” them, because by law you are not allowed to sell your own body parts. Therefore, the compensation I received is for “pain and suffering” as opposed to my actual output, but meh…I more-or-less sold my own body parts to pay off my credit cards.

I decided to do it because finances are harrd y’all, and I really hate accruing debt, like REALLY hate it…and I wanted to be done with it.

I read this article (which is also a good FAQ-y article) and thought I might be a good candidate as a tallish, college-educated female with solid bone structuring. Also… I look like a lot of people. Therefore, I look like I could share genes with a lot of people.

I google searched some programs and settled on one in my area (I don’t want to mention it but you can just ask me if you’re that curious), requested an information packet, filled out said information packet (like 20 freakin’ pages worth– about my job, my hobbies, talents, family history, etc), and sent it back in. They asked me in for a consultation, where I filled out even more paperwork.

Woot.

They determined that I was a reasonable candidate…so onto the extensive medical testing. I had genetic tests, infectious disease tests, fertility tests… tests I would never have had otherwise. This was kind of cool in the respect that they determined I wasn’t a genetic carrier for any birth-defects, nor did I have any STDs and my reproductive system was in excellent health! All of this testing was of course absolutely FREE to me. They also had me talk to a psychiatrist to make sure I wasn’t populating crazytown.

Once I passed the tests, they took my information packet, and two pictures of me (as a child, and current) and put it in… a big binder full of women… for interested couples to peruse.

Then two months passed.

Then I got a call that I had been selected and if I was still interested in donating I should come in for a blood test.

They did a couple more tests just to make sure I was still infection free, which I was, so thus I was to start the injections.

Yes, you have to inject yourself. Daily. Sometimes twice. Sometimes three times.

I’m not terrified of needles or anything, but I was still unsure how I was going to muster sticking them in myself so often. But once I started (and this is totally weird), I got some sick, masochistic pleasure out of it. I would almost look forward to it, in a way. And I was never a cutter, or anything, but there was something fascinating to me about being able to watch.

For the record, the needles were tiny, like EPI-pen style, and you inject yourself in your stomach—not painful at all. I started with Follistim, then they put me on daily doses of Follistim and Menopur (this makes you estrogen levels go way up, and your egg production increase significantly). Then for the last few days they added Gannerelix to the mix, which keeps you from ovulating before they want you to. So yeah, that’s three injections a day– one in the morning, two at night. I did this for 12 days.

Most of those 12 days I also had to report to the hospital in the morning for blood testing and  frequently ultrasounds to make sure my body was responding to the medication. Here’s a fun fact…before administering an ultrasound they put a condom on the probe.

Because if you’re going to be having sex with an ultrasound probe, best be safe about it.

On the 13th day I took two trigger shots which makes your body release the eggs, like, exactly 36 hours later. Seriously, there’s a precise science to it.

On the 15th day was the egg retrieval operation. It’s a legit operation. They put you under completely ( I had previously only had anesthesia once in my life when I was 11, and despite the risks, it’s kind of fun).

I’ll spare you the details of the actual procedure.

Whatever, you wake up and it’s over.

The pain is pretty slight and comparable to menstrual cramping, it’s more just very, very uncomfortable. You blow up like a balloon in the abdominal region and stay that way for several days.

Obviously, being the weight-obsessed freak that I am, weight gain was one of my primary concerns when undergoing the procedure and I will say, the day I started the injections I put on 5 or 6 pounds instantaneously, and by the day of the retrieval and the week or so after its up to like 10 or 12. I don’t know exactly, I avoid all scales during this part because I don’t want to have suicidal tendencies.

Throughout the whole process I was just as strict about my eating habits, and sure enough about 10 days later the weight dropped off  and I was back to normal… and credit card debt- free!

There, that’s it.

I have many friends who knew about the first cycle but only a couple know that I just did it again. I got selected again and rationalized that since I made mature financial decisions with the payout in the first go-round, I would do it one more time so I could spend the money on something fun and crazy.

I completed the last cycle two days ago and am still walking around with a 10lb food baby that is actually just excessive hormones and fluid. It fucking sucks. I will not do this again unless I get into really dire financial straits.

But on the plus side, I’m going on vacation! Sweden, Finland, Denmark and St. Petersberg Russia! I set a goal for myself this year that I would try to visit two countries that I had never been to, and instead I’m going to four! Obviously, I would not have been able to do this otherwise.

So there, that’s my story.

I understand that ethically this is somewhat controversial. I even think about walking down the street one day and running into a kid that looks like me and always wondering if it shares half of my genetic code. I mean, there could be 15 or more little me’s running around in about 5 years and that’s…well…weird.

The hospital does everything they can to keep everything as anonymous as possible. Everytime I would go in for an appointment I used a pseudonym, and the appointment coordinator makes sure that I was never going to be in the  building the same time as the couple that had solicited my donation.

Judge me if you will, but I agree with my friend Avuhduhbuh– it’s a perfect example of a woman’s right to do what she wants with her body.  Men, after all, don’t get stigmatized for donating sperm. Nor do they get the big bucks. This is probably one of the few income opportunities where women will always come out the financial winners over men, so fucking there.

But personally,  I prefer to think of it philanthropically. I made it more possible for a couple (two couples) to have a child when they otherwise could not.

And frankly, I’m pretty fucking awesome and there should be more me’s populating the Earth.

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WTF Weekly 5/6– THE C-STRING BIKINI… or…Tan Lines are Really Not that Bad, People.

 

 

Introducing the “C-String Bikini.”

From the website:

 

I rewrote the description to suit my own opinions of this product:

Kiss goodbye to conventional tan lines and every shred of your ass’ dignity with the un-credible C String Inadvisable Underwear. 

At the front it looks like a…cod-peice…, to the rear it has a strip vaguely evocative of a practical joke I once witnessed with a sharpie, and to the sides it has nothing at all…which is just fucking bizarre.

 OK 

1. This, like, defies the laws of physics… Seriously, how does it stay on?

2.  If we have the capabilities to develop this kind of technology, can we at least figure out an application of it that is more useful to human existence?

3.  Tanlines are not that patently offensive to warrant tooling around in something this ridiculous. #sorrynotsorry

4. To order your very own C String bikini, click here. 

Oh and here’s another interesting feature of this product…It is only offered to women weighing between 95 and 140lbs.

Sorry fatties, no one gives a fuck about your tanlines.

Also, all the men out there currently feeling left out, you too can purchase your very own C-String.

Now available in sultry leopard print.

 Show that sun who’s boss! rawr!

Sidenote: I’m willing to bet that  this guy weighs more than 140lbs… so can us fatties just order the men’s size?

Man I really need to wrap this blog post up  before another co-worker walks by my desk and sees this product, and these pictures, so…

1. What the f*@K??????!!!

2. BYE!

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Carrie Share conquers the binge-eating monster

Are you dangerously close to coming down with a bad case of snack-fever?

Snack-fever, for the record, is what I call that insatiable desire to just keep eating. I had it yesterday, not sure what prompted it…I never am, really…But I have come up with some surefire ways to put a stop to it…

1. Take a Shower/Paint Your nails/Facial/Whatever

I find that any activities that involve primping myself make me feel temporarily better about myself, which makes me want to feel permanently better about myself, which makes me not want to eat an entire block of cheddar cheese in one sitting.

Plus, it’s hard to eat in the shower.  (not impossible…but hard).

2. Put on your smallest pair of jeans

If you fit in them, great…it’s a reminder that you want to fit in them next week too. If you don’t fit in them, it’s a reminder that you need to put down the block of cheddar, stat.

3. Go here

First you’ll feel horrible, but then you’ll probably feel somewhat motivated to stop eating. Then, you’ll feel horrible again…but not AS horrible as you would have if you had kept eating! Progress!

4. Write a blog post telling others how to go about their lives. 

5. Join a gym

Guys, I joined a gym. I haven’t been a member of a gym since…2007? I had always said I would never do it because you can run outside for free. But it was raining yesterday and I really needed to get out of the house and away from the Banana Cheerios. I was only going to pay the drop in fee but they suckered me into a 3 month membership. Oh well…at least I’ll have somewhere to go if I get bored… besides the bar, of course.

Ok so that’s that. I polished off a little over 3 miles and was able to undo the majority of the banana cheerios/ tortilla chips/chocolate-covered pretzels damage thereby absolving myself of the inevitable death and destruction that will come with eating more calories than LoseIt says I should.

And yes I know all of this is just a side-effect of a larger issue…

1. That my self-worth is based largely on how my appearance is perceived.

2. That women’s perception of me is based largely on how they expect men to perceive my appearance.

3. That men’s perception of me is based largely on how attractive I am,

and so on and all the other iniquities that plague the world and blah.

The puppy lady could give a fuck though, which is why I love her more than people.

 

 

 

 

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What is this nonsense about a Birthday “Week”?

 

 

Birthday has the fucking word “day” in it, y’all. You get a day.  A DAY.

Oh man. Did I mention it’s my birthday week? I might have to act like  an asshole all week just to muscle through it, though, so apologies in advance.

Turning 30 is one of those things you rage against like the dying of the light. Therefore, I will celebrate my 30th birthday by trying to out-party my 22-year-old self.

Once again, apologies in advance.

On the plus side, I’ve been on a bit of a life bender lately. This will surely help to curtail any tendencies I might have to be too self-destructive.

So, you’re welcome.

I’m not much of a planner so I feel kinda strange that I never actively framed out in my mind what 30 would look like. And now I’m here and have absolutely no basis for comparison. I guess that’s good because otherwise I might be disappointed that I don’t have my own reality show yet.

Which for the record would be one of three concepts:

1. THIRTY YEAR OLD AWESOMES GO OUT A-DRANKIN’

Me and my friends go to bars and talk about awesome stuff. This happens regularly and I should think it would make for interesting television to me and my friends and probably that’s it, but oh well.

2. CARRIE SHARE MAKES FUN OF YOUR CLOTHES

Not only am I a total bitch, but I’m also super good at making fun of your wonky fashion sense.

3. WRITING BLOG POSTS WITH CARRIE SHARE

If you could invent a camera to film inside my head that would be ideal.

 

But whatever. Let’s talk about something else. Game of Thrones is pretty good, yeah? Yeah..

Sports!!

Ok enough of that. I’m stream-of-consciousing out of control over here. Must be one of those side-effects of turning 30.

Like, If I had a porch I would sit on it and reflect on my life. But I don’t so….

apologies in the present.

 

 

.

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That post in which Carrie Share rides a high horse on a saddle made out of a soap box

 

LIES, Taylor! LIES! But more on that in a minute…first, this.

I hate everything about this.

Avuhduhbuh brought it to my attention, as she just turned 30 and I have only a few weeks left of 29 myself.  I remember about five years ago when it became a thing to casually joke about being old and wanting to go home and sleep and/or eat ice cream in front of the TV. Those people always pissed me off.  Your life is lame and it’s not funny, and it’s your own damn fault. Thats what I want to scream at them. Unjustly, sometimes, but I still want to scream it.

And for the record, it’s not as if getting sloshed and staying out until 3am is a prerequisite for not having a lame life. That can be plenty lame,  and I know that first hand. But it’s more about just having the gall to go and do stuff, with people, at places.

Now it is time for cliche aphorisms.

1. You more often regret the things you didn’t do than the things you did. So do the things.

2. Showing up is half the battle. Show up.

But back to this video. It is a parody of a Taylor Swift song about being fun, carefree and 22.

Who is fun and carefree at 22? I was broke and expending all my energy to accomplish things that would allow me to be fun and carefree.

Now that I am on the verge of 30 I have accomplished some of those things and am actually, finally LIVING the life that I wanted to live at 22.

Hence, I am fun and carefree and 29.

AND all sortsa Oprah-style HAPPY with where I am and what I am doing.

I know alot of it is because I went places–a lot of which were weird, interesting and new– and did things that were also sometimes weird, interesting and new.

So for fucks sake you stupid 32-year-old video woman, stop eating cheese at home and get out and go places that have things to do at them, or whatever.

You gotta literally go places to figuratively “go places,” ya dig?

Oh, and stop listening to that Taylor Swift nonsense, this song is way better

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Holy Moses I think I’m a Follower

You know, I’ve always fancied myself a strong-willed independent thinker. I also never fancied myself as full-of-shit.

I think I was wrong on both counts.

The other night while I was trying to fall asleep I found myself thinking back to simpler times in Jasper, Alabama, and my very first best friend Maggie.

I have no fucking idea why.

Anyways, Maggie and I were super tight, from our toddler years in divorcee daycare straight on through first grade when I moved to Birmingham and we sadly lost touch.  Around this time I remembered having a fit to have Keds sneakers– those classic ones that everyone had in the late 80s.

Did I like the sneakers on their own merit? No. I had to have them because Maggie had Keds. Simple as that.

Then, even when my mom (bless her heart) broke down and bought me some I had another fit because they were square-toed, and Maggie had pointed-toe ones.

                           "IT WAS MAL-I-BU BAR-BIE!"

 

Moving on.

I had a fit to have my ears peirced because Maggie had her ears pierced. I had a fit to have stirrup pants BECAUSE MAGGIE WORE STIRRUP PANTS. 

STIRRUP PANTS!

I suppose I could rationalize this away by saying that I was young and naive and all those other things that contribute to having personality deficiencies that dissipate with age.

BUT…aren’t the earliest iterations of your personality the truest? Meaning, I was a follower then, and if I’m not a follower now it’s because I’ve suppressed it out of societal pressure.

BUT… if I’ve suppressed my follower impulses because of societal pressure doesn’t that make me a follower anyway? Albeit of widely accepted societal norms? Because leaders are given much more respect and acclaim.

Like Moses, Moses was a leader.

AND…If the earliest versions of our personalities are the truest then I am not only a follower, but also an impatient, demanding brat.

People don’t like impatient, demanding brats. Just like people don’t like followers.

SO…Because impatient, demanding brats don’t get much respect and acclaim, and neither do followers, I have been forced to shelve my impatient, demanding, following ways in order to conform to cultural ideals of what success (read: respect and acclaim) looks like.

THEREFORE… I am STILL a follower.

But on the plus side, I don’t wear stirrup pants anymore. Although at this point I bet they sell them at American Apparel.

Whatever. I may be a follower but I am NOT a poser.

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WTF WEEKLY 3/15- INSTASHAM

Guys. So there’s this new app called Instasham that basically lets you steal and upload to your instagram feed pictures like this:

 

And you know we don’t give a fuck it’s not your birthday!

Brooklyn. 6am on a Wednesday.

 They have categories for travel, parties, random fabulous accouterment, and  Kanye West!

 

Peace out, bitches!

Now you can totally win the secret #YOLO competition that you’re having with all of your friends without having to take hack screenshots off of Pinterest!

 

God, Nadine is so annoying. 
 

Because lets face it, what is the point of Instagram if you can’t use it to showcase how superior your life is to everyone elses.

 Which ones should I wear, you guys?

You know what. I think I’m going to start an ironic Instagram account and post pictures of excel spreadsheets, ceramic figurines you buy at Hallmark,  and roadkill.

Or, like,  this:

Which ones should I wear, you guys?
 

Oh wait…I kinda already did this unintentionally a couple of weeks ago. Clearly because I am awesome and on the forefront of cultural taste-making.

What delicious tastes like. 

 Anyways, I think I will call this new venture  Instagrime, or maybe Instagrouse, or Instagoat even though it has nothing to do with goats. What do you think?

WTF?!

*All captions created by Carrie Share. All photos stolen by Carrie Share. Copyright 1983.

Posted in Satirical Rant | 2 Comments

Flawed is the new Flawless

The idea for this post started a long time ago when I realized that people both resented and generally disliked those who were perceived as perfect. I discovered this early, thankfully, and as such learned to mask my straight-up perfection by adopting quirks and occasional self-deprecating behaviors that others would construe as “endearing.”

Ha ha I fooled all you bitches :)

I jest, obvi, but there is truth in the above statement. Notably, people hate people that refuse to cop to any imperfections in themselves or their lives. Mainly because everyone knows it’s not true. That’s why celebrities that brag about having high metabolisms or preturnaturally smooth foreheads are often met with an exaggerated eyeroll. Meanwhile, the ones that cop to the procedures and the hunger pangs are, well…not.

The other night I FINALLY saw the Silver Linings Playbook and, like most movies that I’m last in line to see, it’s never as good as its hyped up to be. BUT–I found myself wondering if I was watching an example of the future of Romantic Comedies–ones with no formulas, no contrived meet-cutes, and starring two deeply flawed individuals.

I mean it is ultimately a love story with more comedic than dramatic elements, but unlike traditional romantic comedies, it is deeply rooted in the fuckedup-ness of reality.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about my not-terribly-pleasant reactions regarding traditional Rom-Coms. It might be a good time for you to review that now.

A couple of weeks later the Atlantic published a piece on the impending death of the traditional romantic comedy. Here is that if you want more food for thought.

Either way, this leave us with a future filled with more Silver Linings ( and less Ugly Truths).

What amazes me about this new emerging rom-com sub-genre is how much it’s all changed in merely a decade.

Look at 13 Going on 30 or How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, both of these movies starred highly ATTRACTIVE people, with FABULOUS jobs in GLAMOUROUS cities wearing EXPENSIVE clothes. As did, like, everything back then, amiright?

The thing is, nobody cares about those people anymore. Collectively as a society we have ceased to give .02 fucks about SJP’s Louboutins, instead we want more Lena Dunham nude scenes!

And this doesn’t just go for entertainment, it translates into real life. EX 1.THE POPULARITY OF LENA DUNHAM

Also, Jennifer Lawrence trips up the stairs, gives people the finger, and, (unpopular opinion alert) has a PR team that coaches her on how to seem less buttoned-up and more “real” in interviews, but that hasn’t stopped the public from embracing her full-force.

Meanwhile, nobody likes Anne Hathaway anymore. I guess it’s because she’s too warm and poised for it to be genuine?

Poor Anne.

Except…it’s more complicated, because I know in my experience, sure, I’d much rather watch Hannah on Girls– right now, but I used to love to watch Carrie Bradshaw. And where I definitely DONT want to be Hannah on Girls, I STILL want to be Carrie Bradshaw.

Like, I know I currently don’t belong in an early millenium Rom-Com, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not striving for that kind of lifestyle. I want fabulous clothes and events and cocktails and everything Sex and The City sold to me in my formative years.

I just don’t want to hear about other people that have it, I guess.

And neither does anyone else, apparently.

Sorry Anne.

Aspirational is out, and fucked-up is the new black.

Posted in arts & entertainment, strong opinions, world views | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment

I’d rather eat like a horse…than eat a horse.

NOOOOOOO! NOT TACO BELL!!!!

So far it’s only in Britain where the horse has replaced the cow as the “meat de rigeur.” Thankfully my precious Chalupas are safe for now, but with the skyrocketing cost of ground beef, I fear it will only be a matter of time.

Poor horseys.

I was seriously traumatized after reading Animal Farm in 6th grade when the stupid commie pigs sent that  horse to the glue factory. Like, I still hate George Orwell books because of it.

Hence, I don’t want to eat a horse on my nachos bell grande. It just conjures up images of the horse that couldn’t run fast enough, or wasn’t strong enough getting sent to slaughter.

I has a sad.

I actually intentionally try to avoid stories like this, because I am thisclose to being a vegetarian. The only reason I’m not is because I like to stay blissfully unawares of the origins of my foodstuffs…

SHUT UP AVUHDUHBUH I DON’T NEED YOUR JUDGEMENT AT A TIME LIKE THIS!!!!!

Sorry I had to yell at my friend for a minute.

Ok… so confession, I did try goat recently though..without knowing it. It was okay tasting, but became less-so once I found out what it was.

On the whole I prefer my goats screaming in tune with Taylor Swift songs.

Anyways, if you want to read the story for yourself here you go.

 

 

 

 

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Oscar Fashion Recap

I’m bored guys. Can we step it up a little bit next year? I never thought I’d say this but I miss Bjork and Cher from the 80s.

Also, I saw exactly zero(not dark or thirty) of the best-picture nominated movies this year so had absolutely no opinions regarding who deserved what award. Crikey, what have I become?

I think this is fallout from this phenomenon.

That being said, I had a few fashion faves…

These are them.

 

I guess minimalism is kind of my aesthetic preference lately. I’m sure many fashion camps will chalk this up to boring, but I love it. The dress by itself wouldn’t do much for me, but paired with the unusual necklace I think it’s a great look. Also, is it me or does this chick have the tiniest waist ever?

Maybe it just looks smaller because she kinda has a big head?

I dunno I just like her Oscar outfit.

In other news, there was a lot of white and off-white…

or as I prefer to call it, meh and off-meh.

 

This is included in that response, fyi:

I love you JLaw but

1. This is the Oscars, not your wedding and 2. Even if it was, industrial strength drapes do not a wedding dress make.

However, it would make a lovely aisle runner.

Here is an example of white done right:

 

For the record, I don’t think Nicole Ritchie deserves to attend an Oscar function… but I do think her dress does.

Also, I’m amending my aforementioned aesthetic preferences to both minimalist and futuristic, PS.

That’s why I love the above… and also the below:

 

 

Anne Hathaway got a lot of flack for wearing a drab mid-90s prom dress.

 

I really like it though… seriously.

In a convoluted world of chiffon, ruffles and excessive sequins, the blush column sheath dress is king.   Ok so mainly I’m just impressed that they were able to find a necklace that worked with that neckline.

But seriously…I really fucking like this look.

Screw the haters.

This girl had a purse that people talked about alot.

 

I don’t really care about her purse, but I think it’s tragic to bury a 9 year old under 17lbs of fabric.

New rule: Your outfit’s weight in pounds should not exceed your age.

AND NOW for my favorite look of the night which wasn’t even on the red carpet.

 

She wore this for the Les Mis performance, maybe because it is vaguely evocative of graphic violence.

Whatever, I still love the neckline…blood-soaked bandages be damned. I mean, do you know how skinny you have to be to completely obscure your neck and collarbones!? Impressive, for sure!

Also, unusual.

I dig it.

And that concludes my Oscar Fashion recap.

Posted in arts & entertainment, shopping & fashion, Uncategorized | 1 Comment
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